The fag hag

We’d been spending all of our free time together. Everyone at work assumed we were a couple. I don’t know why. Maybe it was the fact that we held hands and had nicknames for each other. I called him Beanie. Maybe people thought we were together because every once in awhile, still wearing our ridiculous required ties and aprons after work, we’d end up on the back porch of the bar, making out and messing up each other’s hair.

We were sort of perfect together. We liked the same things: Getting wasted. Drinking. Playing drinking games. We both liked soup. We could talk or not talk for hours. We were the exact same size (Like, really. Even our hands matched. Well, OK. Maybe that’s not so good. But when we were wasted, it seemed super funny to swap shoes.)

There was a problem, though. I had a boyfriend.

Later, I found out that there was another problem. He wanted a boyfriend.

I was angry.

“Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you kiss me? Was that real?”

All my teary questions had teary responses.

He was afraid to tell anyone. He wanted to kiss me. And apparently, I was everything he’d ever wanted. Except for the vagina. That, not so much.

“If I were straight, I would’ve proposed already.”

Well. Fucking great.

But the strange part, the one I didn’t realize until it happened to me, is that falling in love with/making out with a closeted gay dude, well, it made me feel fat. I know, I know. Unrelated body issues, obviously. Projecting.

Clearly. But still.

Ever heard of a skinny, super hot fag hag? Well, maybe the SATC kind—but we’re not talking about the queers you go shopping with, who go meet random gay strangers in an underwear bar, but the ones who, oh, I dunno, MAKE OUT WITH YOU. They don’t pick the skinny bitches in stilettos, do they? N-No. They’re not going to meet up with you and eat a croissant with you at Tiffany’s.

These are the queers who seek out the girls who fall in love.

Fatties.

At least I ended up getting something, nay, a few things, out of it. Ditched the boyfriend who was so bad he drove me to a smallish, 30-something closeted queer. I hit the gym and dropped the 30 or so lbs. that qualified me for the elite fag hag club, and then I learned to play wing man at gay clubs.

It’s easy. Gay men love me.