Had I been paying attention, this whole thing could have been avoided. A sidestepped comment, or an impromptu dash to the bathroom and the disastrous spark to this oncoming misadventure would have been extinguished. But I was too busy fluttering my eyelids at the bar tender to see her scoot her chair in, run a hand through her hair, and pucker her lips ever-so-slightly.  

            “Kurt,” she said softly, absentmindedly swirling the straw in her drink.

            “Molly,” I replied without looking at her, eyes still trained on the bar tender.

            “You brought me here, yet you haven’t paid an ounce of attention to me,” She said, finger walking her hand until it was on top of mine.

            “That’s not true,” I replied. “We just finished a lengthy conversation concerning your lipstick shade.”

            “Yes, but,” she starts, a whiney tone edging it’s way into her voice. “Maybe if we went somewhere a bit…less distracting, we could elaborate on the matter…”

            Thinking nothing of it, I finally turned to face her. I was thrown off slightly by the dark look in her eyes and the way her fingers started to lightly trace the curves of my knuckles but apparently not enough. Dear god, why wasn't it enough. It was true I had brought her there, and for a very specific reason too. Her and I had found ourselves trapped in an elevator together in a building neither of us had any business being in. Molly, all doe-eyed and red, was trying desperately to hide the tears, and I,  a tiny bit too tipsy for 11:30, was feeling a bit too friendly. So I had wrapped her hand in mine, dragged her to a nearby bench, and gushed over her defined cheekbones, those rosey rosey lips, and how god, men don’t deserve a creature like you anyway. Everything about this conversation could be used verbatim in some politically-correct skit stereotyping flamboyant gay men. Yet somehow, that escaped her, and now she was shrugging her shoulders to push her breasts out at me.         

            But I again had let that pass. I had, in fact, commented on how that top accented her curves perfectly, so maybe she was just embellishing on that praise. I can be so stubborn sometimes. So I tipped the bartender, generously mind you, and made to my place to discuss our shared love of fashion over a glass of wine.

            It was then, on my red couch, that all of my mistakes became tangible as she started to lean in, lips slightly parted and wanting. I only stared in horror, a deer in headlights. I lost all voluntary control of my muscles and my body just sat, allowing this tragedy to unfold.

            My intelligible noises of resistance must have been interpreted as moans for more, for this woman could take no hints, and her lips smashed into mine with a force of a thousand desperate heterosexual desires. And they kept moving! Dancing all over my unmoving and slightly trammeling lips as if the world was ending and this kiss could reverse it.

            It wasn't till the front door flew open and an unsuspecting Rachel flew in that her lips left mine. I sighed in relief—a sense of reprieve that ended shortly after Rachel closed the door.

            “Oh, god!” Rachel exclaimed, looking from Molly, heaving and nearly falling out of her blouse (dear god, how did that happen) to me, following the chronological order of going into shock. “Sorry! I’ll just…”

            And with that she slipped right back out the door. This lasted for just a second, enough for Molly to turn on me again with unmatched lust in her eyes, before Rachel opened the door again.

            “Wait… what?” She asked decidedly, closing the doors and crossing her arms in front of her.

            This was exactly the distraction I needed. I stood up, backed up a healthy amount, and inhaled sharply, preparing myself for a statement that was sure to cause a scene. However, Molly beat me to it.

            “Wait,” she started, observing Rachel in the doorway with a look of complete shock she couldn’t seem to shake off. “Are you.. is this… are you married, Kurt?”

             This accusation made me light headed, my mind wondering into a cruel and unforgiving alternate reality where Rachel and I were married.

            “I thought we were really hitting it off,” Molly whispered, taking our silence as a confirmation. “I thought you were different…we were connecting!”

            It was then that I remembered why I had that rule against shamelessly complimenting women. This always seems to happen. I could really teach the straight community a thing or two.

            “Honey,” I start, ignoring Rachel’s collapse into hysterical insensitive giggles behind me. “I’m gay.”

            Apparently the face Molly would pull in response to being caught making out with someone’s husband is identical to the face she’d pull when she found out the man she was making out with was, in fact, gay.

            “I’m so sorry,” I continued, a little alarmed by her lack of response. “It’s just I’m so gay. I thought it was obvious.”

            Molly gained control of her mouth, her gap turning into well-defined frown.

            “But you were clearly interested in me,” She says, a deep blush flooding her face.

            “I applauded your Alexander McQueen collection,” I retorted, now offended for my mistaken sexuality.

            “You bought me numerous drinks,” She continued, bringing her hand to her heart.

            “I’m wearing blush,” I challenged, getting a bit more defensive than I should.

            “And now lipstick,” Rachel chimed in, now perched in a chair and clearly enjoying herself.

            “Oh my god,” Molly’s face took a turn to the worse, molding into something of disgust. So much for those cheek bones with their own shadows and those rosey-rosey cheeks, for the next few utterances out of her mouth made her so very ugly. “Do I have diseases now?”

            I opened and closed my mouth a few times. Words, as they seldom do, escaped me. A few years back I would have been insulted, angry, sad even. But after many a tears shed on the ignorant, there simply wasn't any left. It was Rachel who developed her choice words.

            “No, honey, you’d don’t have any physical disease. But gay is super contagious, so you better go home and wash it all off.”

            Molly hesitated, unsure of her next move.

            “It’s too late for me,” Rachel continued, stepping out from the threshold and swinging her hips slightly as she advanced on Molly. “I already can’t look at women the same. The way their skin is so soft, lips so plump…”

            Molly was up and grasping for her coat, making sure to press herself flush to the wall as she scooted towards the door, Rachel tailing her making kissy sounds and grabbing for her hem.

            “You’re both freaks,” she announced, finally reaching the door.

            “Yea, yea, we should be sterilized,” I sighed starting for the fridge to grab a bottle of white wine. “Beautiful, passionate, irksome Molly, and all you’re good for is a campaign slogan for Nazi Germany.”

            At this we made brief eye contact before she extracted herself from the room, slamming the door behind her. Rachel and I considered closed door momentarily.

            Rachel then clapped her hands together decisively, turned on the spot, and let out a cheerful “I brought home the pasta for our Tuesday Lasagna!”

            Was it only Tuesday?