Tuesday, August 14, 2007


PREVIOUSLY: Packing Heat


There’s a lot of free time waiting at airports. They tell you to be prepared for very long queues, because of the high state of you know, bitchiness, from the airline employees. You go a few hours early so you don’t miss your flight.

I find that there are two things you end up doing at airports to pass the time: one is eating and the other, people-watching. Since I didn’t bring my girdle--I was on vacation after all--I decided to do the latter. Time enough to gorge later when there aren’t so many people around. Also, I like to set the mood when I eat; I prefer a darkened room, softly lit by the lightbulb in the refrigerator, a gentle cool air wafting out of its open door.

So, I people-watched. I turned on my gaydar by flipping the switch hidden behind my ear, to try to figure out who’s gay, who’s straight and who’s simply given up on life. I know, I know--how boring. I don’t know why this is still so fascinating in this day and age of total gay world domination, but I find that it is. Maybe if I found one (i.e. a gay), we could go to the loo and do some clandestine, you know, gossiping.

But apparently, based on new and advanced, ground-breaking scientific research, it has been found that you can tell if somebody is gay or straight by the direction of their hair whorl. I had recently learned that if a person’s whorl goes clockwise, they are straight; otherwise, they are gay. This research was leaked to me from a top secret gay laboratory where they wear impeccably tailored white labcoats and use designer test tubes and beakers.

Brian and I checked the top of our heads and found that we both have counter-clockwise whorls. It must be 100% true with two snaps. I used this arcane knowledge on the people passing by: Straight. Straight. Gay. Straight. Total Beyonce-singing, Shakira rump-shakingly Gayyy.

However, this is very hard to do on people who are much taller than me. I tried standing on tiptoe to get a better view. If they turned around while I was on tiptoe, I innocently pirouetted away, throwing in a grande plié and a jeté to make it convincing. But being on tiptoe was useless, so I had to rely on more common methods, such as looking for signs of excessive dry clean-only fabrics or a garment bag.

This information comes at a very opportune time because it’s hard for a foreigner to discern if a Brit is gay because their accents make them sound swishy. And I’m talking about the women. The men sound like they are total flamers. It wasn’t hard to imagine them all having a collective hissy fit over converting their currency to Euros. It must have been pretty fearsome, since they’re still using the pound sterling. Plus, they have a queen on all their currency, how fabulous is that?

I hoped that this new whorl research would aid me in my search to connect with my own highly moisturized tribe.

But I am wondering if the research is flawed and the Brit whorls are reversed, like how in Australia the water flushes down counter-clockwise to our clockwise. There are signs of this: the Brits drive on the left side of the road; the steering wheel is on the right side of their cars; they think Victoria Beckham is a fashion icon. What? You’re not a fashion icon until the paparazzi have taken a photo of your pussy when you get out of a limo. In the U.S., Victoria Beckham would be like Ruth Bader Ginsburg. And, she’s a mother of three; one more and she could start an orphanage.

On our flight, our gay flight attendant Curtis’ whorl was clockwise, which would indicate that he was straight. He was definitely gay because I totally, absolutely, do not find him attractive. I am attracted primarily to guys who look like they sweat for a living, you know, like aerobics instructors.

I am sending an e-mail to our top secret gay laboratory in hopes that they send me a solution to my dilemma spit-spot. I have a brewing emergency, something that only Gay Brits can help with, something that could be a life-or-death situation: I have forgotten to pack my moisturizer.

God save this queen.

NEXT: The Tipping Point

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