Don't Sit Next to Me, Just Because I'm Gay

Going off to college
I thought I was the head of the class
But then I realized something new
Which made me feel like an ass
People are using me for my lisp
They only care about my fag hag posse
That's when I say
Don't sit next to me just because I'm gay


So this guy, he macks on my chicks
But he doesn't know what he's got coming
So I turn to him, all bent out of shape
And say "Did that girl end up pressing charges for rape?"
And people all think we're benign
But I don't wanna be your pal
If all you see me for is my fashion sense
I'm a man, not a token
And I say: DON'T SIT NEXT TO ME, JUST BECAUSE I'M GAY.

Yes, this is based on a true story, or rather, an amalgamation of true stories. In one of my political science classes ("Gays in the Modern Military", go figure) a particularly fine specimen of fratboyitude sat down opposite a lady friend of mine, who enrolled in the class because we love to work together. He interrupted our conversation to introduce himself to her and then spent close to ten minutes chatting her up, ignoring the annoyance on her face, ignoring body language that told him to shut up and go away.

Adding insult to injury, he then moved on to me. He spent a few minutes asking probing questions to see if we were involved; I took great pleasure in coming up with the most ambiguous answers I could. When that approach failed he came right out and asked, putting a new wrinkle in it by saying "So, do either of you have a significant other?"

I exchanged a bemused glance with my lady friend and she took her cue brilliantly. "Actually," she said, putting on her best dumb-blonde face, "we're both still looking for a boyfriend. You know how hard it is to find a good boy around here. Isn't that right, Tony?"

I grinned impishly. "You said it, hun." Then I put years of high school drama club to work and unleashed the full power of my most withering come-hither gaze on Fratboy, despite the fact that he was a meaty linebacker type who struck me as only slightly more attractive than chiseled beef. "Nice haircut, by the way. Mike, was it? I like that name!" I winked at him.

Fratboy blanched, and shuffled his feet uncomfortably. "Heh...eh...heh. Yeah, that's really true. I mean, I guess it's true. I mean...I could imagine...but not really imagine, erm...So... did you see the basketball game last night?"

Within a few minutes, he found an excuse to move across the room and never bothered us again. I went easy on him, because he was a first offender and because he displayed some amount of courtesy and tact in his dealings with Jen, my companion. I've only used the "did she press charges" line once, on a man who I knew to be bad news and had no qualms about pissing off. But I can get pretty sharp tongued, in dealing with clueless straight-boy interlopers. Had Fratboy withstood the trial by fire and gracefully accepted my compliment, or maybe even winked back at me, then he would've gained a measure of respect in my eyes and perhaps I might even have come to approve of him. As it was, his stammering and the blood draining from his face showed both me and Jen his true colors.

That's right, boys: these are my girlfriends. Just because I don't plan on using them in the prescribed manner, doesn't give you any right to horn in. I don't mind being the harmless token gay friend in every in-group. I don't particularly mind sidestepping talk of girlfriends, sex or sexual preference in mixed company, lest I be accused of flaunting my sexuality. And I can even tolerate outlandish questions or blatantly false impressions from prudish classmates and colleagues. But if you come between me and my gals, or you try to get to my gals through me, you should prepare for the worst.