I think I’m gay.
What has caused me to leap to such a startling conclusion, you ask? Well apart from my fondness for committing various lusty acts upon the bodies of other men, last night I dreamt of dancing with Liza Minnelli. We were at a fabulous party, and she was flirting heavily with me, lifting her kilt (yes, kilt) in my general direction.
Later on–after I’d been awakened by Jonno as he came to bed and laughed at by same after telling him of Liza’s appearance in my reverie–I had another, in which Queen Elizabeth II and I were dashing about a schmancy hotel, dodging the paparazzi. As we hid crouched in an empty, fluorescently lit hallway, the queen, who was looking very chubby and wore a bad Joan of Arc wig, pleaded with me to get her a cocktail–a whiskey somethingorother (sour? soda? mayosa?). About that time, my dog, Gaston, stepped squarely on my nether region, and that was all she wrote.
So, yeah, between Liza and the queen, I think I may be gay. Or maybe it has something to do with the sizeable quantities of coffee, beer, and Chinese food I consumed just before bedtime. Or the fact that I’m sleeping with my boyfriend. Who can say?
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