Maybe I picked something up in San Francisco where a straight man, to quote an episode of Frasier, is “like a Snickers bar at a Fat Camp”; maybe the abuse of neighbouring comprehensive, the Borough, was true and the seven years at an all-boys Grammar School are responsible; or maybe I’m just one of the fortunate few – a straight guy with a queer eye. Whatever the reason, there’s a blip on the gaydar and it’s me, and another case of mistaken sexual identity.

I’m not saying that I wasn’t a little bit excited when my shoes appeared on Queer Eye, or that I’m not flattered by the subtle and nervous advances of the salesman in Zara. And I did appreciate the drinks bought for me by the bearded guy in Berkeley, but I’m just saying, and for the Disco record, that I won’t be giving up my, er, seat at the gay bar, or visiting a gay bar whatsoever: I am not gay.

This wrong assumption, I’m sure, has cost me many opportunities to prove my heterosexuality, and I write now with the intention of straightening out this kafuffle, once and for all. Sure, I may watch re-runs of Frasier, shop at a clothes store called Zara, and occasionally use the word kafuffle, but to reiterate, I’m as straight as the next guy. Wait..that guy has a one in eight chance of being gay. Er…I’m like the guy next to him.

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