On Saturday we (Carpenter and I) were supposed to go to this Sexy Show thing with Pilot Girl. It did not so much work out. Pilot Girl assures us that the Sexy Show has been more fun in the past, but this time it was a dismal basement full of sex toys, big girls busting out of their lingerie, and pathetic guys who were expecting the dildo saleswomen to be hotter and more flirtatious.
And Pilot Girl wasn’t feeling well, so she left early. The Carpenter and I marvelled at the equipment-intensive sex stuff and wandered away somewhat reassured that we can get off without battery power and load-bearing walls. I’m not saying that I didn’t think about buying the $125 dollar uber-vibrator. My decision was financial, not ‘why pay for what I can do myself’ snobbery.
As we were driving away, all dressed up and nowhere to go, I asked The Carpenter what he would like to do. He had no ideas. I pointed out that if we didn’t come up with something I was going to wind up watching Futurama with The Boys while he went to make sure Pilot Girl was okay and to walk The Cutest Dog In Creation.
“True” he said.
I tossed him my phone. Had him text The Brunette and ask if he was up for a Game Night. This is a trick question. It’s like asking if fire is hot. OF COURSE he’s up for a game night. As an interesting side-note, all my chats with The Boys on our iPhones include Derby Girl. She just likes to eavesdrop on the debauchery.
She offered to host us, and feed us four pounds of lasagna, on like, no notice.
So we ended up at her place. Blonde, Brunette, Me, Carpenter, Derby Girl and her new beau Scientist. Scientist is like Carpenter. Manly-man. Very straight. I get a little nervous. Most of the homophobia I have encountered in my life has come from straight men, and it has been vicious. And you can never really tell beforehand how someone will react. A lot seem to have this “as long as you’re not in-my-face about it” policy, which boils down to “as long as I can’t tell”, which is not even an achievable goal for lots of gay men.
And of course dessert was popsicles. And you can’t give a gay man a popsicle. Has anyone ever seen a gay man just eat a popsicle without demonstrating his capacity?! So The Blonde and The Brunette are deep-throating their dessert and giggling about how it freezes the back of their throats and that kinda hurts, and Derby Girl and I are laughing and saying stuff like “You’re telling us” and whatnot.
Scientist says something about the popsicle not being so big and all, and it not really being that impressive? I dunno. I was too busy cracking up.
“My mouth isn’t the only place I could fit this whole thing. Trust me, you’d be impressed.” says The Blonde (or words to that effect!), not missing a beat. Scientist and Carpenter both crack up. And that’s it. That’s the big hurdle. The spectre of anal sex; the knowledge that they are in the presence of (at least) one man who allows himself to be penetrated.
The joke was deft, quickly and skillfully delivered, a witty repartee that flowed from the obvious to the OMG he just SAID THAT. It made sense in context and was not gratuitous. That helps a lot. But it also helps that we are dealing with two straight men who know who and what they are. They are not easily threatened or emasculated. They are not insecure. They know funny when they hear it, and that was funny.
Later on, we were helping clean up and put Derby Girl’s house back to rights. She has this big tablecloth that is actually a wood-slat floor covering that she uses two small wood-clamps to keep secured to the table. The Brunette was playing with one. He came up behind Scientist with it and reached around to pretend to put it on Scientist’s nipple.
“Go ahead!” proclaims Scientist, “You’ll never find it!” This is just a guy thing; not gay or straight. They never think you can find their nipples through a tshirt. Brunette can, and did. Scientist yelped, and smiled, and told him ‘good job’.
He’s a keeper.