Straight to the point

So all of this hanging around with straight people the last couple of months got me to thinking: what if things had worked out different for me, like had I been natured or nurtured differently, what kind of a heterosexual would I have been?

My mom always blamed me on too much hockey, but what if that were true? Suppose I had showed more of a penchant for figure skating (not speed skating, mind you-it’s is bound to produce homos as well, in my opinion; it’s a bit of a thigh thing) and I had leaned in a more breederly direction?

Let’s assume for the sake of discussion that I was of the female persuasion. I was, to say the least, very unfortunate looking by straight standards; my grandmother likened the sight of me in a dress to a dog with a plastic cone on its head. Tragic to gaze upon, but deemed necessary for preventative reasons.

So let us just say that I would not have gone on to join a hip fraternity in university and party all night in character apartments in Point Grey with girls named Kris and Brie. I would never have vomited sushi all over the inside of the Volkswagen Golf that my parents bought me and my third-year engineering brother to share now that I was in first year sciences, with hopes of becoming a veterinarian, because I had always loved horses.

That wouldn’t have been me.

I would have been one of those straight girls who refused to shave their armpits and waited tables at a place on Main St three nights a week to pay my way through forestry school or something. I would wear skirts over striped tights and smell of ylang ylang and lime essential oils, plus a hint of espresso-derived body odour, faint and not at all unpleasant. I would have a boyfriend named Nicolas or Jeremy who I would force to wear two condoms. I would have a cat I rescued from an alley and named after a goddess that I read about in a women’s studies course I took because I registered too late to get the botany class I needed and didn’t want to lose my student loan.

I would go to the Peace March every year, and the Pride Parade, just to be supportive. I would ride an old bike and recycle faithfully. I would wear lipstick only on special occasions.

I find it more of a stretch to imagine myself as a straight girl than I do to envision the kind of straight guy I would have been.

I would never brush my hair, if I was a straight guy, and I would be closer to better looking than I could have pulled off as a heterosexual female. I would have one of those bed head hairdos, and tuck my pants into my socks when riding my bike. I would keep paperbacks and a notepad in a faded khaki army bag with a long shoulder strap. I would wear brown corduroy. I would be an excellent cook and play the upright bass. I would have exceptionally long eyelashes and fingers for a guy, and all my friends would be women, most of whom would fuck me once and only once, in between getting dumped by the asshole PhD student and coming out as a lesbian, of which I would always be supportive and understanding.

I would suck at football but be very good at sports requiring eye-foot coordination, such as soccer and hacky-sack. I would have a small brown dog named Priscilla who would follow me everywhere without a leash. I would call my mother once a week, and have a little sister named Jamie or Ryan, something gender neutral, who was 10 years younger and from a different father.

My father would have died in a totally unnecessary logging accident when I was seven. I would have inherited a small sum from his union when I turned 21, which I would use to purchase a new upright bass. The only thing I would have that was my father’s would be his dad’s army medals, and a silver ring with a large red stone, which I would fiddle with when nervous, which would be most of the time. I would wear it on a faded leather thong around my neck, because my fingers would be a lot more slender than his were. This would be a fact that Ed, my uncle and my late father’s only brother, would always bring up at family functions.

“Hands like a girl,” Ed would say, shaking his head sadly. “Good thing my brother never lived to see this.”

I would possess an average size penis. I would fall in love with a tomboy I met at a co-ed beach volleyball game, but she would leave me nine months later because of my overwhelming fear of commitment due to my absentee father, or so her therapist would tell her and she would repeat to me over Thai food and tears.

I would take up pottery to help get over my heartbreak. Then one summer night I would get extremely drunk with one of the guys in my band and we’d end up jerking each other off on his futon while trying not to wake up his roommate. He would neglect to tell his girlfriend, the massage therapist, and I would feel awkward around her at our gigs for almost a year after.

He would pass it off as a drunken experiment, and make me swear not to tell the drummer or singer. I wouldn’t, but would begin to hit the baths once a month at least until I met the skater-boy who delivered my organic vegetable box to the back door once a week. I would soon discover that I really liked being anally penetrated while having my messy hair pulled.

Hang on, wait-I was supposed to be straight. And I was doing so well there for a minute. Must be all that street hockey I’ve been playing.