Happy Hour in the Life of a Sexually Oriented Minority

Happy Hour in the Life of a Sexually Oriented Minority

 

The really, good-looking, blond, blue-eyed young

woman lounged in her bed and I wanted in the

worst way to make love to her. She consented to

the tryst except that as we began she kept working

on a crossword puzzle, made a cell-phone call and

watched something very small crawl slowly

across the ceiling.  Well, for heaven’s sake,

 

 

she was barely going through the motions.

All the fun went out of the encounter. It seemed

like a less than half-hearted effort of a friend. I

rolled over and she asked me what was a seven-

letter word for gay. It was then I remembered she

was a lesbian.  I said, “Lesbian.”  “No,” she said,

“ Content.”  “Hmm,” I said. I put on my clothes

 

 

and left. I headed down the block to visit Janet,

my old, social worker, desk-partner and a lesbian.

I told her about my short-term memory loss and my

aborted tryst with our mutual friend and she just chuckled.

I remember years ago when we were just getting

to know each other as desk-mates that Janet turned

to me and said flatly, “I bet you sit around fantasiz-

 

 

ing about the sex life of me and my partner.”  She

paused.  I didn’t know what she expected but I tried

not to blanch. Actually, Janet is short, squat with

just about no waist change from her boobs to her

butt. I heard that her partner was pushing fifty at

the time with a teen-age son.  The thought of Janet

and her partner cavorting in bed in the throes

 

 

of passion never entered my mind.  Well, as

soon as she mentioned it, the thought actually

did pass ever so fleetingly. It was like the thought

of some of my broad in the waist and beam, post-

middle age, post-menopausal, low-testosterone

friends trying really hard to work up a lather in

the sanctity of their marriage beds. Neither entered

 

 

my catalogue of erotica. I hmmed matter-of-factly.

Janet then said, “Well, for your information, mister

horny hetero-sexual (She hung on the last syllables —

o and al), we are like two, old, boring

married people who fall asleep after a hard day

and snore through the night.” I just hmmed a hmm

again. Coming back to the moment, I asked if she

 

 

and her partner would like to go to happy hour.  I

asked if we should invite our mutual friend the

pretty, young, blond-haired, blue-eyed lesbian.

She said, “Sure.” After one drink and a half-

priced appetizer, I asked to be excused. The three

fates stared at me and asked judgmentally, “You

aren’t going to spend the night cruising for

 

some perverted, slutty, straight female are you?”

“Hmm. Well, okie dokie then. I’ve guess I’ll have

another vodka up

chilled.”

 

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