Back in Canada, I had a co-worker, Sonja, who joked about outing me. I like musicals, and think Liza in Cabaret is awesome. I like fashion and can dress myself. I can dance and like it. I had a rose garden. It may have been the last thing.
Last night, I picked up a friend’s dog I said I would sit for a few days while she is in Macau gambling. I rode my bike after the gym. So, there I was, in my gym clothes or a sleeveless shirt and shorts, riding home, with a cute, black, toy poodle wearing a pink collar in the basket of my bike, a “women’s” model without a cross bar named (argh) “Princess” (in my defense, I picked it because it was matte black, and the name was covered with packaging), and, as is my wont, whistling or singing because riding my bike makes me happy.
If I had seen me, I would have definitely thought I was as queer as a three yuan note. Reminds me of that great seen in Bringing Up Baby where Cary Grant answers the door wearing a woman’s bathrobe, is questioned by Katherin Hepburn’s mother about why he is in the robe, and he answers, “because I just went gay all of a sudden.”
But I am straight. I think.
In the Dragon's Lair 