Yeah, no kidding. Baseball bat meet dead horse. Nice to meet you, too.
I'm straight, and I've been confused for being gay more than I care to admit. It used to really bother me, so much so that I felt justified being extremely homophobic and more crass toward women than my mother's old-fashioned home training would have me deem appropriate. It was just enough that me being a God awful prick to pretty much everybody meant that people wouldn't fuck with or make assumptions. Turns out I had far fewer friends because of it. So, of course, that behavioral tactic had to give.
A person's 20s is a time of great insecurity anyway because people are still trying to figure themselves out. When you get a little older, you won't just tell yourself not to give a fuck about what people think; you'll actually start believing it. Now that I'm pushing 32, anytime someone asks me if I'm gay, I'll try to come up with the most disconfirming answer I could find. Or I could straight up flame out or whatever.
Tactics include but aren't limited to:
-- cursing, getting in someone's face, acting like I'm about to slug them and then giggle
-- asking the dude if this is his fancy answer of asking a cutie like me for a date <3
-- telling said dude to fuck off because he's gross and not my type
-- "Talk to me after a few cocktails." *wink*
-- nope, I'm just that attractive
-- << go grind on a bunch of girls and shake my groove thang >>
-- << flash a recently acquired telephone number >>
-- delivering a calm and cool, "Nope."
Best one:
This dude that I met through a mutual friend was real cool hanging with gay guys, and we were all in a mixed group of gay dudes, straight dudes, and chicks (not cute, unfortunately, not a one). We get a beer, shoot the shit about good beer. Then he asks me, "So, what kinda guys do you like?" Maybe it was because I was wearing a pink and white plaid shirt from H&M that evening.
(Inventive line, you crafty bastard.)
I took a deep long swig, shrugged, and said that I wasn't sure; it was hard to tell. <look over> "So, bro, what about you? What kinda guys do youuuu like?"
"Naaaah man," he chuckled, "I don't like guys." I shot a wicked grin. "Neither do I. Cheers!" I clacked his glass pretty hard, took another big swig, and a couple more in quick succession. I finished my mug, set it back down on the table, and said that I was heading off to another bar.
I ran into randomly at La Salsa while getting lunch. I just said hey ('cause I wasn't sure who he was in daylight), asked how he's doing, and took off.
Moral of story:
Quit giving a fuck about this. If you're not gay, then you're gay. Done. End of God damn story.