For the love of pretty things

I have a thing for gay men.

I'm not quite sure what it is exactly but I think it's that I like men. 
I like pretty men. 
And I like that I don't have to limit myself to merely one.

I can be a greedy, greedy little fag hag.
I can have lots and lots of pixies in my life.

Awhile back a new fabulous gay man started working in my department. 
The way some women obsessed over new shoes and handbags, I had my gays.

His name was Texas. 
And I was in love.

Texas is very tall and very sweet and has one of those beards that's reminiscent of mutton chops only somehow he's handsome enough to pull it off.
I asked him if I could make an appointment so he could do my makeup to show me some tricks and to try a new look.
But mostly, I just wanted him to touch my face.

He's. SO. Pretty.

One of my co workers, who has more personalities than Sybil, announced the other day that she had a thing for Texas.

Is he really gay?  she asked.  Because I have SUCH a huge crush on him.

I blinked.

Surely she had to be joking.

I had a secret longing for a love affair with this fabulous man and that fantasy was mine and mine alone.

Didn't she have some tarot she could be reading?

It was then that I realized my love of fabulously handsome and charming gay men was turning me into a greedy bitch. 
Did I not have enough gay husbands in my life to share some of the love?

I don't want to date a man whose prettier than me but if he's just my shopping buddy then he can feel free to be more impecciably groomed than I am.

I'm totally cool with that.

I'm just not cool with sharing.

And like any sane woman protective of her designer clothes and accessories, I would never dream of loaning my Ghubs out.

Some things are far too sacred.