Beefy Twink

Over the weekend I volunteered at a No More Homeless Pets event called Super Adoptions. They love to stick me on the front gate where I try to look menacing (enough that pups don't escape or get stolen on my watch!), but friendly. I put little ribbons on pups coming in and check the paper work of pups heading out, pass out poop bags to dog walkers and remind people that kitties are indoors across the way.

It's so much fun watching previously homeless pups and cats get toted off to their new homes. Er, moving on.

In previous years at events like this where I interact with a gazillion + one strangers the gender interpretive reactions have varied, unless I spoke - which would then usually be met with an immediate female pronoun "correction" and apology.

This time it was all kinds of mixed, where I'd have some people using female pronouns and others, even after I'd say, "Awww, did you just adopt this little guy? Mind if I check your adoption papers?", they'd respond with something like, "Honey, could you get the papers for this guy out of my purse?", or ,"Stewie, put those down and hand those papers to him!"

Then, a very bizarre occurrence... occurred. An older gentleman in his 50s or so walks in with a shaggy black and white pup. I ask something along the lines of, "Hello! I'm going to stick this gorgeous neon orange ribbon on to your pup so we know he's not one of ours. You already have a home, dontcha!", to which the older feller responds, "That ribbon looks good. He loves it! Now, how would you like if I took you out to dinner?"

I was entirely caught off guard. First off, being assumed to be a really extremely mega-queer woman for as long as I can recall has made my reality pretty hit-on-by-older-men-free. And especially now, being acne and whisker-ridden in a purple shirt at a front gate with Aviators covered in dog smell, ... and, of course wondering, "Does he think I'm a boy or a girl or...?"

To gauge, I replied by pointing to my bearded cisgender male buddy, Ralph, and asking the older feller, "How about taking him to dinner?", to which he replied, "Oh no. He has a beard. I'm not into those." , Gah! Even more confusing!

While I was caught off guard in my fog of flabbergast'ness, a slew of traffic hit the gate and I bolted out of the conversation to tie ribbons and check paperwork and hand out poop bags and to scrunch the excess skin on puppy faces. Good timing, for sure.

I didn't see him again. No dinner from older gentlemans for me.