To Speedo Or To G-String

Yesterday my old-time drinking buddy Dave left for the South of France. The Dreamliner carried him from JFK to Casablanca to Nice, where he was met by his friends living in a villa above the Cote d’Azur. His plane had been delayed after the TSA found organic hair spray in an old wrinklie woman’s purse and he called from the airport to kvetch about Homeland Security.

“I agreed, but imagine if they had found your Riviera Speedo.”

“I don’t have a Speedo.” Dave had a good body for a 50 year-old man.

“No Speedo?” I wished I could wear one, except my body is better suited to a chador for the beach. “Brave man, you’re going for the g-string.”

During the Grand Vacannes every European man regardless of his figure goes to the beach in the skimpiest bathing suit possible, but Dave was being American.

“No g-string.”

“No g-string?” Dave managed the wardrobe for a very popular network TV show.

“Are you going au natural?”

“No, you idiot. I’m wearing trunks the same as everyone.”

“Same as everyone?”

Dave was gay.

“We’re not the same as everyone.”


“You know gays, queers et al.”

“You’re not gay and don’t start thinking about coming out. The last thing this world needs is another Bruch Jenner.”

“Her name is Caitlin.”

“Well, I’m sure he doesn’t wear a Speedo anymore. Gotta go. The old lady has been cleared for the flight.”

“Bon Voyage.” I loved the South of France and shouted to a click, “Bring me back espadrilles.”

I laid back in bed and googled ‘ladyboy’ porn. I might not be ‘gay’, but I ain’t straight neither.

Happy Gay Pride Day.

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