Rebel Prince

We’re in the kitchen, kissing. Well, more like making out, let’s say. It’s nice, but he’s done now. He moves away. “Oh sure, just when I’m getting all pointy,” I say, looking down at the obvious tenting of my pajama pants.

He scoffs. “You’re 27. You’re always pointy.”

“That is not true.” I pause for effect. “I’m 26.”

Speaking of which—you’re a little afraid now, aren’t you?—at Lambda Rising last weekend we came across a hilarious line of greeting cards called Boneroni. So not work-safe. But oh, so fun.

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I am inside the elevator. The doors start to close. I peek out and see three women walking toward me. “Going up?” I call out.

They say yes, and I hold the door for them. Once we’re all settled, and appropriate elevator buttons have been pushed, they pick up their conversation where they left off, the key line being:

“Yeah, the wedding is now May 8th. It’s the only date we could get the cathedral and the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.”

What? Mental double-take. Ohh-kay. Just then we arrive at my floor, thus I don’t get to eavesdrop on the rest of the arrangements. Perhaps some things are best left unsaid, er, unoverheard.

Oh, I suppose I’ll try anything with a detached air of superiority, but hélas, good taste is a heavy burden when one must suffer the questionable judgment of others, n’est-ce pas? What does Lord Goring say in An Ideal Husband? “What is unfashionable is what other people wear. Just as vulgarity is simply the conduct of other people.” That Oscar, what a dish.

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