For Gayer or For Worse

Trust me to fag-hag my way through a wedding. While most women who head to a wedding alone do so “wishin’ and hopin’” to meet their prince charming, and dream this dream with such conviction that they spend as long (if not longer) as the bride does to get ready for the big day…I head to weddings wide-eyed only for the free-flow of bubbly and the prospect of dancing queen my way around the floor…without having to worry about looking ridiculous for that title is strictly reserved for the crazy Elvis uncle. And lately I’m coming to learn there is one other species of queen who share my views. Effeminate though they be, gay men aren’t really going to sit around after the church ceremony fawning over how beautiful the bride was and how perfectly in love not only the newlywed couple but the entire world seem to be! They’re going to sneak off to the hotel pool and erect a fagorama around a silver bucket full of bubbly and pop away with snortingly-hilarious Donatella goss! Straight from the horse’s mouth too!—well, from the man behind her mane, which in her case, is close enough. Then they’ll proceed to bitch and moan about the Ryan Air flight that brought them to that stunning location—as one only should!—and of course, inspired by all the festive and bubbly air, proceed to plan the ultimate new year’s party sans budgeting or inhibition. “Ohhhh….uniforms! men in uniforms!” I couldn’t help but add. “Listen to you! You’re like a gay man trapped in a woman’s body!” Perhaps I am. Perhaps the already complex spectrum of sexuality needs one more category—gay, lesbian, bisexual, transsexual, queer and…me. Won’t get too hung up on the implications of this right now…but yes, in short, we get along well. Only they can carry on a conversation about my gold-tipped, multicoloured, Sobranie cigarettes for longer than it takes me to smoke one, only they can appreciate the “fabulousness dahling” of my “fascinator”—apparently, according to them, the official title for the comb of feathers stuck in my hair—only they have the perfect sun lotion, the perfect factor 15, an “invisible” version, and a “glittery” too! But feathers and glitter aside…for this, arguably could be pulled off just as well by a woman trapped in a woman’s body, what they do do better than any other man or woman possibly could…is…oh gosh, no pun intended…ballroom. Not only will a gay man come running across the dance floor to save you from the two-left-footed-moron who has just asked you to dance, but he will then proceed to spin you around, flip you over his shoulder effortlessly, put you back down, pause to say “wow, you’re good…” and then with a gentle tug on the strap of your dress add, “but hang on honey, you’re about to lose a tit.” I love gay men. I do.