On an Autumn trip out of town to Las Vegas, I decided I'd go over to a local coffeehouse I hadn't been to for years since I'd lived there. I stepped inside and noticed a few familiar faces, but no one I could rightfully put a name to. I felt a bit foolish as I was expecting some kind of reunion, but took it in stride and ordered a large chai with extra spice as I took a seat beside the poetry stage. The thin, perky waitress soon came over and started a conversation with me. She asked where I was from and what I was doing that evening. She said she liked football players, and leaned forward, fingering the fuzzy initials on my high school letterman jacket. I stammered out a blunt, quick reply telling her I wasn't interested. She seemed
very hurt and almost started to cry while moving away. I told her it wasn't because she wasn't pretty or nice; it was because I was gay. The shocked look on her face told me she didn't believe me, and she exclaimed I couldn't be because I wasn't like her friend, Joey. I looked over to the guy she pointed to and saw one of the most feminine men I'd ever laid eyes upon flamboyantly dancing to a Britney Spears song.
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