the g bomb

[Title] fabulous disposition: queer life, love and drama in this prairie town
[Deck] the g bomb
[Byline] sean manson

It’s that one word that you never want to hear when you start to fall for someone of the same sex. It’s those two syllables that strike like a dagger to the heart when they’re uttered and sever any kind of possibility for a future relationship. It’s the “G” bomb. The last time it dropped, I swore I would never set myself up to hear it again. But this time was different, this time I could have sworn he didn’t have a … girlfriend. There is a right and wrong time to reveal your sexual preference when engaging with a person of the same sex. This is a story about the latter.

The setting was the Exchange District – the arts scene. Dressed bohemian chic with a touch of pretentiousness, I ventured into the depths of McDermot Avenue to take in the latest art gallery closing. Packed with fine artists carrying plastic wine cups, I knew I had walked the right door when I arrived. Not one to stand empty-handed, I headed straight for the bar and that was when I met him: the artist.

Aesthetically pleasing as some critics would say, I did not turn down the small-talk he initiated. At first I feared out conversation would evolve into a discussion including words like “modern” and “paint,” but I was pleasantly surprised. We hit it off right away. With him on the forefront of contemporary art and me on the leading edge of Microsoft Word, something in me felt there was a chance the night could hold as much potential as the artwork.

At first I feared out conversation would evolve into a discussion including words like “modern” and “paint,” but I was pleasantly surprised.

Maybe it was the smell of bohemia in the air that led my gaydar astray. But as we continued to talk I could not help but find myself standing on the corner of “Boyfriend” and “Material.” With thoughts of studio space and artsy scarves in my fine future, it was clear the artist had captivated me. As the night wound down and I geared up to ask him when we could meet again, it happened – as if all roads led to “do not pass go” – he dropped it: the “G” bomb.

As the dust settled it occurred to me that it was not the message that hit me this time, but its delivery. If his timing had been better, then a major explosion could have been averted. Had I made a move and he dropped it, nothing would have gone off. Had he brought it up earlier, I would have still had time to get under a table. But he didn’t.

So what’s the moral of this story, you ask? Easy. Next time you meet an artist in front of a bar, get him to buy you a plastic cup of wine first.

Published: Outwords # 145 September 28 – October 25, 2007