After last night's party, I now have enough supplies to make every part of my body tingle. Because my friends enjoyed the wares Juju peddled and were enthusiastic in their purchases, I received over fifty dollars worth of merchandise. I was a little bit late to work this morning since I had to try out some of my new stuff. Now if I can just find someone to help me try out the toys for "two or more".
Although I have never been to a Tupperware party, I'm confident it wouldn't be as much fun as a Pure Romance party. Unless people kissed my lips and bit my nipples at the Tupperware party.
The Handsome Prince wasn't able to make it last night since he's singing golden oldies on a cruise ship two nights a week. I hate throwing parties without him to help coordinate the food. I can't cook. Well, I can, but I don't. I have a mental block about cooking for people. I don't know if I am concerned about being judged or if it's just the fact that my own recipes don't taste as good to me as when someone else makes them. So, I just sort of throw things together and avoid any sort of real cooking.
In spite of the fact that I was only serving simple finger foods, I didn't enjoy the food preparation part of the evening at all. As I was slicing up a baguette I cursed. Deciding whether to slice or cube the cheese nearly did me in. Agonizing over how to cut the pita bread into perfect triangles pissed me off. Auburn Pisces did her best to help, but eventually she decided the only course of action she could take would be to pour me a glass of whiskey and wait for me to calm down.
I will admit, though, that I was proud of the long stem strawberries and chocolate sauce. Putting that together made me feel like I might have a little tiny bit of the gay aesthetic gene after all. I have never been very good at decorating or gourmet food preparation. My gay friends mock me when I show up at parties with my contribution to the buffet table. While others bring homemade quiche and braised whatever, I will bring a jar of olives and some horseradish. The last time I pulled that stunt my friends asked, "what are we supposed to do with olives and horseradish?"
"I don't know. Figure it out. You said the theme was Jewish food, and both of these things had a Star of David on the jar."
I'm not a butch gay man, nor am I in touch with my inner Martha Stewart. I don't know much about cars or sports, but I also know almost nothing about fashion other than what I've seen on Project Runway. I am not very handy with a hammer or saw, but that doesn't mean I'm handy with a skillet and a cutting board. Hell, I can't even work the can opener The Math Whiz brought home from Kitchen Kaboodle.
At times I am completely unsure of where I fit in when it comes to being gay. I am neither "twink" nor "bear". I am neither "butch" nor "femme". I'm somewhere in the middle. Always.
I guess my role is to be the gay guy who wears the lampshade on his head. I'm the one who puts tingling lotion on my lips and nipples and asks the other boys to kiss me. I'm not the guy you want to plan the party. I'm just the guy you want to show up. And, to be honest, I like being that guy very, very much.
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