GAY PEOPLE'S CHRONICLE

JANUARY 26, 1996

ABOVE THE FRUITED PLAIN

COLUMBUS The cramped and flimsy

EAGLE BAR

COLLEGE NIGHT

(18 & Over)

Every Thursday

single bed of your convictions

by Aubrey Wertheim

By the authority vested in me, I hereby order the community (so-called) to cease and desist its abuse of our bisexuals.

This attitude reeks of hypocrisy, smacks of self-congratulation, and obfuscates the awesome glory that is sexual orientation.

Enough reeking, smacking and obfuscation, say I.

What in the hell are y'all so bent out of shape over?

Two recent events prompted this antagonism:

A highly-prized volunteer of yore crossed my path last week. As catching-up blabs invariably go, I queried as to the state of her love life.

My young friend's body language went suddenly flummox.

"Well, uh, er, hem-gasp-I'm seeing guy at the moment.'

a...

The volume of this sentence decreased with every word, and by the time we reached guy, it was in the reverent, hushed tone of a drug deal.

We were in the middle of a deserted parking lot at the time.

The very next day, I was at a meeting of theatre colleagues when a married friend of many years pressed into my hand a gaylesbian anthology which included one of her short plays.

I pointed to the book jacket which noted the works were by some of the brightest lights in our literary queer community and said, "So how did you ...?"

Again, the apoplexy and macrame-ing of brow.

"Actually, I'm-" Here the word bi was made out only via lip reading.

Now it hardly comes as any earthshaking bulletin that shouting “Bi” in a theatre crowd gets about as much notice as a revival of Captain Jinx of the Horse Marines. Yet my friend felt a definite need to employ the mute button.

Who, I ask, in my most imperial tones, has so terrorized these folks that mere

acknowledgement of interest in the opposite sex is on a par with practicing animal sacrifice or watching the new Republican cable station?

You, that's who. All you snide, hardline gayboys. All you lip-pursing, litmus-test lesbians. All you barflies buzzing around the grapevine. All you high-tech queers posting on the Internet: “Bi now, gay later." All you Friends of Long Standing who greet admissions of opposite-sex interest with disbelief, scoffing. professional referrals or-yessevering of relations.

You have your queer nerve.

Must I climb into my Romper Room persona yet again and, dominatrix-like, force you children into one big circle to sing 'til you're lavender in the face: "It's not how you love, or who you love, but that you love?"

When St. Alfred sat down at the keyboard and composed his Kinsey scale, it was not to hand down a more efficient tool for boxing and arms-lengthing and lording over one another, but to make all God's children more open-hearted, more secure, more adventurous, more loined

Yes, it's a great boon when debating with fundies or clarifying the coming out process to say orientation is as unmoveable as bedrock, but we must acknowledge, between less politicized sheets, that desire is a highly chameleonic animal.

Imagination staggers, wanders, wonders, "What if...?" Gender is a sell. Passion is a crapshoot. The human relations gumbo is always a bubble short of boiling over.

And life nowadays is very long. Much more time to cover the waterfront. Besides, my dear, frankly, what business is it of yours?

Are you so very insecure in your little Same-Sex Union Hall, that someone near or dear (or not) who opts for another gender completely upsets your fruit stand?

You might acknowledge the answer to that in your quietest voice-is... yes! ✔

Above the Fruited Plain is a regular column by Aubrey Wertheim, of Oberlin, Ohio.

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