Singled Out: Flirting in Front of Family

My 87-year-old grand father just came up with a brilliant idea – or so he thinks! Are you ready for this?

Out of nowhere, he suddenly decided to take on the grand – and very much impossible - mission to find me a husband. Phew! And to think I thought I was going to have to audition for a TV spot on TheBachelorette. Thank God grandpa is taking my alarmingly celibate love life into his own hands.

Apparently, being 38 years-old, my time is running out and soon, so will my estrogen. Shame on me for thinking that I was a young vibrant woman in the prime of my life!

While I am still debating whether the decision to pick up this new wedding planner hobby of his was out of sheer boredom or sadly out of concerned pity for me, one thing I know for sure is that he is out of his mind! Yet, I can’t really blame him because poor thing just never got the queer memo and quite simply doesn’t know.

“I want to see my great-grand kids before I go,” he keeps saying cheerful, yet slightly despaired. “I want to see you settle down and have the peace of mind that you have someone who is going to take care of you,” he always argues emotionally.

Awww how sweet? Granted, it’s archaic thinking and very much antiquated, but what else can I expect from a fervent observer of the Catholic faith who obviously doesn’t know any better but to kick it old school? Of course, the fact that I am his only grand-daughter is not helping my cause. As the only female representative of my generation, I get dibs over my 3 brothers and two cousins to be the first grand-child to bless the family with one or more versions of a mini-me.

At least I know his intentions are pure and unquestionably good. I mean the cutie-pie went as far as launching a massive PR campaign on my behalf, on a local level within his ecclesiastical parish, and on a national one among the entire diocese to find an eligible suitor.

Suffice to say that if everything goes as planned, I should be hearing wedding bells before the end of the year. If not, then I’ll probably have my mug-shot printed on milk cartons reading: “Missing: a husband.” I better hurry and find my Ross Geller.

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Admittedly, none of this would be happening had I invited Grandpa to my outstanding Diana Ross sing-along performance of “I’m Coming Out.”

A few years ago, I took my one-woman show on a world tour, and each night publicly performed the song to a sold-out crowd of family members and close friends. While I didn’t so much receive a standing ovation, critics seemed fairly receptive and didn’t completely trash the show. I didn't lack extravagance, panache or stage confidence. Au contraire, I took “let’s put on a show!” to whole new gay level!

Incidentally, that might have been the problem. The daringly liberal material didn’t seem to fully work for my mostly conservative audience, who hailed the live rendition as a wildly outrageous showstopper – as in the show MUST NOT GO ON! Evidently that put an abrupt end to my short-lived “under the rainbow’s spotlight” career as an absolutely fag’bulous rock star. Of course, the tour desinations included 99% of my family’s geography, but never made it to Grandpa’s city. Strangely, to this day he has neither heard about or witnessed the spectacle. Somehow, it seems very odd to me, considering that I conducted a widely publicized advertising campaign.

With all of his expert internet knowledge which, mind you, does include Twittering and Facebooking, I am extremely surprised Grandpa never thought of simply googling my name. With a mouse and one click: BAM!  I’d be out of the attic! Perhaps Grandpa might already know. Yet, until I know he knows I know, I won’t be telling.

Back to my audience. Don’t get me wrong, my relatives didn’t want me to put all my material back in the closet. While they were very much accepting of the “I’m coming out, I want the world to know” part of the chorus, it was more the “got to let it show” portion of it that raised eyebrows. Which brings me to the piece de resistance: how “out” can you really be with your family?

In my personal opinion, it all boils down to how much they need to see. This poses another dilemma. Namely, how much is too much? Consider this recent incident:

About a week ago I spent some quality time with my auntie in Manhattan Beach hanging out by the water for a lazy afternoon tanning/swimming/napping/reading session. When we finally wrapped our little tete-a-tete, and decided to head back to her house for a traditional tea-time routine caffeine break, something quite unexpected occurred … I flagrantly got busted!

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As we were walking along the boardwalk, heading back to the car, a tall, jaw-droppingly gorgeous brunette with long sultry hair, oozing sex-appeal, walked right past us.

Needless to say, she had totally caught my attention. In a not-so-discreet way, I nearly dislocated my cervical discs by twisting my neck, in the most inhuman fashion, to zoom in on her and get a panoramic shot of her sexy Brazilian-like figure.

In this momentary lapse of reason I became somewhat oblivious to the spirit of family, and forgot I was in the company of my auntie. But it was too late, the damage was already done. I got caught checking out a female hottie, by the very straight eyes of my auntie. Being a good sport, and a supporter of my sexual faith, she drifted a smile as if amused. But somehow I could hear that voice deep down inside of her belt out an SOS “I’m not queer … get me out of here!”

Not only did I get to feel like a stereotypical, dirty-minded man - meaning a royal pervert - but lucky me also got to feel like a total ass. Of course, I had to sink myself further down into the abyss of imbecility, and for my comeback line dropped the classic “I’m sorry, but she was hot!”  Then, to make matters worse, I stupidly attempted to have her co-sign my choice by asking the major faux-pas question “don’t you think so?”  Let’s be real, was I really expecting her to cheer me up and say “Oh my god! Mona, she was fine, go for it”?

Gay or straight, there are certain things you just don’t, privately or publicly, address with, or display in front, of your parents. And I use the term loosely here to include auntie and Grandpa. It’s called the right to privacy. Beyond the gay thing, there are a lot of details in my life, unrelated to my sexual preferences, I don’t feel the need to share with anyone.

Regardless of the fact that I have come out to some and not to others, it’s not about the moral obligation to either check my gayness or my family at the door. It's about about respect. Would you broadcast your sexual hunting prowess and bedroom extravaganzas with your parents if you were straight?

The proper question then is not HOW but WHAT. What are you really out of? Out of touch? Out of time? Out of mind? Out of control? Out of order? Out of here? Or, out of line?

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