 "Hey... do you reckon he’s gay?”
Whenever a new guy arrives at my workplace, the gossip girls
come flooding out of their cubicles to ask me this same question, again and
again.
It must be because I am gay. Because I apparently just know these things. Like my apparent
knack for flower-arranging and wedding coordination. And yes, they have asked
me to do both in the past.
“To be honest, I don’t know or care to know,” is my standard
reply at which point one of the newer players in this little office game
replies, “But don’t you have a gaydar?”
Like long-lost relatives reappearing at funerals, it’s
inevitable that this magical gaydar thing will be brought up.
Let me state this for the record. Gaydar doesn’t exist. It’s
in the same category as Atlantis, UFOs and children who secretly wish that
they’ll grow up to work for a Tasmanian government department.
So I return the serve across the net with my equally
standard, “What makes you think he may be gay?”
“He is polite and
well-dressed... plus he moved from the mainland all by himself. No woman in his
life. No ring on his finger,”
Unmarried, single, well brought-up and fashionable seems to
be the equivalent of a LadsLads username and password.
“Anyway, you’d be able to tell. Don’t you boys just know this kind of thing.”
Discrimination takes many forms. It is often hidden in
stand-up comedy routines and breakfast radio banter. It’s often justified as
“free speech”. More recently it’s been concealed in apparently well-meaning
legislation to do with access to private schooling. But the form of
discrimination that drives me nuts is this goddamn Will & Grace-induced myth that automatically gives me a magical
ability to bake cakes, arrange furniture, organise weddings and somehow know if someone is gay or not.
We clearly have a very long way to go.
As for the new guy, he isn’t gay. I don’t get that vibe from
him at all.
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