I’m sitting in my office watching “Personal Best” on Logo. And the short shorts. Oh my god, the short shorts.
We’ve long wondered whether our officemate is gay or straight. I mean, he seems very gay. The tighty stripey shirts, the peppy, sockless loafers, the Queer as Folk watching, Pride attending, RSVP cruise going, etc. For a while, we really had no doubt.
Until, one day, in a semi-interview, with an out-and-proud lesbian, he announced that he was straight.
Um, what??
I mean, it’s none of my business. But if you were not straight, that would be the exact wrong time to hide it. You see, where I work, being gay is a plus. A huge plus. Probably more than like 98% of all workplaces all around the world. And I love that about this place – but apparently, he does not?
I call him JA, which stands for Jack Anape. I won’t go into the hows and whys, because this is an inquisition into his sexuality and not a manifesto on the level of annoyingness towards which one person can strive. Today, I know he is gay, no matter what he says.
How do I know? Because of “Personal Best.” Because of Mariel Hemingway -- Tracy's face -- bouncing and sweaty in her short shorts. We’re talking, and it’s in our peripheral vision, and it’s not catching his eye. There's a team of young, shapely athlettes doing their high jumps, and the camera is focused right in on the crotch of their short shorts. Crotch after crotch after crotch go over the bar. Glimpses of panties. Inner thighs. Backs arched. Exasperated sighs of relief as their bodies pound ass-up onto the matt.
I’m beginning to doubt my own sexuality here! And there’s JA, not batting an eye, talking my ear off about real estate woes.
“Um,” I offer. “Are you watching this?”
He glances at the TV.
“Yeah, what is this, like the 70s version of soft core porn?” He looks away and returns the conversation to leases and clauses.
“It’s the 80s,” I mutter under my breath. So yes, most likely a gay -- just not a very good one.
