After buying Brokeback Mountain and extolling its greatness to my predominantly conservative friends, I somehow found myself frequently required as a token female presence when my heterosexual male friends wanted to watch the film. This, despite my repeated insistence that, no, watching a movie will NOT turn you gay (although it may evoke some latent tendencies). I love the film, and so this obligation was never a particular hardship (although I did find it a bit annoying to be told that I couldn’t leave the room, even for a bathroom break, because WHO KNOWS, a gay orgy might spontaneously arise. Yes, pun intended, always).
A few months before I moved from Boise, my friend Brandon came over and suggested that we watch a movie. Having watched our limited collection innumerable times, I told him to choose. He picked Brokeback Mountain. I should note that while Brandon is a very sweet kid, he is also one of those swaggering, libido-driven, hyper-(pseudo-)masculine, homoeroticism-thinly-veiled-in-homophobia types who seem to thrive so well in Idaho deserts. Thus I was shocked at his choice, but made no objections to it. We watched the entire film with minimal awkwardness expressed on his part, and minimal tissues used on mine.
As the credits rolled, I took a few deep breaths and wiped away my tears.
Brandon, too, seemed to be wrapped up in silent awe.
“Well,” he sighed, pausing significantly. “That was gay.”
Yes. Yes I suppose it was.
