Straight men are extinct.

Straight men are an exotic breed. I know they exist. Well they must, for the world continues to repopulate in the hazy image of God. But hell, beyond the few that I am long familiar or was once intimate with, I have come to the conclusion that straightness simply does not thrive in my sphère de connaissances.

I’m the songless version of Liza Minelli, reincarnated in MAC skin tone NC37.

Don’t you use that tone with with me, young lady!

Here’s the deal. Same-sex men come out to me, some with glee, others with great trepidation for it’s their first time coming out to anybody. Once this delighted me: Me, preferred by youthful and charming men, to be their confidante or their ‘beard’, as the quaint label goes? Why not? I have an endless supply of companions and arms to the Opera, the cinema, the museums, and especially the symphonies. Call me old fashioned, call me a fuddy duddy fruit fly, but I love these places for they positively brim with timeless imagination. They smell of woodsy colognes and Balenciaga Paris tastefully puffed onto the secret, erogenous zones of one’s torso. More importantly, I get to dress up! God I love to dress up, it’s a rare trait that simply does not run in my family.

Then came the frustration: “I am through with being intermittently single, I am through with being the only girl on a table of a dozen men, I am through with matchmaking for others when it is I who stand at the margins of sexual candidacy, I am through with being angry at the world for not always giving my friends the most basic of rights”. Oxford Street has become my personal landmark, a place where my single status becomes cemented in glittery stone. It is the ultimate ‘friend zone’.

A friend once reflected: “You are the cause for my loneliness, Vicki”.

But my friends, who are always unflaggingly warm, intelligent and witty, often succeed in tearing me from my feelings of inadequacy to replace it with food-fuelled gluttony and fuzzy warmth. So make no mistake that I’d prefer to live the life of a spinster than to give up any one of my sparkling friends.

Still, there came the final straw: I sipped hard, I thought long, after which whimsical process, I applied to study abroad in 2013.

The application process had been very trying, thanks to the French universities’ love for cultivating cyber mazes of confusion on their websites. Plus, my own university advisors have been shockingly unhelpful.

But no matter.

For friends, I will be studying abroad in 2013 to improve my French and not least to start afresh on a crispy snow-white slate. The great Université Jean-Moulin Lyon III in the south of France will be my new home. Emirates flight tickets for December 31st have been purchased just two evenings ago and I have a feeling I’ll be triply more excited if I could just start on my housing and visa applications! I’ve finally paid for my passport, which should come in about 10 to 14 days.

For now, I will squawk and dance to ‘Gangnam Style’ in the chaos of my bedroom. Or the ‘pigs’ purgatory zone’, in the eloquent words of my mother.

I love you,

Vicki

p.s. for those who are waiting on viewing my group’s latest documentary on the lives of same-sex Christians, there’s not long to wait now.

Praise the Lord, the girl moves!

What my final serenade to Sydney, Australia sounds like:

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