Sissy

      I’m man enough to admit I enjoy some things that could possibly have me labeled a sissy. None of them includes man-ass, so perish the thought. For example, as I write this essay I am listening to Queen’s “Fat Bottomed Girls” while perplexed by the thought of Freddie Mercury singing about something that certainly never made his world go ’round. Still, I’m enjoying the tune. *ching ching*

      Speaking of musicians, I also happen to enjoy Elton John, George Michael, and the Indigo Girls. (Did you just say, “fag”? Quit it.) I make sure nobody hears me singing along. My cats can’t tattle. I also love techno music. No, I’m not bouncing around the house fist pumping my Shake Weight. I crank the subwoofer and my feets-a-tappin’.

      I love ironing. Weird, huh? It must have something to do with my peace-making tendencies. I enjoy smoothing things over. Wrinkles are flaws. It’s not to the point where I’m ironing my boxer-briefs, towels, or sheets—that would be just wrong. And, no, I don’t iron in the nude (a la Erin Andrews). It seems dangerous to have such intense heat near my pee snout.

      If one enjoys entertaining guests, does it suggest that one also flits around the house in a hairnet and apron? No, it doesn’t. It’s fun zipping up and down the aisles of Ralph’s picking out an assortment of cheese and crudités. Fun, that is, until I realize a tiny block of Gouda costs ten fucking dollars. My favorite parts of the party include Jenga, the midnight tollhouse cookie bake, and the overflowing of the recycling bin.

      Girlfriend, I love to shop! I can’t understand it when I notice men wearing the same Levis and Reeboks night after night. (And, my noticing does not imply that I take it in the pooper. Stop it.) Empty closet space is akin to vacant beachfront property. One cannot have too many shoes, t-shirts, jeans, or button-downs. My habit was easier to control before internet shopping. I’m burdened with guilt when my closet bulges, but then I load bags with leftovers for the Salvation Army, and feel much better.

      You’d think with my perverse sense of humor, I’d limit my media exposure to Tucker Max, MLB Network, and Hooters calendars. Untrue. I ingest romance novels as if they were Swedish fish. No, they don’t get me damp in the panties, but they do give me insight. Said insight has been as useful as a mesh umbrella, but I’m still learning.

      My most feminine quality would have to be my love of gossip. I’m a gossip sponge; I soak it up and can’t get enough. I ingest a dozen words for each one I utter. Women—even ones I have just met—unload upon my welcoming ears. Usually after fifteen minutes of tittle-tattle, I’ll hear that familiar phrase: “Why am I telling you this?” I reassure them that I’m safe dumping grounds and the gab continues. Oh, how I love stories laced with male failure and deviant sexual endeavors. They make me blush, giggle, and proud to carry around an occasional mangina.