I'm all in a tizz! The people I love are tearing each other apart!
Betty (not her real name) is my faithful fag hag. We met when cast opposite each other, as Mr. And Mrs MacAfee in a student-theater production of Bye-Bye Birdie. (C'mon boys...how many of you met the hag of your dreams through amateur musicals? Thought so.)
I call her my Not-Insignificant Other. And we've enjoyed over twenty years of not-unwedded bliss.
Betty sports impeccable hag credentials. She smokes like incense, drinks like a drain, and pours obscenity onto the conversation like she pours gravy on mashed potatoes. That is, abundantly.
Speaking of abundance, we nicknamed her breasts Hindenberg I and Hindenberg II. Like their namesake, they ceased to defy gravity in a most spectacular way quite some time ago.
The two of us even shared a house, Will-and-Grace style. It was perfect; we agreed early on that she needn't show any graciousness, and I shouldn't display any will. (Fag hags are allowed to be a little bit bossy, aren't they?)
Her sex life? Tres predictable. Betty had no trouble finding straight male companionship in her youth. She used these boys like kleenex. After a quick blow, she tossed them away. And as the years passed, she decided that unless one found the perfect handkerchief, one could stifle the urge to sneeze. Soon, she stopped looking for the handkerchief entirely.
Me? What gay man stops looking for a hanky? I found mine in a distant city, sticking out of the right-hand back pocket (For joy! A bottom!) which covered the oh-so-cute tush of a dark, elegant man named Master Right. (That's actually what his name means in his native Japanese.)
He balked at meeting Betty. "She sounds a little bit...well, vulgar." he admitted after I needled him. He's such a snob. And because he's the love of my life, I find it endearing.
Master Right and I weren't living together at the time, so when Betty came to visit, I arranged for us to meet at a restaurant for dinner. And the Master, with a good mannered but patently flimsy excuse, stood us up.
Betty quietly fumed at me for at least an hour. She fumed almost as much as that memorable moment when we decided to add two cats to our household.
"My dearest," she remarked, "we need to resist the idea that these cats are surrogate children for two childless, middle-aged, single people."
"Not likely." I replied, perhaps a little injudiciously. "Everybody knows cats are surrogate boyfriends. But only for you. It's a girl thing."
Oh, Abby, tell me what to do. They're both acting like children. It will simply ruin our plans for a tasteful wedding in Vancouver. I wanted Betty to be our Best Human, but she's threatening to stand us up as an act of spite!
Why, I'll need to cancel the whole thing! That means losing the deposit on the topless lesbian biker escorts for the wedding coach, the speedos for the groomsmen, the size 12 reinforced stilettos for the bridesmen, and the leather harness for the archdeacon!
What's more, I'm so upset that I've COMPLETELY forgotten how to be STRAIGHT-ACTING! My hips have become gorgeous and slim, and move side-to-side as I walk, rather than backward-and-forward. I traded in the Silverado on a Hyundai. I found myself serving chardonnay to my dinner party guests. I am neat and well organised. And--gasp!--master Right and I bought a lovely set of china at the Pottery Barn.
The Honurable Husband
(not his real name)