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Great Expectations – Part 1

Our outing with R and R on Burns Night made me own up to a dirty truth: I have an issue with gay men. It’s not homophobia, quite the reverse. I simply have very high expectations of my gay male friends. I demand neither camp nor queen, but I do expect just a little bit of fabulousness. And on this count, Burns Night was a bit of a disappointment.

Don’t get me wrong. R and R are lovely people by hetero standards. R number one works as a marketing executive for an electronics firm. R number two appears to be more or less a kept man, having dabbled in antiques and more recently nutrition, inspired by his own experience with drastic weight loss and an earnest desire to help others. His dalliances with work remind me of the career path of every British au pair I knew in L.A.: nanny then masseuse or personal trainer en route to the most coveted post of all, wife. Only of course R number two has already bagged his man.

In my last post I wondered if R and R had been driven out of town by Telegraph torch-bearing conservative locals. I found out Saturday night that R and R take The Telegraph and The Times, so that theory was more off base than I realized. They shoot. They drive a Porsche and a Mercedes. The truth is they fit in to Poshtershire way better than husband and I ever will. And that’s without even factoring my new Prius into the equation. I’m fully prepared for a few cold shoulders at the wine bar once I’m spotted around town in that.

I blame my high expectations on one man, Mr. M.F. who made the very pages of this blog when he visited husband and me in the Cotswolds last spring. M.F. is my template gay man:

  • Liberal – check: always good for an embarrassing pic of George W. Bush.
  • Creative – check: online editor and author of umpteen humorous books including The Metrosexual Guide to Style and Death by Powerpoint.
  • Funny – check: full marks for sarcasm and witty retorts, many directed at husband, much to my amusement.

He’s far from flamboyant in his trendy nerd glasses and prepster apparel, but is he fabulous? Oh very yes.

We ended Burns Night with a fireside whiskey at our local inn. As R number two took orders for a second round, I could tell husband was fading. A wave of panic washed over me as I flashbacked to a dinner party husband and I hosted a few years ago in L.A. The guests were a couple who were friends of mine and somewhere during the appetizers and a prolonged discussion about golf, husband deemed them boring. Shortly after dessert he disappeared. After about 15 minutes I went to look for him. I checked the bathroom first then found him watching television in the bedroom.

Despite the earlier haggis induced excitement, I feared Burns Night would end with similar antics. Husband would excuse himself to the bathroom, slip out the back door, and I would find him home in bed half an hour later after lots of embarrassed excuse making. But my panic was for naught. We spent our second drink merrily discussing a whole lot of nothing, exactly the kind of things we talk about with other married friends.

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