There was a time in my life when basically all of my friends were gay men. I call this time “college.” During that experience, I wrote this in my journal:
So I found myself at a party last night, sitting on a loveseat between two gay guys. The optimistic side of me thought, Isn’t it fun to be talking to some really great people, no worries? The cynical side of me, the side that is slowly but surely killing the optimistic side, thought, Yep. This is my lot in life.
It’s not like I set out to collect them. I don’t buy into that Sex in the City, every-girl-needs-a-gay thing (you know, where they exist solely to snap out one-liners/take a woman shopping/wear interesting hats). I just met a lot of great dudes who happened to be into other great dudes. Perhaps it had to do with working for the theater department for four years, perhaps I have a magic gift. We’ll never know.
The point is, for the first 25.5 years of my life, I had exactly one (1) consistent straight guy friend. He’s The Original, the guy who knew me when I dressed like this AND like this, and has stuck with me anyway. I sort of imagined it would go on like this, me with my boys, my girls (of course I have great girl friends, too), and my one guy forever.
But you know what they say: life is what happens when you’re busy making plans with gay men.
2011 might go down in history as the year I learned to talk to anyone. I can talk to straight men as if they are actual humans, and I am one too. It turns out we have common interests: beer, action movies, football, making fun of one another, nachos…
And although I still have some wonderful, fabulous boys, there are now a whole lot more guys joining The Original in my corner. Sometimes even they wonder why it has happened; my buddy Mike (editor’s note: I was going to make up a better pseudonym, but when I asked Lacy for help she strongly advocated for “Long Duck Dong” before announcing “I feel like you should know that I’m tipsy.” I’m sticking with “Mike“) recently told me, “Rachel, I spend more time with you than I do with girls.” I frakking love this. Being “one of the guys” is one of the funniest experiences of my life thus far, and I am enjoying every (occasionally smelly) second of it. In fact, I really only want my guys to remember I’m a girl when I need someone to carry heavy objects or intimidate someone for me.
So how has my life changed since that journal entry? A couple of weeks ago, I found myself at my usual table at my local bar surrounded by a bunch of my new guys, when one of them said: “Rachel is better at being one of the guys than I am.”
Yep. If this is my new lot in life, I think I’ll take it.