Breeder's Digest

It always begins with eye contact. A certain light, a glimmer of recognition. We try to comfort with subtle glances, but alas, always too late. A deafening silence blankets the room. A warning call goes out to all. Another breeder has sounded the silent alarm.

Straight people have been sounding the silent alarm for millennia, since the first homosexual caveman sidled up to a straight couple, said, “Hey, how’s it going?,” and instantly made them feel kinda creepy.

Early homo erectus was known for his discerning palate.

In the public sphere, the stakes are less raised, everyone is relaxed and going about their business, and the alarm is therefore less urgent. In the men’s section of a local department store, for example, I may come face to face with your husband over a rack of young men’s casuals. We aren’t fooling each other, but we are fooling half the store. Or, better still, we may sidle up to one another at a display of pants. Just as I make my move to scootch past him, our eyes meet, and the alarm is sounded. In a flash of neural activity, your husband has recognized that he is dealing with a gay, at close range. The silent warning cry alerts all straight men in the vicinity that there is, indeed, a homosexual on the premises, and that they should all report immediately back to their wives.

Can I please speak for all gays who have ever lived, and who are living now, and who will someday live, from hereon out in perpetuity throughout the universe, when I say that nothing can happen to you in the men’s section of a local department store? I’m not going to turn you gay and I’m simply not willing to expose myself to you, physically or emotionally, under these harsh lights. I swear I only wanted to see how tall you are, and what you’re wearing. I’d no more want to sleep with you than with the store manager up front. And did you see what he was wearing?

“Ladies’ slacks are over there, sir.”

As you and I both know, Dear Breeder, in the fragile intimacy of a men’s locker room, everyone’s hackles are raised, just as their pants are lowered. No one wants to be perceived as being gay in a men’s locker room. Why, the implication of homosexuality would suggest that a person is somehow less than a man, and that he will totally be checking out your package. Oh, what a stir it can cause, when a real-live gay turns up in a men’s locker room!

Just as I unleash myself from my sweaty workout clothes and undergarments, and clasp the white towelette to my body, he rounds the corner. A straight person, of the male persuasion. Our eyes meet. He sees me for exactly what I am: a naked and shivering gay man standing on a crummy tile floor, throwing myself upon his mercy. But he knows as well as I do, that once the ball is set into motion, it cannot be stopped. The silent alarm has been sounded!

The hissing of the showerheads comes screeching to a halt, as all men in the locker room simultaneously reach for the nearest towel, pair of workout shorts, or trashcan liner, and immediately cover all visible parts of their anatomies, from stern to prow. The alarm quickly reaches the dry sauna, where all hard-working, American men innocently reading the sports section, are alerted to evacuate at once. Within three minutes flat, the gay has the locker room all to himself, without a care in the world.

But again, Dear Breeder, why the rush? What are you afraid could possibly happen? When I left the house this morning, I really hadn’t planned on overpowering anyone. I clearly don’t have any type of recording equipment on my person. Oh wait, are you afraid I’m going to look at your package? I have a dream, Dear Breeder, that one day we will come together as a people, gay and straight united, to hold hands and openly acknowledge that basically everyone is looking at everyone’s packages all the time. Because it’s endlessly fascinating to compare and contrast nature’s little snowflakes. And I swear, that’s all that will come of it, Dear Breeder. A casual glance. Besides, if you’re so self-conscious about someone seeing your package, you should relax. You’ve got a really nice package. (I casually glanced at it earlier.)

“Hey, would ya mind backin’ off, there, buddy?”

Contrary to what you may imagine, Dear Breeder, very few things can set off the silent alarm when a gay is visiting in the home of a straight. The kind of straight people who invite gays into their homes are typically close friends, family, or easygoing coworkers, who more or less know what to expect from the gay, and how it should be swiftly handled. These affairs tend to be more relaxed, more open, more socially intimate, and therefore more pleasant for gays and straights alike. But don’t allow yourself to get too comfortable, Dear Breeder. The threat of the silent alarm lurks ever-present.

What happens, over time, is that gays with one foot in the straight world are eventually exposed to pregnancy, childbirth, and babies. Aww, listen to the baby, over there. Hey, isn’t the baby cute, over there? Crap, someone’s picking up the baby, over there. And then it happens. The baby is handed to the gay. What may have started out as a lighthearted gesture, an innocent stab at inclusion, a festive parlour game, has turned into something much more ominous. The silent alarm has been sounded!

Of course, Dear Breeder, you already know that the gay-holding-a-baby silent alarm is the loudest and most urgent of them all. This alarm simultaneously communicates danger to all straight men and women within a three block radius, and results in a palpable silence and the exchange of concerned glances among all straight people gathered.

What’s unclear to me, Dear Breeder, is exactly what your knowing looks are communicating. I didn’t even ask to hold the baby. Are you worried I might drop the baby? Well, here’s your answer: Probably. But babies, like gay people, are resilient. Are you worried that some of my gayness might rub off on the baby? In answer to that, Dear Breeder, I wholeheartedly attest to you, right here and right now, that we homosexuals only rub it off on each other. Or could the concern in the room be more elephantine in nature? Come clean with me on this, Dear Breeder: Do you honestly think I am about to attempt to make love to your baby? Really, Dear Breeder? Really? Then why am I still holding this baby?

Let’s think this through. Your baby is gross. Even you don’t want to be around your baby after a certain point, and you went to all the time and trouble to make it. Plus, there is an enormous chance that your baby is going to urinate, defecate, and vomit on me, and I am not interested in having that happen tonight. (There is, however, an entire subset of the gay community you’ll have to take that up with separately. Sorry, guys!) Please rest assured as you drive home, Dear Breeder, that there is absolutely nothing about your baby that I would ever care to know more intimately, beyond what already drooled on me tonight. And please, please rest assured that I meant what I said about the dry cleaning.

“Randall’s gonna kill me when he sees what happened to his new chinos.”

As you consider the various contexts in which the silent alarm might be sounded, Dear Breeder, remember that we gays, too, have our own intricate catalog of bells and whistles, which communicate efficiently to our own kind whenever an intruder is near. We have entire systems of taps and double taps worked out, and we can clear our throats in hundreds of distinct ways, depending on the message to be conveyed. Ever hear a man order a Philly cheese steak with a side of fries? You don’t even want to know that means.

At the end of the day, Dear Breeder, many of your silent alarms are false ones. You should feel no reason to shield yourself or your offspring when in the proximity of a homosexual. We gays offer nothing but good times, and actually pose very little threat to your emotional or sexual ideals. I can wholeheartedly assure you, Dear Breeder, I will never step out of line or make unwanted advances toward you. This is surprisingly easy for me to do, as I’m in constant fear you’ll kill me for being different.