When my best friend came out in high school, one of my friends showed her support by immediately asking, “So does this mean we can go shopping together?”
I reacted similarly and assumed that this new chapter of his life would not be about his newfound comfort with his sexuality, but rather his new role as my gay accessory that would shoot out glitter and belt out Lady Gaga songs on request.
I expected him to assume the title of gay boyfriend about three seconds after the purchase of his first purse. His important duties would include telling me when my eyebrows looked asymmetrical and fathering my children in a petri dish when I became old and desperate.
Like every other fan of “Will and Grace,” I found it hard to believe that all gays weren’t born knowing all the lyrics to Ke$ha’s songs with an IV of apple martini attached to them. I was blown away when I learned that he didn’t know how to work a straightening iron even though he didn’t need to use one.
Girls often go up to my friend and immediately proclaim they need a gay best friend in the same way they would talk about a manicure or a new pair of Jeffrey Campbells. I feel embarrassed for them as much as for myself for expecting them to enjoy that you want them to play up a stereotype for them. I can only imagine the horror I would express if someone came up to me and told me that I was the token unnatural blonde friend they had always imagined would accompany them to Jamba Juice.
Based on the fact that society has tried to convince us that all gays share universal traits, girls will let a homosexual guy know right away that they’re acquaintances with another gay guy. They don’t even list any mutual hobbies or interests that would make their union a perfect match.
I’m glad that I’ve regained enough of the brain cells I lost watching “Sex and the City” to look past his sexuality and realize I’m friends with him for many more reasons than his impeccable taste in scarves.
Jackie Salo is a freshman majoring in journalism.