What if I liked men instead of women,
if I were indifferent to décolletage or high heels
but were excited by a bulging crotch or tight muscles?
What if I delighted women and loved them as friends
but longed to attract men to befriend them as lovers?
I would, I suppose, like show tunes and Barbra Streisand
and be indifferent to sexy commercials.
I might be a person who was fun to be with
or maybe would just seem happier than absolutely
Would I look straight and pass for normal,
or would my walk or voice or gestures give me away?
Could I have my own family some day,
living the American dream of domestic bliss,
or would I lose even the family I was born into?
Could I choose my own career—
become an athlete, cop, or politician—
or would I find myself in a professional ghetto,
practicing cosmetology, acting, or librarianship?
Would people whisper whenever I walked into church
or rolled my shopping cart past them at the supermarket?
Could they know that my passions feel like theirs,
though theirs are as foreign to me as mine are to them?
What if I liked men instead of women?
What if I liked women instead of men?