No. Si? No.
All I’m saying is, you owe me. Like, money. You owe me money.
How do you figure?
I think we’d been dating about six months. It was one of the first times I remember thinking wow, I think we’re actually fighting.
And we were fighting about Ricky Martin?
Well, if memory serves, it went something like me saying that yes, I thought he was living la vida loca, if that was a euphemism for being the latin George Michael.
I seem to recall this now.
And you got all pissed off. At the time, I thought that probably–probably–you’d had posters of George Michael as a young lady, and so his eventual coming out had, I don’t know, confused some things for you.
I do recall this.
Which, I hasten to add, was confirmed–your having George Michael posters–the first time you took me home to meet your parents.
Did you become less arrogant over time, or do I just not notice anymore?
But so my point was not–as you’d misunderstood it to be at the time–that of the neanderthalish, knee-jerk homophobe, like look, he’s gay but he’s trying to pretend he’s not. What I was trying to say was that it was too bad for all parties concerned. He’s into dudes, but can’t publicly acknowledge it; he’s sold to women as some hetero-fantasy that they’ve got to know, deep down, isn’t true, and if I remember correctly, your exact words–
I really dislike how selectively exacting your memory is–like, for instance, when was our first date?
I can tell you everything we talked about, but not when. Because when doesn’t count except in context. I can tell you that it was three weeks before we mostly slept together.
Mostly slept together. That’s kind.
So your words were, let’s say more or less your words were what? You don’t think he can be that handsome and dance that well and be straight?
Didn’t you say something dickish in return?
I said that there was every possibility that there were bigfoots, and that just because I hadn’t personally seen one didn’t make me an expert on the existence of big–Foots? Feet? Feets?–but that if you were asking me for my opinion–
–Which I’m dead certain I wasn’t–
Then I’d have to say no. And you stuck out your hand. And we shook. I think the agreed upon wager–
–There was no agreed upon wager. That’s horseshit–
–adjusted for inflation, comes to something like thirty six dollars. Because we sleep together, I’ll round it down to thirty five.
Yep, you are every bit as pompous as ever you were.
