Gay Best Friends were made fashionable by the honourable Sarah Jessica Parker aka Carrie and little Miss Stanford Blatch. The ultimate accessory, they bring more satisfaction than a new designer bag or a genetically modified miniature dog. The combination of being in male company yet still feeling like you are with “one of the girls” is innately comforting and deeply informative. Who can give a girl better relationship advice than a man who prefers men? With no catty competition and with no one caring to debate whether men and women can really be friends, the results are consistently impartial and honest. Also, there is no one else with whom you can go for sushi and then share a peppermint half-caf soy mocha, who makes you feel as supremely fabulous without exacting any pressure on you, other than that you cut the crap and be yourself. They bring out the best in you. Period.
One hundred and fifty years ago, homosexuality was neither to be seen nor heard. How women functioned with no Sex and the City, no sushi and certainly no Starbucks, let alone without their trusty GBF, I am not sure. And yet, perhaps I have read too much Jane Austen and not quite enough Henry Fielding and am left prejudiced in my thinking that a corset and a pair of gloves automatically implies nun-like conservatism.
And so when my GBF surprised me with the fact that he was in the city and had reserved a window for me before his train, I was there. I knew that a hot cup of coffee, gossip and setting the world to rights would keep me warm for a lot longer than the hour we'd spend in each other’s company. Never mind the Mums, the retail therapy and the ice cream, sometimes, all it takes is a queen to make you feel like a princess again.
No comments:
Post a Comment