Dear Waiter

Dear Waiter,
Hi, can I talk to you for a second? No, it’s not about the food, the food is great, thanks, it’s- well, it’s kinda weird.
See, I couldn’t help but notice that the guy I’m eating with, who’s actually younger than me, got a “sir” and this whole night, you’ve been referring to me as “man.” I mean, that’s weird, right?
I’ve never been into the hierarchy of customer vs. waiter so it’s not that, it’s just kinda weird is all.
I mean, do I not look like a sir to you? Do I really look like the “man” type?
Is it the long hair? Or maybe it’s the tattoos?
I’m just saying, I’d like the same pretend respect you’re giving to the guy sitting across the table from me, is that so much to ask?
Actually, ya know what, as I type this out, I just feel like the most gigantic ass. You don’t hafta call me sir. Hell, if you don’t wanna refer to me at all, I’m actually pretty okay with that.
It was just weird, okay? He got the BBQ burger and a “sir” and I got a turkey burger and a “man.”
I mean, that’s weird, right? Yeah, I think I’m officially overthinking it…
Sincerely,
Calhoun

Dear Waiter

Dear Waiter,
Yesterday, while enjoying lunch with one of my buddies, the topic of me being gay came up as you were walking by. Now, observers, to give you an idea how gay our waiter was, we’re talkin’ Kinsey six, with at least three drag costumes in his closet, but a really nice guy.
Still, when you heard, you spun around in disbelief. After staring at me slack-jawed for a few moments, you managed to utter, “you are not.”
Naturally, I laughed. I may not be a club-loving, Madonna-worshipping, sex-in-the-bathroom-having gay stereotype, but I assure you folks, I like men.
After you pranced off (the man does kinda prance, this is not poetic license) and we had a good laugh, you returned to your state of shock and awe.
Again, you said little more than “you are not.”
Still gay, dude.
This back and forth went on for the rest of the meal, during which I endured prolonged glances, occasional tussling of the hair, and an unexpected free glass of orange juice.
But back to my question. Seriously, what is so hard to believe about me being gay?
I may not lisp or walk around with a limp wrist, but I’m gay in the bedroom and isn’t that where it counts?
So besides the unnecessary attention and the unwarranted skepticism, I’d like to know, what’s it matter to you that I’m gay? I don’t mean that in an overly hostile way, since, ya know, being gay got me free OJ. It just seems a little weird is all.
Sincerely,
Calhoun

Dear Waiter

Dear Waiter,
That’s not like me.
Maybe it was the five shots of liquid courage or maybe it was the fact that… no, wait, it was definitely the liquid courage.
See, I don’t give my number to people.
I don’t flirt.
I don’t talk to strangers. (Congrats mom, for some reason that one stuck…)
It’s just not my thing.
Well, I shouldn’t say that. It’s more… if somebody approaches me? Awesome. I’m all for it.
I don’t really approach people.
Maybe it’s the fear of rejection or my complete lack of tact, but I don’t do it.
So me giving you my number? Granted, it was after my buddy forced me to talk to you… but that’s neither here nor there. The fact that I still did it? Pretty impressive for me.
So in the immortal words of Elton John and Kiki Dee, don’t go breakin’ my heat.
Sincerely,
Calhoun