The Pressure is On
I have tasted my own Facebook, and it is bitter.
This morning, waiting patiently between call backs for my telephonic court appearance at 7:45, and then 8:15, and then 8:30, and then 8:45 (I defeated the motion, btw), I found myself stalking lost connections via their Facebook pages. Don’t judge me. You all do it when your bosses aren’t looking. Anyway, I stumbled upon my fabulous, genius, gorgeous, sorority alum, novel-writing, twenty-five-year-old cousin. So of course, I befriended her, hoping it would make amends for my terrible habit of avoiding family gatherings. Perhaps by the time news of me gets around the rumor mill, my gay life will have morphed into Nobel laureate stature, as opposed to gay porn star, crack whore abyss.
The consequences of contacting an arms length relative via the web did not dawn on me until this evening. Holy shit! My potty mouth, queer humor is splayed all over the web like Paris Hilton’s sex tapes. Damn this perpetual world wide web! Now, I have to live up to the intensity of the grammatical expectations of my ABA accredited law degree. How will I ever maintain my wits with the challenges of “your v. you’re” and “it’s v. its” when I’m in a hurry to post via iPhone while waiting on the next Delta connection from Atlanta? Hubby’s scrutiny is nothing compared to what I fear from my literary genius cousin and her fabulous pumps. She’ll be all “click, clack, clicking” her Manolo Blahniks against the edge of her desk while her red pen slashes through print-outs of my most offensive commentary. Over cosmos, all her fellow newspaper editor friends will mock the absence of my apostrophes and commas. I’ll be the laughing stock of Flat Point High! Sigh.
And then there’s the whole gay thing. Even I, pro bono attorney to two “open and affirming” churches and a gay rights organization, am inadvertently closeted to some in my family. Not that I would ever deny it, 12 years into my marriage, if asked, but there was never a defining moment with my grandparents (former Southern Baptist minister grandfather) or extended, uber-Southern Living aunts and uncles and cousins when I announced my joys of gay sex. I assume by now they must know (ummm, how could they not), but it could also be a matter of “if we don’t talk about it, it’s not happening” or “oh that career of his keeps him single.” Who knows what kind of excuses are being made on Sand Mountain in my absence. Certainly, with my parents and siblings I had that dreaded coming-out moment, followed by six months of forced psycho-therapy, and now everything is fabulous. My personal life has simply been all too convenient to avoid with extended family. Meanwhile, I’ve gladly opened up my big, queer life to the entire universe, naively assuming no one would ever care to read it. It wasn’t so hard to do, given that I came out to my friends in high school, and from the minute I arrived, I was pretty much burning down the music and theater buildings with my caliente queer flames during college. For law school, I had a freakin’ scholarship for being gay–Diversity Scholar (only in New Hampshire). Even from day one of my career, I’ve been fully out and up-front about my relationship with Hubby, and my refusal to be apologetic or in-your-face about my sexuality and relationship has always proved the route to others accepting me. I don’t make it an issue because what I do in the bedroom is about .1% of who I am, and so others don’t make it an issue. So why the avoidance with the extended family? Yes. I am a bad gay.
Enter Facebook, where I, of course, have listed my blog address. No secrets here…I guess. I just hope that sweet, innocent cousin, with her heightened perception of various literary art forms, can see the completely over-the-top nature of my writing. By verbage, I am much more exciting and raunchy than I dare be in real life. Ok, yes, I have had a few alcohol binges in San Francisco…and Chicago…and Houston (sorry, Omni Hotel, for that carpet stain)…and Pensacola. Oh and Orlando. And, yes, I have enjoyed the eye candy of a few Brazilian waiters and Hispanic men, more than once. But really, day-to-day, all Hubby and I do is go to work, sometimes the gym, and watch a lot of BAD reality television and home makeover shows. We’re really as normal as any straight couple, minus the vagina.
So I guess what I’m saying is: it is what it is. Here I am, mean world. Love my queer mockery of life or hate it. Pray for me or damn me to the fires and brimstone of Hell. I have a law degree, and that’s hard to beat.
Your Pleading-the-Fifth Gay Blogger
P.S. Glad to be in touch ACSV!
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