Flouncing on the bottom seam

As soon as my head hit the pillow, my sister, Andrew, was in my mind's eye.  He had on one of his creative shirts  ( blouses? ) that he'd re-purposed from one of his Grandmother's vintage ball gowns and he had his hands on both hips, "What is WRONG with you?" he asked me in disbelief.

Now, keep in mind, that I hadn't seen Andrew in years -- except for incidences like this when I needed a little queer common sense.  I didn't even know where he lived anymore, or if he was alive for that matter since so many of my college friends had already died of AIDS or gay related problems ( suicides and overdoses being among those ), but Andrew had been one of my closest sisters at Aggie U, and sometimes my subconcious would summon him for inspiration.  AND inspiring she was.  Andrew was never a drag queen, but he was a bit of a dandy and definitely a free spirit.  He allowed himself to be proudly gay and did things that I only wanted to do, but I allowed myself to be held back by standard convention. -- AND I didn't want to get my ass whooped at  Aggie U.  (( I had common sense, too )).  I proudly walked with him to class while he wore gold lame' shirts with a  red feather boa affixed to the bottom seam, flouncing in the wind.  Of course, those boys in cowboy hats (( and I personally think that cowboy hats are the most ridiculous looking things in the West )) would take notice, some of them grinned and tipped their hats.................but only a few of them.  Most were shocked out of their chaps and didn't know what to say............and on rare occasion a group of them might utter something unkind, but only if they were in a group.............Andrew never seemed to notice the criticisms, but he always took notice of the smiles, and he remembered the hat tipping admirers.  I was never shocked to knock on his dorm door and find a cowboy who had been ridden hard and put up wet in his bed..........He always seized the moment.  AND, that was what he was telling me to do right now.............in my mind.

But, I was different from Andrew.  Although I'd had my share of frantic tumbles and shy good-byes, I had this emotional tie that bound my cock and heart.  Most of the time, the lower one didn't want to participate  without the upper one's approval.........What can I say? I was more of an emotional fag than a sexual one.  I had always thought that someone should have coined the phrase "homo-emotional" instead of  homosexual to describe gays like me.  Yes, there were some of us who preferred to be in love rather than to be in bed..............and most of the time, I was one of those.......but I did have my moments.  Honey, I'm no angel, and I am a BOY.

And now, I had this beautiful specimen of manhood asleep on my couch and DRUNK  and wanting to do the bare-butt tango.............A gay boy's dream, right? ..............Well, honey, at that time in my life, I was the wrong gay boy for that.  I'd had my heart stomped, stabbed and obliterated by so many boyfriends that I'd learned to mortar and brick the pieces of my heart that still existed.  I wasn't the type of a person who could just give a piece of myself in the sack.  In my heart, I wanted romance like it was in the movies.  I had begun to think that our entire generation had been brain-washed into believing all of those romances and love stories we saw on the T.V. and the movie screen, and we somehow thought THAT was the way love was supposed to be. Well, it had never worked out that way for me.............Many times, I'd thrown my penny in the fountain and hoped that I could just be one of those fags who could just fuck around with no emotion, but I just wasn't geared that way, fortunately or unfortunately..........so that is why I let the Baptist boy ((who didn't really know what he was)) sleep alone and cold and drunk on my velveteen sofa, or maybe he was on the floor.  I hadn't checked on him since I'd shut the door.  I hoped Andrew understood, and I sure missed his gold lame' blouses with the red feather boa flouncing on the bottom seam.