My, My Metro Card!

Meterosexual, a word derived from Latin, roughly translated into English to mean: one who is filled with ghey, to be revealed in a few-years time.

I realize the term ‘meterosexual’ expired around the point Ricky Martin was exposed to be a cultural-phenomenon with the shelf-life of a dairy product, but I was recently reminded why I hate the word so much. About two years ago I met my current-roommate, Isobel’s childhood friend, who at the time proclaimed himself to be a straight-meterosexual man. Forget all the tell-tale signs, such as the frosted-tips in his hair, the gay-boy tight-T-shirt and the lisp; he spent the rest of the night using his heavy-drinking to excuse his constant touching of my then-male-roommate’s biceps. About 5 seconds after he had left the party I proclaimed loudly – and drunkenly I might add – “that bitch is SO gay”, much to the chagrin of everyone who knew him.
Cut to this past fall when our paths crossed yet again, this time in tow was another Abercrombie-&-Fitch-twinky male “friend”. Once again I informed Isobel that he was a butt-pirate and A&F-twink was his love-slave, once again she had her doubts. I explained to her that when it comes to gay men if he looks like a duck and quacks like a duck, he’s a fag. Finally, last week Isobel messages me on MSN to inform me that I was correct all-along; not only is he gay but the guy I’d met last fall is indeed his boyfriend. This seems unfair to me, given that I am currently dating no one and have been openly gayer, longer. Now I’m not saying I necessarily want – or need – a boyfriend but I believe queerdom needs to adopt a ‘first come, first serve’ policy. No budding.