The Gayest Person I Have Ever Known, by Betsy

What does it mean to be the gayest?  Using the word gay in its generic sense and being a woman myself, I will discuss the term gayest in relation to the only woman I know about whom I can make that judgement. And that would be yours truly.  Now that I think about it I find that I do not know how to apply the adjective to anyone except myself.  How do I know how gay someone is? How do I know how straight someone is?  Are we talking about their libido?  I don’t think so.  I have heard of lesbians with very strong libidos, but I don’t consider them to be gayer than others.  On the other end of the scale I have known a few women who have a dislike and distrust of men in general, suggesting that they may have been abused in the past. These women avoid men, prefer not to associate with men, gay or straight, relate only to women and are considered by themselves and others to be lesbians. Yet they are not interested in sex with a woman either.  They are basically asexual.

 Or perhaps we’re talking about a gay person who never associates with straight people. Does this make a person gayer than one who has a more diverse group of friends and associates. Certainly not.  Could it mean a person who is more secure in his/her gayness.  Possibly.  But I reject that as well.  That just means the person is more secure, not GAYER. 

And so, I repeat. The only person whose degree of gayness I might have any idea about--has to be myself.  And to compare my degree gayness with that of others, I have to be able to measure the degree of gayness of others.  And I have just made the case that such a measurement is impossible. Hmm..This presents a problem.

But wait!  Enter the queerometer.  Just when the problem seems impossible to solve, I remember the queerometer.  I discussed this very issue once before in a piece called “Queer, Just How Queer.”  Could we not just as well have called it “Gay, Just How Gay.”  I’m going to revisit what I wrote then.

Imagine that we could measure an individual’s degree of sexual orientation by taking, say, a blood test.   This would be an ugly world indeed with a rigid caste system.  The most heterosexual would be on top and the most homosexual on the bottom. 

Newborns would be immediately tested at birth.  Here’s one scenario.

"Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Jones.  You have a healthy baby boy measuring only two on the queerometer.  He will be your pride and joy." 

Or, the dreaded scenario:  "You have a healthy baby boy, Mr. and Mrs. Jones.  He has 10 fingers and 10 toes and all his parts.  I’m sorry to tell you that he tests positive on the queerometer.  He’s a 9.6"

"Oh," says Mrs. Jones, gasping for breath.   "A 9.6 !  Does that mean, does that mean?"

"Yes, I’m afraid so," says the attendant.  "At the age of eight years you will be required to turn him over to the Department of Corrections.  He will be yours until then.  Enjoy!”

Or the following close-call:

"Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Jones.  You have a beautiful baby girl.  She appears to be in perfect health and all her parts are in the right place.  However, she does measure a five on the queerometer, which, as you know, is high.  The state will provide you with all the materials you need to guide her in the right direction.  If you use the manual wisely and stick to it, she will turn out just fine and I’m sure she will live a normal life and give you many grandchildren."  

Or imagine a world in which LGBT people took on a particular hue at puberty.  Say, a shade of purple.  The really dark purple ones would be the really, really, queer ones, and the light violets would be only slightly inclined to be homosexual or transgender, or bisexual, or queer.  I can see the pride parade right now.  A massive multi-shaded purple blob oozing down Colfax.

Alas, this does not answer the question at hand: who is the gayest person I have ever known. The queerometer fortunately does not exist and we hope it never will. So, the question “Who is the gayest person I have ever known” remains unanswered.   As I write, an appropriate answer comes to me.   WHO CARES!  And the more people who don’t care, the better off we will be.

© 28 Jul 2014 

About the Author 

 Betsy has been active in the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver Women’s Chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for Change), and the GLBT Community Center. She has been retired from the human services field for 20 years. Since her retirement, her major activities have included tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor with the National Sports Center for the Disabled, reading, writing, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and four grandchildren. Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her partner of 30 years, Gillian Edwards.

The Gayest Person I Have Ever Known by Will Stanton

I know the world is full of gay people (using the currently popular definition of the term), and they dress and behave in many different ways.  If, however, the person who chose this topic was thinking of the stereotypical gay guy with distinctive apparel or mannerisms who often draws attention to himself, I really have not hung around very many gays like that.  If I use that frame of reference, however, then I would have to think of young Peter whom I met in college.

Peter did, in fact, draw attention to himself; but he seemed to be able to do it in a way that fascinated people, never repelled them.  I suppose that he had the advantage of being remarkably good looking, as well as intelligent and charismatic.  I  observed  people's body-language that supported this fact.  Sometimes, I'd see straight guys encounter a gay guy and then immediately draw away in distaste; whereas, with Peter, they involuntarily would lean forward, eyes wide-open, fascinated.  Other gays on campus did not fare so well as he did.  I know of at least one gay who was beaten up, but even the homophobes just stared at Peter, and that is no exaggeration.  Straight guys seemed to be far too taken with Peter to ever consider being unkind to him.

