I met a lovely woman, yesterday, introduced by a mutual friend. Yes, she’s also an ex-wife of a homosexual.
She said to me, “It’s been more than five years, now, and I’m still not over it.”
I cringed.
The fact is, I’m not sure we ever do “get over it.” I’m not sure we ever fully get past distrusting our own judgment. Or looking at every man we meet with scepticism.
Other women presume the men they’re meeting are straight. After all, only about 3% of the population is homosexual, so their chances are pretty darn good that they’re right, that the good-looking, charming man they’re meeting is, indeed, heterosexual.
But once you’ve been married to a homosexual, that statistic seems inverted. Somehow it feels as if 3% of the male population is heterosexual and the rest, certainly all the ones we’re meeting, are gay. Or less than fully masculine, anyway (which is another complaint altogether).
We look at a man with an eye toward evaluating whether he’s gay. In our self-defensiveness, he’s gay until proven otherwise. Okay, I’ve not fully figured out how to “prove otherwise.” I just doubt and essentially expect that he’s gay.
Surviving The Rainbow 