Finding Your Gay

April 28, 2014

Good morning, class.  Class.  Class! [*clap*, *clap*, *clap*]  Eyes up front.

Today, we have a special guest speaker.  Her name is Journey McGuire, and she will be talking about cats and homosexuality (not to be confused with cat homosexuality).  Because of the mature nature of this content, I have received signed permission slips from everybody’s guardian or parent except for you, Charisse.  You can wait out in the hall.

I expect everyone to be on their best behavior.  If I see any shenanigans, your name will go up on the board.  Keep it up, and you’ll get a check mark by your name, and you know what that means.

So please give your undivided attention to Journey McGuire and her stream-of-consciousness stylings on the trails of finding her gay (and a little bit about cats).

My name is Journey McGuire, and I’m the owner of A Cheeto Named Larry. You may be wondering how I ended up guest posting on The Reluctant Cat Owner’s Journal. Well, that’s simple. Much like when I guest wrote for C.F. Winn, I pretty much had to beg my way into this deal. I hounded Cary until he finally said “Jesus, hooker. If I say yes will you promise to never talk to me again?” I promised, but I had my fingers crossed. Rookie. Cary told me I couldn’t write about kiddie porn, which was really upsetting at first. I had to think long and hard about what other subjects interested me, and then it occurred to me; there are two things I love in this world, and those are cats and gay men. Well, and wine, but otherwise this site is all encompassing.

Cats love me, and they always have, but I’ve never quite been able to crack the code on gay men. What I mean by that is I want to hang out with them because they are witty and hilarious and fashionable, but they don’t usually want to hang out with me because I’m a homebody and boring and have the fashion sense of a rodeo clown.

Yes.  This is what I wore ALL DAY LONG.

Yes. This is what I wore ALL DAY LONG.

 

Lesbians, on the other hand. Well those bitches love me, except I don’t have a propensity for genitals that look like roast beef. I get hit on by women fairly regularly, so I guess you could call me the Reluctant Lesbian Magnet.

Once, while I was in a bar, a husky trucker lady pulled open the stall where I sat peeing because there were no latches in this establishment, unbeknownst to me. She stood there for a moment and stared at me, grinned, and in a gruff voice whispered, “Gurrl. Where you been all my life?” True story.

I blacked out and woke up in her 18-wheeler wearing a flannel shirt and Wranglers. K.D. Lang was playing softly on the radio, and there was something that resembled a chainsaw next to the bed with a questionable attachment. I only managed to escape after she stepped out to shoo away the lot lizards.

It was a very traumatic experience, and it’s still hard for me to talk about, but therapy has helped me realize that the heart wants what the heart wants. She still attempts to abduct me from time to time, and I guess in a way it’s flattering, but in the end, if I’m going to eat roast beef, it’s going to be Portia de Rossi slathered in au jus.

To my understanding, women who want to hang out with gay men generally fit into two categories: the ultra-pretty girl who wants a break from men hitting on her, and the sad sap who can’t get the attention of straight men so she needily feeds off the gays for validation. I’m number two.

OK, not really, because HELLO, my husband looks like Ben Affleck. “A woodsy Ben Affleck”, my sister will say, to which he replies, “Why I gotta be woodsy?” The point is, I scored in that department, so that’s not it.

Aside from being motor boated by a gay man once, I’ve had no real luck into charming one into wanting to spend time with me and talk about wieners over TexMex. This is really important to me, and nobody gets it! And really, it’s not fair at all.

Get this. My dad is a 77-year-old, Southern, right-wing extremist, and his best friend is a 40-year-old, black lesbian. That’s no shit. Tell me how that works. So ok, it took him until his seventies to make that score, but still. He totally cut in line. He cheated his way up there somehow, and I’m back here in my rodeo clown outfit wishing some fantastic bastard would come save me from myself.

Worse, my sister has her “own gay”, as she calls it. A doctor, no less. But I don’t like that term because it sounds too much like a pet. But I do want one to make me his favorite person. Maybe I come off as too desperate. Does that spook gayfolk?

The truth is, I did have two pretty close gay friends. The problem with them was that you couldn’t tell they were gay, and so there’s little to no payback when they dress badly and don’t even squeal. Fuck that! I want some flames coming off that shit. I like my gays GAY, dammit. My one friend, Al, told me he wasn’t at all feminine because he didn’t like feminine men. What? What kind of gay man are you?! I told him he was doing it all wrong, but he just looked at me and simply said, “I don’t date faggots.” It’s a confusing world out there.

As if it couldn’t get any worse, cats love me, but I can’t even have one because my husband and kid are allergic. Cats and lesbians flock to me and I have to continually shoo them away, but I am a total fag retardant. I don’t mean the word fag to have a negative connotation. I couldn’t even call my two gay friends fags because they didn’t deserve the title. Fag signifies that you squeal and giggle at words like homo erectus. That’s a damn badge of honor as far as I’m concerned.

Here I am at forty years old, cat-less and without that special homo in my life, and I just feel so lost right now. “Why don’t they like me?” I ask my husband. “I don’t know. But they sure like me.” He smiles and I tell him to piss off.

So yeah, my life’s a little empty feeling, but you know what isn’t? The full box o’ wine out in the refrigerator. I will self-medicate until some fancy man finds it in his heart to take me under his wing, properly dress me, and discuss the penis he met that was shaped like Florida. However, one small comfort I have is routinely stalking this blog and playing with the tiny Cary doll I hand crafted to have tea parties with. I’m nothing if not a survivor.

Journey McGuire is the owner of A Cheeto Named Larry and contributor for Humor Outcasts.

When I’m not MMA street fighting, I’m saving kittens from sinking battleships. I once humanized a cheeto to the extent that I began the blog A Cheeto Named Larry. Then one day I got pissed, deleted it, and threw Larry in the trash. I’ve hated my own fat guts ever since, so I spend every day making up for it with the new and improved http://acheetonamedlarry.com/. Writing is the only thing that matters. Besides sleeping, eating, kittens. But not eating sleeping kittens. That would be upsetting.

[*applause*]

Thank you, Journey.  It has been a pleasure having you with us today.  We hope you find the gay you are looking for.

Class, stay tuned as next week we try to convince Journey to submit pictures of her husband so that I can post them here to drool over.  Until then, this will have to suffice:

Mmmmm....rugged Ben Affleck.

Mmmmm….rugged Ben Affleck.