Tel Aviv’s eleventh annual Gay Pride Parade took place this afternoon.
Whilst I have nothing against gays – some of my best friends are homosexual . . . well, not really, but I do have gay friends – what exactly do they have to be so damn “proud” about? That they broke the hearts of their poor Yiddishe mamas (only partially repaired by subsequent qualification as a doctor or accountant)? That they are attracted to their own sex? After all, surely my desire to nail most members of the opposite sex in Tel Aviv should not constitute a source of “pride”?
In fact, a Straight Pride Parade would be more appropriate as, in the central area of Tel Aviv where I live, we heterosexuals – yes, mother, I am (she gets a lot of questions “already”) – if not (yet) in the minority, often feel like we are . . . being rather more “in the closet” than our “out there” gay neighbours.
I should, of course, be grateful to every gay man, for freeing up another potential woman . . . or, to quote Blackadder II, for “leav[ing] more rampant totty for us real men” (even though, recently, it hasn’t seemed quite that simple).
I bumped into a gay friend, Ido, on Rothschild Boulevard yesterday evening, whilst we were walking our dogs. His standard greeting or, rather, announcement – “The handsome Englishman!” – always rather embarrasses me. So, too, do his habits of sharing with me which passer-by he would like to f*ck – seemingly every one – and of tapping my stomach with the back of his hand whilst enquiring whether I have yet switched sides.
“Ido,” I keep reminding him, “I don’t.”
In spite of my insistence, Ido always remains strangely optimistic that I will.
I do assure him, however, that, should the unexpected occur, he will be the first to know . . . or, at least, well before my mother.