The average adult male thinks about sex thirty-two times in the space of a minute. Thirty-two separate engagements of separate thoughts, thirty-two distinct declarations of "I wish . . .", "I'd like to . . ." and the very frequent stream-of-consciousness interruption of a simple "Damn!" Long, low mental whistles and cerebral catcalls that never make it past the lips. And the ladies don't lag behind, either, with a not-too-shabby twenty-seven. In a crowded room, a hundred thousand neurons of random desire fire within our brains almost continuously.
I know. I've counted.
It makes for good small talk at parties, that dirty fact. I sidle it into conversations full of tilted, knowing smiles until they work their way to the inevitable, coy question: "Oh? And what am I thinking now?" I lean forward, whisper the answer into their ears, and then we go: upstairs, to a cab, to my place, to his place, to the bathroom, to the alley in the back, so I can make his thoughts into hot, potent memories. Of course, I'm never wrong. It doesn't take superhuman insight to know what they're thinking and imagining. So when I get it right, they never suspect what has really happened. Does it really matter, anyway, if the sweet sex and the rough fucking, the hand just there, the speed just that way like fantasy come true, does it matter if I can grant it because I read their minds and hear their thoughts?
A long time ago it was just a talent that I used the way any average guy with a few lessons under his belt could, in a pinch, produce a quarter from behind your ear. I was surreptitiously dragged into the vicinity of straight-but-cross-your-fingers-bicurious boys and taken to meet the immaculately metrosexual, too-caring-to-be-straight husband hopefuls. Like the main attraction in a traveling circus show: come see Brent and his A-mazing G-aydar! Long before I started listening to that low hum always at my temples, I just knew by gut instinct from the pit of my stomach that he could be, but not him, that he wasn't of the sweet persuasion, but that one, over there, I don't care how straight he looks, he wants to get you alone. And I was always right. It was a good little magic trick. Until it stopped being just sleight of hand and the magic became real.
It's odd and somehow fitting, I think, that I discovered my power not among men, but with a woman. Mariko- my sweet hag, my childhood best friend, by my estimations an honorary fag despite the pussy- would of course be the mind I first heard. We're just too close to not spill over into the eerie unspoken bond like twins have. Well, that and the fact that what I heard that fateful day, what my twisted gut confirmed, was completely outside of everything I knew about myself. I sat with Mariko on her beanbag chair like we always did Saturday evenings, watching Audrey Hepburn be professionally elegant and charming and realized, with a stab of shock, that I was thinking about kissing Audrey Hepburn.
Correction: I wasn't thinking about kissing her. I didn't imagine my lips on hers, or see us kiss from an outside perspective. That would have been quite a shock to my confirmed status as a never-truly-closeted, cock-worshipping fag. Instead, the idea settled in my mind, and it had to do with kissing, and attraction, and the pretty starlet on the screen. The same way that I felt the presence of certain concepts around men I ID'd as gay: penetration, muscle, power, hardness, forbidden. But I'd never felt the heavy weight of these words about women, the shapes melting and shifting in the space around me. Softness. Sensuous. Lipstick. Those foreign, unwelcome creatures harangued me while I failed to focus on the movie and imagine romance between Henry Higgins and Mr. Pickering. So I said something aloud, just to stop the buzzing silence that kept getting weightier and more uncomfortable with all its implications.
"She sure is something, isn't she?" I quipped lightly.
Mariko smacked me hard on the arm excitedly. "Get out of my head!" She squealed. And then, no slave to laws of propriety or correctness, indeed, the childhood queen of 'Too Much Information' whose mouth actually starts to speak before the formation of thoughts, she added, "I was just thinking how much I'd love to kiss her!"
And then, as I bit my lip and frowned, and we both watched Ms. Hepburn waltz in low-cut splendor, the mood changed again, more intense, more focused, about breasts and jiggling, soft, salt, pink, squeeze. One after another and together in rapid fire and I swallowed and said carefully, "Kiss her, or feel her up?"
And there it was. We never did get to know the fate of Eliza Doolittle. Instead the evening became a game of parlor tricks. "Okay, okay, wait a second, okay, now what? Huh?" came again and again. I honed my power that night, picking up on the thoughts that Mariko randomly, purposely conjured and emanated. I laughingly accused her of sexual harassment when I picked up on very obscene, dirty thoughts in her head involving her and I. I listened to the humming thread at my temples and found words- well, not words; the brain doesn't work that way- but the music I could understand, and sometimes fuzzy images superimposed on my sight. We celebrated my gift, my power, my strange ability. Only in the weeks after would I have to learn to shut it off, to filter, to shut the very eyes, ears, and, frankly, the spirit that received these thoughts. My 'amazing gaydar', we called it, because it did, indeed, work best at finding the homosexual currents that ran the length of everyone's grey matter. If I concentrated hard, I could sense other thoughts from men about women, and vice-versa, but they were slippery and quiet. Mariko remained convinced that it was due to my status as a fag.
