Disclaimer: I'm serious--about the warning, not necessarily the content. Although this is pretty funny and only placed here by popular demand, this could seriously offend some readers with delicate sensibilities. Read on at your own risk.
So the reason for my 1-year plus lack of any semblance of luck in the dating world was made transparent to me yesterday. I'm gay. 1 I had no idea, but it seems to be clear to every closet homosexual here. Perhaps it's a phermone, or maybe some sort of ultraviolet tattoo that someone put on my forehead as a college prank, I don't know. But I must send off some sort of signal that they all pick up. I'm a bit on the fence as to whether this is better or worse than my old signal, which tended to attract only overweight or (more commonly) clinically psychotic females (note to ex-girlfriends on the list: if I actually dated you, you don't fit into one of these categories. Don't take offense). Time will tell I suppose.
So, story. I think that most of you know this first part. Three weeks ago my friend Renee and I were going on the moonlight volcano hike in Xela. We met for dinner before the appointed departure time of midnight. I decided after dinner that it was going to be a bit colder than I'd thought, so I ran back to my house for another layer. On the way back, I encountered a chap urinating in the middle of the street (say that outloud with your best english accent). As I walked by, he started trying to make conversation with me. Sure, what the hell, I'll bite, he's 14 at the most, what can this hurt?
The conversation started out simple enough. "Where are you going? Are you going with your wife? Oh, your girlfriend then? No, why not?" Because I don't have one, loser punk, why don't you throw some salt water on my cuts while you're at it? "Do you like girls? Do you want relations?" At this point he starts making certain innuendos with his hands that I can't and shouldn't have to explain. Eeeek. "Do you want? Why not?!" Well, chico, numero uno es porque usted es un chico. Go away.
He follows me for a couple blocks and winds up kind of cornering me in the last block. "You want? Why not?!" Well, if you don't want to say you want it then I'm just going to grab you HERE! By "here," I mean my crotch. I shoved him into the street. Good thing I didn't have much further to go.
I know, he was only 14. But he was an agressive bugger.
So then yesterday I'm on a bus in Mexico. The buses here aren't nearly as much fun as in Guatemala, but that's a different story for the G-rated list. I had been talking to this Canadian guy earlier in the day, and was presently in the seat behind him. The bus was less than half full. Many rows had no people in them at all, including the one right behind me, a fact that had escaped me right at the moment. We stop and pickup a few people. The guy stands in the aisle next to my row like he's looking for a seat. Thinking that it must be crowded, I move my bag so that he can sit down.
I didn't think to much of it at first when his elbow started digging into me. Earlier in the day I sat next to a carpenter that seemed to think that both seats were his. But then I noticed that he was moving his arm around, a bit like a junior-high kid trying to make a move. No, surely not. I turned my self more toward the window, thinking that maybe this 60kg shorty needed a little more room. Nope, now he's clearly thinking he's going to get me to sleep with him with his bad attempt at deep tissue massage. I elbow him back hard to say "I'm not gay and even if I were, you're not hot you diseased Quintanarooesen cesspool." But apparently my phermones overwhelmed him or perhaps something got lost in the body language translation, because what he heard was "OOOOH--Love taps!!!"
So now Seņor Suave decides to try conversation. I answered his questions, but made up all the answers. To him I became a 32 year old Scotish soldier (I doubt he noticed the lack of an accent). Where am I staying, oh I don't know...my cousin up there (pointing to the Edmontonian in the seat in front of me) has the address. He didn't have much more to say to me, I sure as hell wasn't going to try to keep the conversation going.
So I go back to cowering in the corner, afraid to get up because he surely wouldn't move and would probably get too excited as I climbed over him to contain himself. That's the first time I see him reaching for my leg. I knock his hand away. Love taps. Five minutes of cowering later, again. At this point I wasn't really sure if maybe he was trying to pick my pocket. At least there wasn't anything in that pocket.
But then when he got a hold of a chunk of my knee a few minutes later (a slow learner, this one) I had my worst suspicions confirmed: my homomones (that would be homosexual phermones) had driven yet another hispanic closet homosexual into an unignorable sexual frenzy, with me squarely in his sights. Eeeek.
"No puede tocarme! No! No! No!" I even used the waggering finger. I guess I broke his heart, he never said another word and got off at the next stop. What a bastard I am, he just wanted to love me.
So who would have known...I don't have any of the usual signs. I don't dress well (in fact, I had just sent most of my 'good' clothes home with mom and dad). Not only do I have bad hair, I'm a couple weeks overdue for a haircut and had some serious bedhead going on that day. Most days I don't shower, I hadn't shaved in over a week, I haven't worked out in as long as I can remember--although I suppose I am looking pretty svelt these days, absent 8 kilos I came here with. How is it that I can possibly appear gay to anyone??
Well, I guess it takes one to know. Who am I to second guess?
By the way, read The Onion (www.theonion.com) this week...there's a great bit about the Coca-Cola sponsored Mars rover.
Until the next encounter, I remain
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1. No, not really. This is what we call sarcasm.