Taking A Chocolate Cake Up The Backside And Turning It Around.

No matter how politically sensitive I think it might be advantageous to try, I cannot change the fact that I am a tall, white, blue-eyed heterosexual male. Nobody wants to discriminate against me in any meaningful and robust way. When I walk down the street, nobody crosses to the other side. When I am pulled over, the cop usually calls me “sir” even though I don’t much feel like a “sir” and I certainly don’t usually look “sir” deserving.

It’s not fair. When others are busy lamenting how they were treated for being who they are, I have to sit there and feel guilty about being so gosh darn unassailable.

Women who get dismissed for being women in the workplace. Blacks being feared, looked down upon, whatever. Asians teased. Hispanics at the brunt and blunt end of some evil verbal slurry. Those damn Italians... That Jewish kook... The Nazi Krout... Even that Commie bastard...

I miss out on all the fun. I can’t even commiserate.

“Has anyone ever...?”

“No. They haven’t.”

“Then you are a lucky bastard.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why?”

“Because I can’t empathize, even though I want to.”

In my mid thirties, I had just gotten back from somewhere and took on sharing a house with a tall, bald on top, gay, ex-cop, black dude who I’ll call Kyle. Only I didn’t know he was gay. Not really.

Well, OK, I sort of knew, the way you know when somebody is not telling you the truth. You have no evidence, but you get that impression and you either trust your instincts or you’re crazy not to.

Kyle seemed like a clever, smart, slightly lonely guy who lived in a white area by himself, had developed quite a few friendships within the small town, was a volunteer fireman and worked for a “program” as a counselor.

I met Kyle through a group of friends I had that were a little on the nutty side, all in a reasonably good way (though some were a bit self-destructive) and all pretty international and cosmopolitan though ensconced in small town comfort.

Kyle rented a house that was too expensive for his budget, and it had an extra bedroom. My moving in helped him and it helped me, and besides, there was a volleyball court and it sat on a beautiful sheep ranch nestled against a grove of redwood trees. All very cool.

This all happened in late Spring heading into summer. My British carpenter friend got a hold of a couple of big redwood slabs from a portable milling operation, and we made a nice bar top with a long bench seat that ran along the side of the volleyball court. We started throwing weekend volleyball parties, and the house that was once dark and quiet came alive with people all coming around to drink beer and play volleyball on Saturday afternoons. These parties would see sixty or seventy people show up. We had kids, grown kids and grandkids all out there playing and bantering while those who were “resting” sat up on the bench we built and yeah’d and hoorah’d and ooooh’d and ouch’d as games played out.

All of this to say Kyle was now “part” of something he really enjoyed. All the new friends. All the attention. He was, after all, the guy whose house it was. For a few months, Kyle seemed happy and at a new place within himself. He smiled more and laughed more. His friends that knew him much longer than I, said they hadn’t seen him like this before. Not this “feeling groovy”. Not this much into life and friends and what was going on around him. They said Kyle was usually much more solitary than that. He was a bit moody. He had times where no one saw him.

OK. I was glad to hear Kyle was a happier man. I mean, doesn’t it make you feel good when you hear you’ve had a good influence on someone’s life?

Then the dark drop came. Kyle didn’t want another party. He wanted to stay in his room. He had some things to think about. He was sullen and moody for a week, and I just left him alone.

A close female friend of his went into his bedroom one evening and came out shaking her head. Kyle was in there crying, and he wouldn’t tell anyone why.

This went on for a few days. We all became worried for Kyle. I mean, WTF? He wouldn’t “talk” about what was bothering him. He would just go into his room and not come out.

Then one day after I had come home from work, Kyle came out of his bedroom while I rummaged the fridge for a beer.

“Scott, I’m gay.” he said.

I looked at him. “Yeah? So?”

“Yeah, so?”

“I figured you were.”

“You KNEW?”

“No, I didn’t know. I just sensed it. I wasn’t sure. You never said. I just let it be.”

“NOBODY IN THIS TOWN KNOWS I AM GAY.”

“You’re kidding?”

“I’ve lied for almost TEN years!”

“You’re kidding? Why?”

“I don’t know. I was a fireman. I was a cop. Most of those guys are brutal to anyone gay. Ever hear them in a locker room?”

“No. But I can imagine.”

“Do you hate me now?”
“For what?”

“For lying. And for being gay.”

“Nope.”

“Really?”

“Yep.”

“You’re so cool!”

“Yep. I'm cool. Just ask me...”

(I have no idea how the conversation actually went after this. And this, of course, is made-up horseshit trying to approximate what was said. I think I got the general feel down. I know I did alot of shrugging and was really nonplussed by this revelation of Kyle’s. It seems he had taken almost a week trying to find the courage and the rationale for telling me this. He said he had come to really like me, and the lie was killing him. I went back into the fridge, got him a beer, and we yakked for awhile while Kyle’s shoulder’s chippered up and a smile came back on his face. He almost seemed like Kyle again.

“I think we should celebrate,” I said.

“What?”

“Your gayness.”

“No, fucking way.”

“You haven’t told any of your friends around here that you are gay. Most of them pretty much know. I think we should throw a party and celebrate your gayness. It’ll be fun. We can play volleyball. Drink some beer. Alright?”

In a few days, the word got out in the small town. Kyle was gay. He had always been gay. Most folks simply nodded and many claimed, like me, they had somehow known. We were getting positive responses to our Kyle is gay volleyball extravaganza party. It was looking to be the crowning moment of that particular summer of beer and fun.

I got this bee in my bonnet and I decided that I needed to make Kyle a chocolate penis cake. A big one, with lots of frosting. While our barbeque radiated in smell and heat with a large turkey we were baking in there, I was in the kitchen trying to put together the right combination of pans to create a giant, erect chocolate penis masterpiece.

Women were coming up to me and giving me shaping advice. And I, of course, had to defer to their experience and up-close point of view.

“No no no, they don’t look like THAT! Here, shave some off here. They always go in a little before the knob.”

“Really?”

“Yes really. Where you been boy?”

“In a vagina...?”





Kyle had that “Birthday Boy” gloat going and was out sitting at our ringside bar getting happy with beer and loving the new found comfort with his gayness being out in the open and shouting volleyball scores and really enjoying this moment. I was in the kitchen getting pointers from women on how to make a penis head look authentic. Eventually, the penis was finished and we took it outside and interrupted everybody and of course jokes were made about blowing the cake and forgetting any candles...

Did I mention Kyle was bald?