Wednesday evening I attended my friend Marty’s 26th annual Thanksgiving potluck. I love this event, being a mostly-gay affair (with a smattering of straight supporters), where people who are often rejected by their own families can celebrate the holiday with the family they choose.

Before I press on with this story, I have to confess that I finally broke down and bought a heavyweight black shadow tartan kilt from Stillwater. I decided that I needed something warmer for winter and I can’t keep wearing the Douglas all the time, and, heck, if it’s too long, I guess it will keep my knees warm too. It was cheap, relatively speaking, and I knew I wouldn’t have to jones for it very long, so it solved a problem. No one but me knows that the pleat depth is wildly uneven or that other shortcuts have been made.

Anyway, I decided to wear this new kilt to the party: black sweater, charcoal hose, black accessories. Marty’s modest apartment was packed, as usual, with what I think was around 80 or 90 people. Many of my dancing friends were there, so they were used to seeing me in a kilt. One of them, a fellow from Cuba who took a long time to get over calling my kilts dresses, even asked if the one I had on was new. I was surprised to learn he was keeping track.

But there were many people there whom I had never seen before, and people I only see once in a rare while. There were many compliments: “I like your look;” “You wear it well.” I had to brush away the hands of one or two people who don’t know how to behave a party, and of course, I got The Question several times – mostly from women. One exchange went like this:

“…and are you wearing it like a true Scotsman?”

“A lady never asks, and a gentleman never tells.”

“But I’m no lady! I’m a dyke!” Well, she *was* rather butch, so she may have had a point. But then she added, “And besides, I’m a Scotsman, myself!”

“Well, then,” I replied, “you must already know the answer.”

There were two people at the party who were very insistent on knowing The Answer. For the first time ever, I decided to allow a proper kilt check, since I was tired of putting them off with the usual rebuffs. The first was from a cute deaf guy, to whom I had to explain in pantomime what NOT to do, since my ASL vocabulary is about three words. He got the idea and executed it perfectly. I gave him my card.

The second was with an attractive lady who was taken by my kilt from the moment I arrived, whom I correctly ID’d as one of the straight allies. As she was preparing to leave at the end of the evening, she emerged from the coatroom flanked on either side by a gay couple. We began to exchange farewells when she insisted she *had* to know the answer.

“Buy one for your husband, and then you’ll know the answer,” I suggested.

Her eyes lit up with a smile, clearly taken by the idea. “This looks like something my husband would wear…” she paused a beat, “around the house and no further. You’re not going to tell me?”

“All right,” I relented, “you can find out the answer for yourself, but you must promise not to tell.” This is what’s known as brinksmanship, seeing how far someone is willing to go.

“How am I going to do that?”

“I will explain it to you,” and leaned in to give her explicit instructions.

She moved to my side and began to kneel. “I’m nervous. Are you nervous?”

“I’m not nervous. Is this your first time?” Her hand inched up my thigh.

“Oh great!” exclaimed one of her guards. “Her husband sent her here with us to protect her, and here she is with her hand up some man’s kilt! How are we going to explain this?” We laughed at the irony. At last, she dared go no further and yanked her hand away. “Well?” the hapless guard demanded.

“I don’t know,” she offered. “All I can say is that my hand went up really far.”

I don’t know, either, but I’m willing to bet that someone had a good time Wednesday night, and he wasn’t even at the party.

Regards,
Rex in Cincinnati