Christian Guilt trip Part II
There I was, shivering, impatiently waiting for the result of a test that would change my life forever. I could feel a dribble of sweat making its way down my forehead. Next to me, Jerome was reading Proust (Like the pretentious A-hole that he is), unfazed – his chakras nicely aligned.
A life of sins flashed before my eyes. I remembered all the times when I carelessly pleasured random strangers. When I blacked out and couldn’t remember what I had done the previous night and how much fun it had been. But I was being punished. I had pissed off the big man in the sky. Would he have mercy? I doubted it.
The nurse, who pricked my finger and placed the blood on a tester that would, in twenty minutes or so, reveal my fate, ushered me back into her room with a look of concern. I remember taking similar tests back in the UK. While waiting for the result, the nurse would talk to you about safe sex practices and ask you all kinds of questions and let you know what the latest advances in treatment were. There was none of that here. She just abandoned me in the waiting room, surrounded by people bleeding and cursing and Jerome, completely engrossed in his novel who, every time he turned a page, kept telling me that everything was going to be fine (liar!). Now I was back in with her, I grew paler by the second. She grabbed the phone and said she needed to get someone else in. I was doomed!
Turned out, she didn’t know how to read the result – most probably because her thick brain hadn’t learned to read colours. She showed me the charts, asking me what I thought. She was asking ME what the result was! I wanted to rip her head off and shove it where the sun doesn’t shine! This was absolutely ridiculous. Thankfully a second nurse got in; she glimpsed at it and said it was negative. I fell to the floor, relieved. God had heard me! I was saved!
But I still had to go back with the homophobe doctress who, on finding out the test was negative, seemed displeased. She never actually looked me in the eyes; she just frowned and while tapping on her keyboard mumbled that it might just be a benign respiratory infection that could be fixed with a simple spray. I visualised standing up and strangling the bitch. Instead, I stood up and, doing my best imitation of a drag queen, snapped my fingers in her face.
As I walked out, Jerome smiled at me: one of those smiles that are supposed to make you feel better. A smile that says: “See, everything is fine. Let’s go home and have some tea” – I wanted to punch him in the face. That atheist doesn’t know the devouring turmoil that goes on inside a Christian’s heart. The never-ending guilt that rots our souls and that can only be suffocated by large amounts of booze. So I got home and opened a bottle of vodka.
A wise man told me – and when I say a wise man I refer to the prostitute who works on my street corner – the following: When you’re in your twenties, you dream your life. When you’re in your thirties, you make it happen. And when you’re in your forties, you contemplate. I asked how old she was, she did not find it funny. But it got me thinking. I turned 30 some mere 3 years ago and thus, according to her, now is the time to make it all happen.
What exactly is a fag-hag supposed to do when she falls in love with her best gay mate? Well, apparently she hangs around and she weeps on my brand new 3.99 H&M top and ruins it. What a selfish piece of no-good, you think, thinking about my clothes when my friend is distressed. But what is one supposed to respond to “he might change”, “it’s only a phase”, “we’re perfect for each other” and ‘I REALLY love him”? But laugh!
I introduced her to perfectly good bachelors that I wouldn’t have minded keeping to myself but didn’t play on my team and she just sat there, looking vacant. These guys were hot. I found myself wishing I were a girl just so that I could get in there.
The Venezuelan steward lacked baggage. The English teacher wasn’t literary enough. The writer was too wordy. The stripper was too ripped and the chef only cooked veggie food. What she meant was: they’re not gay; they’re available and could make me happy.
And of course, she wasn’t interested in that!
After having ruined a few perfectly good Saturday nights consoling her, I started to screen her calls. If she can’t understand that he is not interested in fish, there is nothing I can do for her. But what really boggles me is why he keeps up with the charade.
In a world where dating is cyber, where you can just drag your finger over your mobile device and find instantly your perfect match
flip your mobile open and start chatting to potential future exes, a good old spooning session in front of a Gene Kelly and Fred Astaire movie with a big tub of Ben and Jerry’s Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough on a couch, once found on a street, (Jeez, this is turning out to be a long one) cannot possibly compete with spending hours online checking out profiles and getting yourself dates for every single day of the upcoming week. Somehow it does, huh! Yet while it makes her happy, it makes him ask for more and so they go out dancing and have the time of their lives. At the end of it, he goes to a stranger’s apartment and she goes home, grabs the Ben and Jerry’s and puts the movie back on. She’ll be here the next morning, tea awaiting the return of half of her soul. He finally gets in, jumps into the shower, gets out of it half-naked and grabs the mug. Of course, she is asking all the right questions, listening and convincingly laughing at the right parts. Of course, she is crossing her fingers for him hoping that this time he has found the one. And of course, she is secretly hoping that the guy will never call back. And if he does, she might, just might forget to pass on that he did.
And he doesn’t so there is no need to lie. A trip to LL, a good drag-queen show and a couple of sleazy jokes*, a beer in hand, and he has forgotten all about his lost one-night-stand and hugs her tight.
And they’ll hang on to each other for as long as they possibly can. Fooling themselves into thinking that what they have is special and everlasting. How could it possibly go wrong? It’s The next best thing! (Madonna and Rupert Everett, Anyone?)
