We are three friends scattered across the globe, each navigating life as gay Zimbabweans.
Enter Me, Act One, Scene Four.… Ghost of Gay Past. Freshly divorced from Ghoul of Gay Future. I am the Sha in this GaySha script. I write long. Brace yourselves.
So, the question I’ve dreaded my entire life was eventually thrust in my face for the first time by a straight guy. “Are you gay?” I had always anticipated the question would hit me like a bolt of witchcraft lightning and leave me black-forlorn, simmering with smoke. However, the horror did not manifest, this one landed with a soft thud and came with a warm fuzzy feeling inside (or did I just pee in my pants?). Finally, I get to reveal myself to a stranger for the first time. No dick involved, no ass envied. Just me! I felt like Priscilla Queen of the Desert.
Before responding, I had to ask why? “Well, you look straight but your friend has been all over me and he is kinda obvious. So, I was wondering if you all are a gay crew, you seemed the most approachable to ask”.
I felt happiness, relief, shame, confusion and disappointment at the same time. I immediately muttered, “Yes! I am gay”. I used all four words so as to avoid any misunderstanding. I did not hide behind the answer I have practiced for years “What do you think? Do I look gay?”. I just stumbled head on with the truth. Just like that.. pfeeeee!!! For the purposes of this prose, let’s call the enquirer Goodness (typical Southern African name).
I was relieved that I ‘didn’t look gay’. I was disappointed I didn’t look like who I really am. Is there a standard gay look? I felt shame and disappointment that I couldn’t be visually lumped into the same WhatsApp group as my extremely effeminate friend who, in my past life, I would have probably denied three times before the cock crowed. In my world effeminate just means ‘like a woman’ and does not equate to gay. I am not effeminate and have no slight inclination in any of my bones (unless persuaded by a good measure of vodka or vino rouge and voila! Tyra Banks appears!)… but I am as gay as a lark.
Confusion reigned, only two days before, I had drinks with a friend from Mutare (for lack of a better cliché, lets call him Wasu) and his friend from the Netherlands, let’s call him Double Dutch … on account he appeared double in everything. His height (he is tall – the size of two pint sized men wearing gentlemen’s hats put together). His voice, deep baritone, double the usual manly tenor common in Zimbabwe… and many other double things I saw and had to fish my mind out from the gutter when I beheld them.
Both Wasu and Double Dutch (DD) are straight. Wasu knows I dabble and indulge in what’s between men’s legs and peach cheeks. This made the question awkward for him. “Is your friend gay?” DD quipped. All Wasu could offer in return was a feeble “nah!” followed by a huge air bubble gulp that rattled his laryngeal prominence as it forced its way down.
So apparently, according to DD, I have tendencies which made his gaydar go haywire. Heeee.. hanzi… I did not look him in the face when we met. I spoke in a way that made his gaydar abnormally pulsate. I appeared flamboyant. Now this last one made me laugh. Hysterically. “Never! In my whole career have I encountered this before, Guards! Seize him! Throw him in a jail, throw the keys into the Nile as well”. At this point my life became one big musical.
Me? Flamboyant? Meaning I am exuberant? Confident? Stylish? Ostentatious? Lively? (ok.. a little bit), Buoyant? Animated? (fiiine!! I am animated…. just a tad bit), Energetic? (mmm.. tell that to my Monday Morning Blues), Vibrant? (ok, maybe), Vivacious? (tjooo!! Me? Vivacious? How?), Extravagant? (he he he!! Am still laughing), Theatrical? (damn it!! He nailed it!), Showy? (me? Never!), Swashbuckling?, Dashing? (in looks ka? – like 5 years ago ka? Ehe!!), Rakish? (hell no!), Informal? (meh!), Over the top? (OCD maybe, not OTT), Fancy-pants? (my pants are bland.. so am I). Does it mean all these adjectives are synonymous and exclusive to gay people? Damn! We are a rich, drama-filled bunch if they are.
As the weekend ebbed and the ink started to dry on this post, I still had a lot more unnecessary questions that remained unanswered.
During my encounter with Double Dutch, was I swishing my hands as I spoke? Were my wrists broken? Did I swing my hips? Was I being girly with my words? Did I giggle out loud in a silly girl’s voice? Did I stare at the enormous dick print on his pants for too long (I sincerely hope I didn’t lick my lips suggestively in the process of staring at his Dutch mandingo)? Did I react with too much excitement to Goodness’ cute face? Did I stare at his butt? Did I appear mesmerised by his smile? Did I drown and get lost in his manly accent which spewed of dick raising testosterone? Or even shock horror!! Did my dick rise in response to the many elephants crowding the room (comfortable in what they think are their steel closets, but appearing as glass to all us royal ones)?
What was it?
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