It was only a dream...

"You know," I said, "You're a dying breed."

Tom looked puzzled. "Why is that?" he asked.

"Look at you!" I said. "You're a perfect specimen. You are the classic stereotype of your orientation. Your picture is in the dictionary next to "gay man'!" I giggled.

It's true. Tom is always perfectly dressed in bold, yet tasteful colors, incredibly well-groomed, enunciates each word with care, keeps beautiful live plants thriving at his desk, and has his customer files organized by some intricate color-coding system that I'm afraid to even ask about. His partner is a pastry chef, and they live in a beautiful apartment full of antiques with their pet birds. He's fabulous.

Tom frowned, and his immaculate eyebrows came together as he thought.

I continued. "Look, all I'm saying is that a lot of gay men I know are trying to break that mold. They want to be seen like a het, you know? They don't want to be picked out of a crowd easily, and they don't have the same sense of pride in the gay image. One of these days, you're going to be an old geezer in the gay nursing home, and you're going to look at all of the young whippersnappers out there dressed in baggy jeans and sweatshirts with messy hairdos and lament the good old days when gay men knew how to present themselves."

This may or may not be true, but I love pushing his buttons. Apparently he enjoys the game as much as I do.

"Look here, precious kitten." His voice dropped dangerously.

Yes, he calls me precious kitten. And for some reason, it makes me feel all tingly and giggle like a school girl. I don't know why, but it's ten times sweeter when coming from him.

"Look here, precious kitten. There's no need for you to worry your pretty little head about any of that, because you would never make it in this world as a gay man."

"What?!" I protested. "You're full of it. I would be the best!"

"Sorry, gorgeous. Look at me?? pfffft. Look at you!"

So I looked. I didn't see anything out of the ordinary.

"First of all, you don't iron nearly enough. The whole knit top under a suit look is cute and all, but it screams to me of someone who doesn't take their laundry seriously."

Point one for Tom.

"Secondly, you have your assistant do your filing! She just throws things into your files, and sometimes you can't find what you're looking for. Am I right?"

"Well, sometimes. But..."

"Third," he continued, "you don't take care of yourself. What did you have for breakfast today?"

I just looked at him, and wondered why I had started this conversation in the first place. "Um, some potatoes?" I gave a wobbly grin.

"You had a bag of Baked Lays potato chips at your desk! I saw you!" He protested.

"Well, yeah, but they're only 120 calories or something! I ran out of oatmeal packets!" I was starting to whine. It was unattractive.

"If you were gay like me, you'd have fresh melon. And by the way, look at your shoes!"

Sure enough, they are a little scuffed. I'm the kind of girl that would rather buy new shoes than polish them. It's sad, I know.

"Really, you're just as bad as those hypothetical baggy-jeans wearing boys. Don't even start with me, little girl. You stick with your smelly beefcakes, and leave the gay image to me. I'll keep it where it belongs."

Then he winked, turned on his highly polished shoes, and walked out.

Sometimes losing can be half the fun.