It was an acquaintance and former editor of one of those gay lifestyle magazines who advised twenty-year-old me to tone it down if I ever wanted to find a boyfriend. This coming from a man obsessed with anything Disney-related; the walls of his West Hollywood condo adorned with carefully framed Snow White and Fantasia animation cels. "You don't need to tell them how much you love Belinda Carlisle on your first date," he said. "But I do love Belinda Carlisle! That quavering vibrato!" I whined. "Well," he said, "they'll find out eventually, and by that point they will love you, Belinda and all." While I hate(d) him for saying [...]
On my last night in Washington, D.C., where I’ve been working, a very weird thing happened: a drunk guy in a bar took an instant personal dislike to me, insulted my short haircut, told me I looked like the child from The Omen and said that I had “666” written on my head (I have to assume this is also an Omen reference). At the end of this string of craziness, he also called me a dyke.