Here it is on a bumper sticker: I can
see your skin color, I can even see your borned sex/gender/whatever
it's called now (Lived for decades in a neighborhood with a higher
concentration of drag queens, trannies, and so on than you can
imagine. I ran security for the building housing the Houston Gay
Lesbian Transsexual And So On Coalition).
What I can't see is what is inside your
head. I can't tell if you're “bi-curious”. And I can't be
responsible for what happens in your semi-furnished brainette (thank
you so much, Ambrose Bierce).
Sorry if I hurt your feelings. I mean
that sincerely As an old fashioned son of a bitch, I never wish to
offend unintentionally.
The difficulty as I see it is that
anyone, absent history, actions, or union card, can declare oneself a
member of a “possibly non-cisnormal” (read as bi-curious to us of
the old school).
Presto! Protected class!
Wazza matter? You shy or something?
Deal. I had a total of girls 3 dated in high school, and only one
turned into girlfriend. Talk about SHY! Look it up on the
dictionary and you'll see my photograph..
Lemme hep ya: if you're in a closet,
your folks will still love you. Even Republicans do (Ronald Reagan
had a gay son, and Rommey has a gay daughter).
Just don't think it makes you special.
Now come over here and give me a hug.
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