I'M NOT GAY, BUT MY BOYFRIEND IS.

I am not the sort of guy who pushes his opinions off on others, but even I have limits where some behaviors are concerned. I absolutely draw the line at gays. Homosexual behavior is about as unacceptable as you can get. If they’re not prancing around in clothes that are way too tight in an effort to draw attention away from their biker mustaches, they’re wearing leather chaps designed for bikers to ease their pals into accepting the new Prince Albert. Not being gay myself, I just can’t understand why the gays have to be so over the top.

Take my boyfriend for example. There is no reason for him to be so gay. Almost every nook in our house is packed with gay pride. His incessant swishing has tainted every aspect of my life. I’ll just be sitting, watching the ball game (go saints) and having a beer or two (go oly) and here comes Brett, prancing in like some nancy boy and tries to put a coaster under my drink, so that “there won’t be any rings on the end table.” Give me a break. Why not put the chips in a lacy nacho cozy, Brett? I can’t say that out loud, though, since he threatened to kick me out of the townhouse after the butter incident—all I did was put the butter on a tea saucer rather than on the Fiestaware Butter Canoe he bought at SantaFe And More. I guess I don’t have to tell you that it usually takes less than that to make Princess Brett flip one of his many wigs. What a fag. I will never understand what goes through the queer mind if I live to be a hundred.

I appreciate his “in your face gay pride” as much as anyone, but it’s not my face he should worry about. He should think about the biggest face possible, that of the Almighty. God created Adam and eve, not Adam and Steve. I hate to think of my boyfriend, who is a loving and compassionate man, going to Hell just because he is gay, but that’s what’s going to happen if he doesn’t straighten up, and quick. Brett is always telling me “I was born this way. Get over it!” Sometimes I think I should just accept him as he is, but then I remember, “Whoa! He’s a fag!”

I also think gays in general should be more honest, and quietly honest if they can manage it. I mean, I had no idea Brett was gay when we started dating. He just seemed like this great, and completely normal guy I happened to think was attractive. After a few weeks, though, it became pretty obvious that things were not as they seemed—in the way he walked, the way he talked, the way he kissed me…just everything. If you had told me a year ago that I would have a faggot boyfriend, I would have told you to go to hell (because that’s where liars go anyway) and then I would have hit you, with my fist, or a book or something, since stoning is illegal nowadays. The bottom line is, I would have been very upset, because nothing is more disgusting to me than gay people. Not just gay sex either, but everything about them.

Shopping with Brett, for instance, is a nightmare. If I have to shop, I do it like every other red-blooded American male. I am a hunter, so I look for what I need, I get it, and I go home to use it. Not my man. No sir. After recoiling in mock horror when I suggest that Wal-Mart sheets are just as good as that fluff at LinensAndThings, he proceeds to drag me around the mall with those limp wrists of his for 3 hours looking for just the right piece of chintzy crap to put next to the painting he bought for the conversation pit. In Queerspeak, “The perfect objet to offset the brutal ambiguity of the Nagel.”

If he kept his gay ways to himself, maybe I would feel differently, but one look at our bathroom proves he could never do that. My shower things are easy to identify—guy things—shampoo, soap, and a rag. End of story. The rest of the tub area is packed with his creepy fag accessories. Everywhere you look there is something bizarre, effeminate and wrong. Lotions, bodifying gels, loofahs in every geometric configuration available at Bed, Bath,andBehold, scouring mitts, 50 or so containers of body wash, ranging from autumn blend summer berry bath gel in a bottle shaped like a constructions worker to Rain-scented hypoallergenic detergent free non-soap cleansing emollient and conditioning gravy (whose container is so oddly shaped that I figure its used in some freakish and disturbing gay pride bath ritual). I promise you, he waves that stuff in my face constantly, to the tune of “I’m queer and I won’t go away!”

Pride in your perverse sexuality is understandable, I guess, but when I expect to have my back washed by the man I love with Lever 2000 and he starts slathering on some Belgian SemiSweet chocolate body icing, it’s just wrong. He just does not respect my views—I just want to bathe with my boyfriend, not become part of some homoerotic love scene.

I might as well be living with Paul Linde. At least Uncle Arthur didn’t insist on redecorating every inch of Samantha’s house. He and Darren had an understanding. Darren doesn’t hassle Sam about the witchcraft and Uncle Arthur keeps his lucky boy paws off the merchandise.

I don’t mean to imply anything politically incorrect like gays should know their place, or queers should stay out of the paths of decent people, but they absolutely should. Maybe one day Brett and I can reach some sort of compromise: Brett on one side as a total faggot and me on the other side as a person who is not gay. He can be Uncle Arthur and I can be Darren. Oh well, I guess I am stuck with him, even if he is a homosexual and therefore an abomination in the sight of God. In spite of all that he is, and all that people might think I am just because we are dating, I love my gay boyfriend.