Don’t Look Both Ways

I am a creature of self-sufficiency, independence.  The Alcoholic couldn’t seem to understand this.  You may remember The Alcoholic from my previous post.  I (reluctantly) agreed to date him.  It lasted a week.

He was an out-of-the-closet-closet case.  He could easily relax in the privacy of his bedroom, twirling his wrist like so many drag queens.  It was outside, out from behind the fortitude of a locked door and curtained windows, that he retreated into his homophobia.  Now, I’m not a huge fan of PDA, but I (and I don’t think many people would disagree with this) don’t think that a parting kiss or a held hand is shoving anything in anybody’s face.  I lied, I know one person who disagrees with me, The Alcoholic.  So, it was as he looked both ways before kissing me that I realized we had a problem.

His defense was weak, “We don’t live in San Francisco, sweetheart, this is the south.”  I don’t know how many times I heard those exact words.  Perhaps, if he had refrained from insulting me with such sarcastic endearments as sweetheart, I would have let it slide.  He refused to understand my perspective.  I would die to live my life the way I deserve to live it.  My love hurst no one.  Maybe fundamentalists should turn their sights on perpetrators of domestic violence.  Then again, they would be ostracizing a large portion of their demographic.

When my old flame (I’ll call him The Dancer from high school blew back into town I chose him.  Yes, I chose him because of our history and, yes, I chose him because I like him, but more than that I chose him because he’s proud of who he is, not ashamed by it.

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