The other day I got into an argument with my father and it ended with him, not-so-slyly, calling me a homosexual. Not your ordinary homosexual but one of the 'Barney Frank-types' that Rupert Murdoch’s minions complain about incessantly. I guess the reason for the accusation was my audacity to discuss politics with my mom within earshot of his den, politics that were contrary to those preached by Fox News, 24/7.
Just water off a duck's back, I guess. However, it got me thinking I should put down my thoughts on that subject, as it relates to tango. So, here they are.
First of all, what is a homosexual? There seems to be several varieties that are listed by the acronym, GBLT: gay, bisexual, lesbian, transvestite. Apparently, gay means two men. Homosexual usually means two men. Either one, however, can be used to describe two women but, for some reason, we have a separate listing for them: it is lesbian. Bisexual can do both and transvestite is so rare, I can’t offer any explanation other than a guy that likes to dress in women’s clothes. A girl that likes to dress in men’s clothes, is either, straight, lesbian or bisexual: it’s the woman that always gets all the options left on the table!
At tango events, I don’t meet many gay men. If they are present, I usually don’t talk to them. Not for any reasons of animas, rather, for lack of commonality. I am here to engage females in a ritual of international origin; I have few thoughts on clothes, other than ‘clean’ and ‘ironed’; I definitely don't care if the drapes match the tile pattern of the floor, as one guy complained at a ballroom outside Austin, in Texas Hillcountry.
Once, at a milonga where men outnumbered women, I found myself in unusual demand, considering the circumstances. At the end of the night, after overhearing a few mano-a-mano conversations, I determined quite a few of the tangueros were not at all interested in women. I liked this. When I invited a tanguera to dance, she accepted heartily. Almost every invitation went that way.
I’d like to offer a reason for this attitude amongst the feminine population that night, though I am in no way qualified to do so, on a scientific or scholarly basis. I offer my thoughts based solely on my ability to create a blog and hit a sequence of buttons on my computer’s keyboard. You’re impressed, I can tell.
Unlike men, women have this unique ability to exist on two cosmic planes, simultaneously. One plane they share with men and it has four dimensions: length-width-height-time; the other plane is called the ‘intuitive’ plane. I’ve talked about the intuitive plane before so I won’t repeat myself. I will say that the presence of homosexual men at a milonga, disrupts a woman’s ability to receive transmissions from this quantum anomaly. This causes her to fall into a state of slight agitation.
The reason for this agitation, according to my totally unqualified observations and based entirely on assumptions created at the moment this piece is being written, is the obvious abundance of males, extremely well-dressed males, to boot, and the amount of time their butts are spending pressed against the seat of their chairs.
As I said before, I like this state of affairs but it doesn’t happen often.
Before I began dancing, I think it is safe to say I was very homophobic. I believe this to be a natural defense developed by a child growing up like a weed in a field of pedophiles in the impoverished coal-mining regions of PA. Through tango, I eventually lost my fear of physical contact, even with other men. I’ve even seen men dance together but usually in a comical manner.
I believe tango relies heavily on the chemistry created between the leader and the follower. So far, I’ve only seen this happen between a man and a woman. Once, I considered going to a ‘queer tango’ in NYC, just for the experience, but, it is such a long drive and I am so drawn to women, that I talked myself out of it. I guess, if I did go, I would get to see two men enjoying the passion of tango, but it is not a scene that is very high on my bucket list.
Trying to be open-minded, I considered my life if I experienced a revelation, after attending the alternative milonga, that I was gay. I imagined tango where most of my partners had big hands and facial hair. That’s as far as I got. I like women too much to give up all the things that make them pleasurable to me: small shoulders, lithe waists, soft skin, etc.
In my experience, I’ve always been amazed by the ability of our sex drives to create unusual patterns of sexual behavior. When I was in the Air Force, I was grossed-out by a guy who grew up on a ranch in Wyoming with seven brothers. He bragged about the fights he and his brothers had over who got to have sex with the chickens before they ‘passed over’ and departed the barn for the dinner table. Once, when I was a river guide in the mountains of North Carolina, one of the men I worked with, complained mightily about the day the Poontang Tree was cut down. He reminisced affectionately about the tree’s exceptionally curvaceous features and remarked on how many different holes were drilled into its trunk. He referred to his ‘special’ hole with a look I can only describe as ‘loving eyes’.
I think it’s obvious that homosexuality is common in nature. You’ll agree if you ever get to spend time with two overly affectionate male dogs that haven’t been neutered. If you don't think canines are capable of emotion, just look at the barker on the bottom...yeah, that's right, he's embarrassed! I don’t entirely agree with the feline species' propensity to be so Oedipal, but it is not up to me to judge: the gospel of John 8:7 taught me that: “let he that is without sin, cast the first stone….”
I’m pretty sure I’m not gay. At fifty-one, I’d still have to say I do not know how to handle the phenomenon in a manner that can be called politically correct. I am trying.
I am not totally naive to the homosexual experience. I was present when my two best friends in the seventh grade, suddenly discovered they were attracted to each other in a sexual way. We were camping, one weekend, during a cold Georgia winter, in my friend’s dad’s popup camper. We got into a tickle-fight. Brian Q dove beneath the covers and attacked Billy G’s midsection.
“Oooohhhh!” I heard Brian coo from beneath the blankets.
Billy G giggled, looked at me funny, then disappeared below. I peaked under the covers to see what was going on and was shocked to find Billy’s pants were down. I surfaced and laid there, feeling awkward. We never went camping together after that.
In conclusion, I’d have to say, once again, everything in tango favors the women….even homosexual women. It is not an uncommon sight to see women dancing with women. I guess if I was a gay gal, that’s where I’d go, too, right down to tango. You go girl!
No comments:
Post a Comment