There they were. Table 7. Right in the middle of my restaurant. Amongst a dining room full of European and Brazilian tourists sat the young gay couple. One of the boys was wearing eyeliner.
They both ordered chicken sandwiches. One drank Mountain Dew, while the other wanted a water, no lemon. They were friendly enough and I found one of them attractive.
Waiting on gay guys always makes me nervous. It’s strange how while performing a rote job sometimes you become aware of your deepest insecurities. I’ve been on the other side of the coin, though, where I went out to eat with my gay friends and wondered if our server was gay. Were these boys sitting at table 7 analyzing my every move, trying to determine if I did, indeed, love the penis? At 36 years old, why did I care?
This article appears in Oct 13-19, 2011.