98%

I figure that I'm about 98% gay.

That leaves 2% of room for my very loud and obnoxious ovaries to smack me around about the potential for sperm donors in every moderately good looking man that crosses my path. I understand, the ovaries are just trying to do their job and procreate. I get it. I just don't want it.

I'm quite happy with the idea that the gene pool of at least one side of my family will not propogate. I'd be more than happy to raise and live with someone else's womb-fruit, should I be called upon to do so. But without divine intervention, that doesn't seem particularly likely. And so the ovaries scream. Just like they're doing right now.

I drove through the Taco Bell drive through the other night and nearly hit on the dude with the earphone and mic set on. He was way too cute to be handing out hot sauce through a freezing cold sliding window and I nearly told him so. Why am I not so nearly bold with women? Is it really just the fact that I probably popped an egg while ordering my pintos and cheese?

Who knows. I tried to be straight in junior high, once, and that went horribly after I stuck my tongue in his mouth and he screamed like a sissy-boy. Of course, he *was* a sissy boy. And then there was the guy in Germany. Again, another tragic pairing of two clearly gay people trying just one more time and with plenty of liquid courage. At least he and I stayed friends.

No, now I find myself staring at one particular martial arts instructor and his rippling forearms. I'm sure it's the lesbian in me drooling over his powerful hands, but there is something about this guy that makes me wonder how wiley that 2% might be.