A Pinkish Hue

There really wasn't any reason to question my manhood. Honestly.

Imbibing the quaintly colored drink was merely a choice, a lifestyle. The color of a fleshy-grapefruit. The pinkness of lip-gloss. The light crystal skim of ice on the top.

Christ, you'd think I was the only guy to ever drink a Cosmopolitan.

Frankly the transition from hard-core pure Vodka drinker with only olives to taint the texture was probably a bit of a surprise. However, feeling free to join her new-found habit of drinking MY vodka, I felt inclined to join her in HER mixer.

And there, you go. Instant-gay. Just add water. Pinkish water at that.

My very good friend came out of the closet after he had left the Army. We went to graduate school together, worked in the White House together and I even spent one night in his apartment when I had an early shift and he was working a late one. (I slept on the couch). Clueless to all the "indicators"---superbly clean apartment, no mention ever of girls, an almost disciplined secrecy to a social life, I just always assumed he was picky.

Picky.

Okay. Well, so I misjudged.

Years later, when of course I learned and that small tiny fissure appeared in my logic, the ensuing cascade of collapsing emotions was really virgin territory for me.

I wanted to call him. And then I thought, what the hell was I going to say? "Uhm, hey there. So, yeah, I learned something about you I didn't know. Yeah, I know we were paid to keep secrets, but I thought just government secrets, not personal ones."

Or the even better one: "I just wanted to let you know that I'm okay with that."

I'm okay?

Frankly, nothing had really changed in our relationship, except a tidbit of knowledge. A tiny insight into an otherwise highly successful man. And I was acting as if I had become a secret accomplice. That by keeping his secret I was doing him a favor.

What a moron I was.

I never got the chance to have my patently absurd conversation. I learned of his outing from a mutual friend, and I felt certainly he was breathing a sigh of relief being out of the Army and in a successful law firm. Working on Gay Rights. (Now that's an indicator)

But the dilemma has appeared on the horizon again. As the years start to stack up and as the children get older, one of my dearest friends remains exceptionally coy and perhaps even unbalanced.

A little background. Again, an Army buddy. (Yeah, that don't ask, don't tell thing really put us on high alert).

Perennial bachelor. Tom Cruise-like looks, with a sense of humor and friendship that I probably find unmatched in all of my closest male friends.

Exceptionally clean house. (Becoming my go-to indicator of choice)

Has dated girls that I know, only to fall apart when things get physical. His last girlfriend was a 2, and that was being grateful. Maybe she cooked well. Maybe she was the one who cleaned the house. I don't know.

But then he would take vacation. With a "friend." To the Keys. On a cruise. To St. John. At his "friend's house." "His house" was how it was described to us.

Hmmm.

But the sad part is we don't have the nerve to cross the unoffered line. We don't want to question the numerous instinctive feelers, we don't want to change the dynamic.

And frankly, the conclusion I have is who really fucking cares? As long as he's my friend and not shooting straight to video gay porn with underage Filipinos, is it really any of my concern?

Isn't he always there when we want to get together? Isn't he ass-slapping (hey!) hilarious when I have him over to watch war movies? Isn't he unfailing polite when I introduce him to my co-workers? Isn't he, actually, one of my longest-lasting friends that I've ever had.

Hell yeah.

So, I won't ever question him, nor pose the question to him. I won't question his manhood either. I'll just raise my Cosmo in a silent toast to him and hope that he is, of all things, happy.