Thank you for resisting the urge to fit me into your prom dress after I came out to you in High School. Thank you for not applying eyeliner to my eyes and sprinkling glitter all over my cheeks after I told you I was not that kind of gay 
man.
Thank you for not setting me up with that bald bartender at my cousin’s wedding just because he was gay and you thought this automatically made him a potential life partner. That would have been an ugly one-night stand — especially since it turns out that “bartender” was my cousin’s half-brother.
Thank you for going with me to that gay club in West Hollywood. Thank you for dancing like a crazy, drunk woman on steroids in order to scare away that creepy guy who wouldn’t listen to me after the thirteenth time I told him to stop dry-humping my leg. You really scared the shit out of him. By the way, nice touch when you licked your own heel, snapped up from the ground, and pinched your nipples while screaming:
“I WANT TO BE IN LADY GAGA’S VAGINA!!!”
That really got that creep running for his dear life.
Thank you for meeting with that straight guy for lunch, the one I desperately wanted to turn gay, and then nonchalantly asking him if he would ever “play for the other team.” Although he said he wouldn’t, it was interesting to hear that the only exception he would make was if he was having sex with Angelina Jolie and she insisted on a threesome.
Thank you for spending the entire night with me desperately trying to get a hold of Angelina Jolie’s people. After we got word that Jolie was not on board, thank you for holding me as I howled louder than Ritchie Valens’s brother in “La Bamba.” Who knew Angelina Jolie doesn’t do random threesomes for gay men who want to turn their straight crushes to the other side? (You would think that someone who had sex with Billy Bob Thornton would be up for anything.)
Thank you for telling me I looked cute even though I felt like the ugliest thing on the planet after I found out my ex-boyfriend cheated on me. Oh, and thank you for punching my ex-boyfriend in the face — three times — Rick James-style. Now, compared to my ex and his swollen cheekbones, I DO look cute.
Thank you for giving up your hopes of ever turning me straight. Oh, and thanks for not outrightly saying you want to have sex with me, but instead, choosing to ask me questions like this one:
“What if it was the End of Days, and Satan bit off the penis of every man in the world and one woman — who had an uncanny resemblance to Mariah Carey — survived and you had the only penis required to procreate with said woman in order to save the human race AND prevent the 90s “supper-baggy-pants look” from coming back into fashion–would you, in that case, have sex with a woman?”
Thank you for hiding your pout when I replied:
“Heellllll No.”
Thank you for not ditching me when you finally found a straight guy you loved, and for making sure he wasn’t a complete homophobe. Thanks for allowing me to make him uncomfortable by pointing out his unintentional insensitivity.
When your boyfriend asks me:
“Hey, nice shirt! That pink color really brings out your eyes and I like the fact that it’s a smaller size than most people wear. What kind of brand is it?” I love to see him squirm when I respond:
“Uh. I don’t know what brand it is. What, just because I’m gay I’m supposed to know the brand of every shirt I wear?” His look of mortification is priceless.
Thank you for making that pledge to not get married with your boyfriend until I am allowed to get married legally in all 50 states.
But — seriously, girl? Come on. It’s gonna be a looong time before that happens. I kinda wanna help you pick out your wedding dress before I turn 90 and can only move around the city in one of those electric wheelchairs (“Now I can see the wooorld!”). Not cute.
Thanks for promising to make me the godfather of your first child when you have one, and for saying that you will raise all your children with the assumption that they are all gay and, then, when your children are all old enough, force them to come out to you as straight so that they know what it’s like to have to assert their true identity in a world that might not accept them.
It makes me feel proud to know that if my future godson turns out straight, you will be the first to disown him.
Thanks for watching that Pedro Almodovar movie marathon with me even though halfway through the marathon your boyfriend texted you to ditch me and go have elbow sex with him. (I’m assuming that’s how straight people have sex?) Thank you for texting your boyfriend back and reminding him that I was the first one to take care of you before he ever did.
Thank you for being my girl and thank you for letting me be your boy.
Don’t worry, I won’t tell your boyfriend about your “lesbian phase.” That secret’s safe with me–just as long as you don’t tell anyone about that gay-Siamese-twin-clown-midget site you accidently found in my web browser history.
Love ya! Forever.
Bitch.
Sincerely,
Your gay best friend
****
