A description of my blog. http://www.my-site.com 6422155430496949913 The Straight, the Narrow and the Raunchy 2007/02/#6422155430496949913 2007-02-09 He wore a checkered blazer. Not exactly gaudy, but not exactly stylish. His hair was gelled but slightly mussed. Overall, he gave the impression of a man who cared about his appearance but not enough to shower regularly. If this weren't 1993, I might have thought he was an aspiring metrosexual. If this weren't Grand Rapids, Michigan, I might have thought he was French.

I did not, of course, assume that he was gay. In the early 90s political correctness ruled the day, and I had been taught that a slight build, an effeminate manner, odd clothing and a pronounced lisp did not constitute adequate evidence that one was homosexual. In fact, the rule at that time was that unless you actually saw someone performing a sexual act with another person of the same gender, you were to make no assumptions regarding their sexual orientation. And even then, you were really supposed to keep an open mind. And you certainly weren't allowed to assume that such an individual was some kind of sexual predator simply because he was a little oily and was wandering through a working class residential neighborhood for no apparent reason. I really had no basis to make any judgments about him whatsoever, as our relationship was limited to that of driver and passenger.

I was the driver, in case you're wondering. I had been putting up posters around town for some event or other; I don't remember what it was but I remember they paid me $7 an hour to drive around putting up signs. I had just tacked a poster to a telephone pole and was walking back to my car when he approached.

"Excuse me," he said, overpronouncing the s to an almost comical degree. "Could you give me a ride?"

I told him I was working, and didn't really have time.

He persisted. "Please," he pleaded. Again with the s. Think Jack from Will & Grace mixed with Truman Capote. Come to think of it, it might be better if you didn't.

"Please. I live just down the street."

"I really need to get back to work."

"It will just take a minute. It's not far at all. Please."

Finally I relented.

"Ok, where is it?"

"Just down the street," he said, getting into my 2 seater 300ZX.

While I drove he thanked me profusely, remarking about how glad he was that he didn't have to walk through this "raunchy" neighborhood. That's the word he used.

"It's just so raunchy," he said again. "Don't you think so? Isn't it raunchy?"

"Yeah, it's pretty bad," I said. "Now where did you say your place was?"

"It's just up here," he said. Then he talked some more about how "raunchy" the neighborhood was. He asked me again whether I too thought it was raunchy.

I became dimly aware that his desire for me to use the word raunchy went beyond the need for me to confirm his assessment of urban blight. It was as if he was prompting me for a password, like in spy movies where one spy asks, "How's the weather in Liechtenstein?" and the other spy says, "Dry, except on Tuesdays." All I had to do was offer him that word, that shibboleth, and a whole new world would open up to me.

I decided that no matter what happened over the next few minutes, I absolutely would not under any circumstances utter that word. I considered having it surgically removed from my vocabulary.

Eventually he changed the subject.

"So, where do you live?"

"In an apartment, a couple of miles from here. With my wife."

I had raised the ante, countering his ambiguous raunchiness with a firm claim to heterosexuality. By the way, if you are a straight male in a situation where your sexual orientation is in doubt, I highly recommend tacking "with my wife" to the end of your sentences. Try it sometime. You can say the most outrageously effeminate things, and as long as you follow it up with that code phrase, no one will think you are gay. For example, someone might ask you if you have any big plans over the long weekend, and you might respond, "Oh, I'm probably just going to stay inside and make taffeta dresses for my teddy bears. With my wife." I'm telling you, it's like magic.

My passenger changed tacts again. Back to plan A. "I'm just so glad you picked me up. I just hate walking in that neighborhood. It's really raunchy, don't you think?"

"Ok, I'm going to drop you off here."

"Oh, it's just up up ahead." I was learning that it was always "just up ahead," like an oasis on the horizon.

"Yeah, but I'm going to drop you off here."

"Ok."

I pulled over.

He thanked me profusely again, noting once more how raunchy the neighborhood was.

I muttered something roughly equivalent to "You're welcome."

Then he did something that marked a quantum leap beyond innuendo, rendering both his orientation and his intentions unmistakably transparent. In fact, he did two things.

The first thing was to reach over with his left hand toward an area of my anatomy that I have reserved for use by people lacking adam's apples and medical professionals who for whatever reason want to hear me cough. He grabbed me in a way that clearly indicated a lack of medical training.

The second thing he did was to use the word raunchy again, but in an entirely different sense. He said, in a tone that indicated that we had finally reached the point in our relationship where I could be trusted with this information:

"Only, you're so raunchy too!"

There are times when rational thought gives way completely to instinct. I don't recall making a decision regarding what I did next. I just did it, without thinking. In fact, I did two things.

The first thing was to reach over as quickly and decisively as he had, my hand falling toward a precisely determined location. I squeezed and pulled. Then pushed. The passenger door flew open.

The second thing I did was to use the word f____, but not in the sense he would have liked. I said, with the firm conviction that our relationship had progressed to the point that I could trust him to understand what I meant:

"Get the f___ out!"

He did. In fact, he got out and began running. This latter may have had something to do with a little blue sports car pursuing him down the sidewalk.

I wouldn't really have run him over, of course. But it felt good to give him a scare. I was so angry that I was actually trembling. I remained angry for a while.

That was 14 years ago now, and I haven't been angry for some time. I think about that guy once in a while. I wonder if he's dead from AIDS or a drug overdose. Or just plain suicide. In retrospect, I think he may have been an aspiring male prostitute. How sad does your life have to be that you aspire to be John Voight in Midnight Cowboy -- and fail?

What turned this guy into such a wretch? The simple-minded would say that he started down a path that led inevitably to depravity. The politically correct would tell you that his homosexuality was completely independent of his depravity. They might even tell you that he wasn't gay; just desperate.

The truth, I think, is somewhere in the middle, as it usually is. Something twisted this young man, made him into something he was never supposed to be. I don't know where he is now, but the path he was on didn't lead anywhere nice.

The last time I saw him, he was running for his life, abandoning the sidewalk for a grassy embankment. I suppose he got back on the path after I drove away.


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