Peter's heritage was an unlikely pairing of Polish and Sicilian ancestry.  He had the fine, classic facial features of a Polish aristocrat, and I could imagine that his mother resembled Tadzio's mother in the film “Death in Venice.”   He also flaunted a mane of golden locks, much like Tadzio's.  His skin was a smooth, honey-tan.  Apparently, the only obvious inheritance from his Sicilian father was the ability to tan without burning.

Peter obviously was very aware of his good looks and their effect upon people.  He enjoyed being noticed.  He did confide in me, however, one concern about his physical self.  His body appeared to be rather soft and smooth, even slightly androgynous; and he wondered if he innately was less masculine than most college-age guys.

Peter chose clothes that straight guys would be embarrassed to wear.  Between Peter's physical appearance, his cute clothes, and his confident way of talking and walking, he never failed to draw attention.

Peter had a large group of gay friends, plus an endless string of guys persistently trying to get Peter into bed, and a series of trailing hangers-on that people unkindly referred to as “fag-hags.”  It was nothing to see Peter cheerfully making his way somewhere, trailed by several enamored acquaintances, much like moths to a flame.

Peter was an unabashed flirt. He knew when people were staring at him.  If he was in a teasing mood, he could embarrass his admirers by sensuously displaying himself. He might smile at them and not leave until the observers turned red with embarrassment. 

 

From what Peter told me, I think that he enjoyed flirting with straight guys.  He once answered an ad to share expenses with two straight guys in a van going to Florida for spring break. When they drove up to Peter's house, he appeared wearing tiny, baby-blue shorts and a little pink sweater.  And, when he came flouncing down the front steps to the van, his gay house-mate called out, “Have a good time, and don’t get any nice boys into trouble!”  The two guys' jaws dropped.  Apparently, the straight guys overcame their initial surprise, for by the time they pulled over into a rest stop for the night, Peter ended up being, as he later described it, “the meat in the sandwich.”  Once Peter arrived in Florida, he donned a diaphanous caftan, strutted upon the beach, and immediately found housing and entertainment during his stay because he was picked up by a member of one of America's most wealthy and prominent families.  I have chosen not to mention the name.  Then he had the ride home with the two straight guys to enjoy.

No one could mistake Peter as being anything other than gay, but he had no interest in drag.  Some of his friends; however, thought that he was too pretty not to try it, at least on one occasion.  They decided to dress Peter up for a big party that would have lots of straight guys there with their dates.  At first, he resisted, but eventually he agreed to do it.  As it turned out, his appearance was so stunning that a lot of the guys abandoned their dates, went over to Peter, and were trying to chat him up. Their abandoned dates were furious. Peter was so convincing that they never discovered that he was a guy in drag.  He could be flamboyant, but he did not care for drag. He never did that again.

On a few occasions, I paled around with Peter, but we never did anything particularly gay or titillating.  We took a hike around the state park, went to see the film “Death in Venice” together, and sometimes just hung out talking.  Even though I admired his good looks, I never asked to go to bed with Peter.  I liked him just for who he was.  He wondered why I had not asked.  I replied that, apparently, everyone else continually asked him, and my asking him simply would place my friendship on their same level.  My friendship could be misinterpreted, implying that having sex was all that I really was interested in.  That impressed him, for when he graduated and left college, he gave me some gifts including three photos of himself.  The color one is included with this story.  I have one very large, glass-framed composite-portrait in silver that was part of his final commercial-art portfolio.  He wrote on the back of the picture, “Love ya always, Peter.”

The last time that I talked with Peter, he expressed, for the first time that I observed, some loss of confidence.  Here he had graduated and was going out into the real world.  He was afraid of how people would treat him, his being so obviously gay.  He imagined that he might have to limit himself to living on the East Coast or West Coast where there might be a greater percentage of tolerant people.  I hope that he chose well.

I often have wondered what became of Peter.  Out of curiosity, I did a couple of searches on the web.  All that I found were listings for several people with the same name, but none appeared to be “The Peter.”  Perhaps it is it is just as well that I do not have a current photo of him.  We all have aged, and even he was not immortal.  I'll just remember him as he was, the golden, cheerful, charismatic Peter.  And just maybe, he might discover our blog and read this story.                                     

© 04 April 2014 

About the Author 

I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories.  I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones.  Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group.  I do put some thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.