Me on lesbians

                                        

(792 words)

Our daughters’ reactions to my provocation were so visceral, so instantaneous, and so homicidal I remember being glad the girls don’t pack heat.

We’d just finished watching some pleasant-looking young lady, a talent show contestant, belt out a rousing rendition of some pop ditty with which I am unfamiliar and we began to opine.

“Nailed it,” said the 16-year-old.

“Her best yet,” the 22-year-old said.

Now it was my turn. “She sings pretty good …”

“For a lesbian.”

Ker-pow!

I detonated a verbal nuclear weapon and they reacted accordingly. For one shining instant, they wanted to kill me. My sin was that egregious.

Now, I have no earthly idea what the gal’s sexual orientation is and from what I know it would have nothing to do with whether or not she can carry a tune.

I’m aware of this. But my daughters are both woke, forever vigilant about confronting any perceived slight or social injustice.

I couldn’t be more proud. It’s how we raised them to be.

See, I’m woke, too.

When asked, I confess to being a knee-jerk liberal whose knee jerks most liberally when it’s in the vicinity of a conservative’s crotch. Been that way since the Clinton impeachment trial when the rabid right tried to criminalize what to me were salacious naughty-naughts between consenting adults — and wouldn’t Consenting Adults be a great name for a punk band. 

As I gain age and experience I wonder if I’m more of a devil’s advocate than a true liberal. I often argue on behalf of the less popular position.

That’s how I became the most conservative voice in our house. I want our daughters to know they will be confronted with hateful and bigoted opinions. They need to be prepared to deal with it.

Thus, my lesbian provocation.

So who cares if she is a lesbian?

Well, I do.

I believe my generation of heterosexual males is the last one that will indulge in juvenile titillation over lesbians and words like titillate.

I’ve been succumbing to these feelings because of Mariana Varela and Fabiola Valentín. You might know them as Miss Argentina and Miss Puerto Rico.

Varela and Valentine — I wonder if they met in home room — are truly two of the hottest women on the planet. Seeing them reminds me of a line I once years ago heard some rascal say about young Brad Pitt:

“Everyone in the planet either wants to be in his pants or in his shoes.”

The beauty queens met in 2020 and after a clandestine romance became wife and wife just last year.

Yes, they’re lesbians. And I can’t get enough of them. 

I usually start my day browsing their Instagrams. Here they are making out on the beach. Here’s the pair sitting on Santa’s lap. That’s them draped all over one another beneath a tropical waterfall.

Why I don’t extend even a bit of this erotic interest in male lovers I don’t know.

I’m a huge Elton John fan. I love his music, his attitude and everything he stands for. Yet I’ve never once entertained erotic thoughts about how he and same sex hubby David Furnish enjoy their domestic jollies,

I guess in that way, I’m like amateur sociologist Reg Dunlap.

Fans of the 1977 movie “Slap Shot” might know him better as the head coach of the Charleston Chiefs, as played by the peerless Paul Newman.

In it, Dunlap is in bed with the topless Suzanne Hanrahan, wife of hated rival “Hanrahan” (the character has just one name). His wife is played by Melinda Dillon, who just six years later would play the role of Ralphie’s mom in the heirloom holiday favorite, “A Christmas Story,” a circumstance that I yearly use to demolish the homespun vibe by announcing “I’ve seen her naked” every time she appears on screen.

In “Slapshot,” she tells Reg how she and another lonely woman became partial  lesbians. I say partial because she was at that moment screwing Reg.

She asks Reg if he ever harbored any romantic thoughts toward the fellas.

Dunlap says: “No. But I don't blame you though Suzanne, I mean, well see, women's bodies are beautiful. But men's bodies, see I see 'em everywhere you know, in the locker rooms, their cocks all over the place and everything…

“At the end of the day I think about women. You know, I think about women's bodies. Now maybe all that'll change, maybe I'll end up sleeping with old goalies. I mean, things bein' what they are, who knows?”

Who knows, indeed. 

And that’s me on lesbians, rhetorically speaking, of course.

We live and let live, we consenting adults, we do.

Like my daughters, I remain proudly woke.

I just every once in a while like to hit the snooze alarm.

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