As is typical these days, Corb arrived home from work at nine last night, and we were eating dinner together by around ten. Pork chops and the episode of The Voice which was shown after the Superbowl.
“Carson Daley is so cute,” said Corb, as he munched away on his pork chop. “And also…what’s his name?”
"Adam Levine,” I volunteered.
“That’s it. He’s the cutest of them all.” He nibbled on his pork some more, savoring the juices and the taste of the succulent white meat inside his mouth. “The country guy’s cute, too.”
I grinned. “Boy, are you horny, tonight.”
Corb looked at me, surprised. “No, not really.” Then, he looked down at the laptop placed between his legs and started moving his fingers across the keyboard. “Let’s get some more photos of Adam Levine…”
“I doubt it…but, oh look! He has an awful lot of tattoos.”
“It’s funny,” I said, lying on the couch opposite him, and picking at my food as I absently played yet another game of Words with Friends. “When I watch this show, I don’t really focus that much on the guys. I just always watch Christina Aguilera. Just something about her sitting in that big chair with her blond hair fascinates me.”
Corb looked at me, aghast. “Sometimes I wonder if you’re really gay.”
I smiled. “Well, I think it’s pretty clear what I like. I just find women fascinating, that’s all. And I certainly think they usually age better than men.”
Corb squinted his eyes. “I think you might be bi.”
Well, maybe. To a certain extent, yes. But this all gets into my sliding scale hypothesis, which I've written about on many occasions in the past, which is that no one’s truly 100 percent gay or straight. Hey, I was with Josie for years, and she has two children by me. So obviously, I’m not 100 percent gay. But so what?
I can have babies with a woman, and I like to flirt with women. Like to flirt with men, too. As my friend Traveling Sue says, I’m probably incapable of not flirting. It’s just what I do.
Corb is probably further along the sliding scale, closer to the absolute. He’s never been interested in women that much. And he was much more active than I was at an early age, for what that matters (which isn’t much.)
I don’t really see how it matters, either way. Where you fall on the sliding scale doesn’t really mean much, and admitting that you’re both a little bit country and a little bit rock and roll is hardly the worst thing in the world. It’s who you’re with, and how committed you are to that person. That’s the only scale that has much significance, if you ask me.