Fashion Faux-pas

Grandmother had a way with malapropisms.  In the 1950s she was clunking around the kitchen in Cuban heels, warbling Please Don't Knead Me When You Squeeze Me Oh So Much.  In the 1960s, she was confusing two hot topics when she consistently used Napalm in a sentence that required Valium.  In the 1970s, Barbra Streisand had great birth control---which evidently was true.  And in the 1980s, she was a willing participant in the laid on look.

Of course, so was I.

I grew up in a world of gay discrimination of a different sort---at least at the familial level.  There was acceptance and a niche for gay men, for apparently they were all florists or beauticians.  I could go along with that, for I loved flowers and certainly had design sense, having drawn in perspective since kindergarten.  As for hair, my interest fell off after Mother would rat hers out and then cackle like the Wicked Witch of the West.

Perennially Grandma would pipe: "I love gay men; they're all so sweet."  And invariably Mother or one of my aunts would groan: "Mommmm, that's such a stereotype."  Grandma would get that 1930s ingenue look, brows towards her hairline in wonder of why the world wasn't as she saw it.

The last time Grandma professed her opinion on the subject, she stood her ground.  "They're not macho or anything."

"Mom," Mother and aunt chorused, "Gay men are like all men:  They can be sweet or macho or ineffectual or just plain assholes."

She turned to me, now a young man.  "Is that true?"

"I'm afraid so, Grandma," I sighed.  "And I should know.  I've slept with a few."

Her eyes bugged a bit, but then relaxed into a twinkle as she let out a giggle very much like Toby Wing.