Popular image of homosexuality: "ridiculous"

ONE OF MY roommates walked up to me one evening and asked me whether or not I was gay.

At least to me, the notion is ridiculous.

I’m not — by any stretch of imagination — gay.

Don’t get me wrong: I like gay people as much as anyone else. I’m just not one of them.

I told him this.

“You’re watching ‘Steel Magnolias’ for the third time in two weeks. You’re gay, you just don’t know it yet.”

The joke’s on him.

According to the movie, you can’t be gay unless you like track lighting and your name is Mark, Rick or Steve.

But I argued him down to bisexual, and let the subject drop.

It’s not like this is the first time someone assumed I was gay, but each time, I hope it’s for something more substantial than, say, my half-gigabyte of a cappella music.

While I believe you haven’t lived until you’ve heard the Brown Derbies singing about the power of love, that’s not really an important point.

As I walked to my next class in my striking beret and scarf ensemble, I thought about what it really means to be gay. Here I was, thinking that being gay just involves sexuality when, apparently, it’s really much more than that.

Being gay — at least for guys — means being able and willing to recite any movie musical of the last 50 years, especially the obscure ones.

It means flying off the handle at the slightest insult to one’s interior design.

It means frivolous whimsy and fashion sense, catty tempers and open floodgates of emotion.

It means a propensity to sing “Rocky Horror” songs and a propensity to enjoy doing so.

It had finally gotten to the point where one of my sorority sisters confided that an ex-girlfriend of mine was asking around about my supposed gayness.

I realized then that my behavior had gotten out of hand.

That’s when I decided to hang up my full-length alchemy bathrobe for good.

The mainstream image of gay people is ridiculous and arbitrary, and not something I wanted people to assume about me.

But is the mainstream image of straight men any better?

“You need to get movies with full-frontal nudity — chicks, not guys — violence, hardcore action and sports,” said the roommate.

“You’re freaking me out,” I said.

“I’m not a homophobe, I just think you should come out of the closet already,” was his replied.

He added, “I haven’t heard you say one dirty comment about a girl yet, and you were the only person in that room who didn’t take a look at Britney Spears’ crotch.”

I would have thought that avoiding celebrity scandal news was decidedly not gay.

Maybe I’m not up for the challenge of reinforcing my heterosexuality against arbitrary judgment.

Then again, maybe the ex-girlfriend asking around just means I’m a bad kisser. Maybe my taste for movies without explosions has more to do with good taste than with sexual taste.

Maybe caring what people assume without thinking is below me, and should be. I’m going to keep singing “It’s Raining Men” — hallelujah — all day long, if I want to.

The roommate tried to console me in my hour of need.

“At least it’s ‘Steel Magnolias’ on your shelf and not ‘The Princess Bride.’ That movie’s really a chick flick.”

I wasn’t going to point out the special edition between “The Incredibles” and a borrowed copy of “Roxanne.”

I’m pretty sure he said it only because he noticed. I hesitate to say he had a straight face.

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