Cory
WE’D finished our lab write-up and all of the other preliminaries on Monday, so we were all ready to perform today’s osmosis diffusion lab. This particular lab involved a full hour of waiting around while the eggs and potato slices soaked in various solutions, which translated, at least in Ian’s mind, to an abundance of time to spend trying to persuade me to date him. I privately referred to it as “the cat and mouse game,” because I knew that’s the sort of thing Brett would’ve called it if, in fact, he’d known about it. Which he didn’t. No sense in upsetting him.
Oh, and in case you hadn’t figured it out already, Ian was the cat.
“How’s the best-looking dude on campus doing today?”
I rolled my eyes, a skill of which I had mastered the finer aspects in the past few weeks as Ian’s lab partner. “I don’t know, but when I see Brett, I’ll be sure to tell him that you asked.” Sometimes it sucked to always be the mouse.
“You are a funny guy, you know that?” Ian placed both elbows on the black-topped lab table and laid his head down between them, closing his eyes. “I guess I didn’t get enough sleep last night, but such is the single life. So many dudes, so few hours in the day….”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Maybe I’ll take a nap right here while the eggs do their thing.”
At that, I lifted my nose in the air. “I’m sure that would make a positive impression on the professor.”
Ian continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “But, you know, I’d sleep so much better if you’d cuddle up with me. Come here, baby.” He lifted his head off of the desk and then started to drag my chair toward him.
Once again, I felt my eyes rolling back involuntarily as I firmly placed my feet on the floor to stop the sliding of my chair. “I’m getting married this summer; give it up, Ian.”
“I’ll give it all up to you, Cory.”
Huffing loudly, I opened my laptop. “Whatever.” I so don’t need to deal with this. I began to type.
Apparently, Ian felt it was time to step up his game. “What are you doing now, Cory? Googling ‘gay for you’? Because if your buddy Brett is gay, I’d bet my left nut that it’s only for you.” He spoke as if this was all a big joke, when it was my life he was talking about.
So I bounced right back with, “Only the left one? I thought you had more confidence in yourself than that.” Nonetheless, my fingers had frozen on the keyboard. And I’ll admit it: my curiosity won out over my common sense. I heard myself ask, “Why do you keep on saying that kind of thing, anyways?”
Sitting a bit straighter in his chair, Ian shrugged, and then replied with authority, “My gaydar is 100 percent accurate; it hasn’t ever failed me. Your beloved Brett is not a true member of the Rainbow Brigade, so to speak.”
“Your gaydar? You’re basing this entire ‘Brett’s a het’ theory on your gaydar?” I exhaled in quasi-relief. “I suppose, then, I’ll worry about it once you have your gaydar scientifically tested for accuracy and I read the results in the American Journal of Psychiatry.”
“Believe me or not, but it has never been wrong.”
“Everybody knows that gaydar isn’t infallible.”
“Then let’s use simple logic instead, what do you say?” Ian reached out and pushed the top of my computer down. “So, you told me you’ve known Brett for about four years, or so? Tell me about when he came out.”
Well, there wasn’t a response I could give to that, because Brett had never officially “come out of the closet.”
Had he ever been in the closet? Had he ever even realized that there was a closet to come out of?
“Okay, then, try this one on for size: how many guys did he date before you?”
“I never dated before Brett, either.” My voice sounded rather whiny.
“Has he ever left a Playgirl magazine open on the coffee table? And I’ll bet my right nut that he’s never asked you to watch some steaming hot male porn with him.”
“Those things don’t mean anything—I don’t get into porn, either.” I lifted the top of my computer back up as if in challenge. “Besides, we have each other; we don’t need porn.”
“Fair enough, girlfriend.” Leaning back, Ian pushed his knees up against the table. “I’m not big into stereotypes, but I do believe there is a hint of truth to them. So, do you ever find Brett listening to show tunes when you hop into his truck? Does the dude give a hoot about Fashion Week? Or decorating? Does he even like to go shopping at all?”
I gaped at the man beside me, trying to categorize the blur of thoughts that were rushing through my mind.
“I really don’t need to point any of this stuff out to you; you’re not stupid or blind. But your man doesn’t meet a single requirement of queer-ness.”
If it weren’t for those submerged eggs and potatoes, I would have just gotten up and left. I certainly didn’t need to listen to all of the ways Brett didn’t fit into gay stereotypes. Next, Ian would be telling me that Brett couldn’t be into me because he didn’t worship at the altar of Barbra Streisand. And, although I hated to admit it, the worst part was that some of what Ian had said rang true to me.
If it doesn’t look like a duck, walk like a duck, or quack like a duck, then maybe it’s not a duck.
“So, my thought is that you ditch the het-dude. Find yourself a man who loves men, who has always loved men, and always will. Like, say, yours truly.”
Glancing at my watch, I said softly, “Not a chance, Ian. I’m in this with Brett for as long as he wants me.”
“Well, that’s sad.”
“Maybe so, but it’s also true. So, I hope you’re still up for being partners with me, but strictly in the lab sense.” I got up and walked around the table so I could examine our experiments rather than further examining Brett’s sexuality. “If you don’t think you can still work with me, we should talk to the professor soon, though.”
Frustrated, Ian just shrugged. “There’s no need to be rash. But don’t forget, when you get tired of swimming against the current with your so-called fiancé, let me know. I’ll be waiting for you on the beach wearing a tiny black Speedo, with a little Rufus Wainwright playin’ on my boom box.”