Imagine living in a suitcase

Ok, so he’s apparently gay at first sight. You may see it. They may see it. It took me about two months and someone telling me. I don’t see things. Except if it’s about animals or someone hurting. In the beginning, I hated him because he showed indifference to my anatomy. That is usually unforgivable. Much later he told me in all confidence he’s not really gay, he just can’t stand PMS. Which again is fair enough, I can’t really stand it either, it makes me cry over all kinds of things that never really happened.

Luckily, we soon found a common preoccupation with the hairier part of the human species and we’ve been best friends ever since. That means lots of ups and even more downs. The ups are always visual. We take position on what we see moving cockily on the street and ponder on the trickiness of size. He maintains that height is misleading, the proportion is inverted when it comes to dimensions that really matter. Life has provided me with some examples that come to support his view, but wishful thinking leads me to suppress that knowledge. Such reckless attitude makes me end up in all kinds of close-up situations which call for a silent “You have got to be kidding me!” And some politely faked reactions.

The downs on the other hand are about contradictions. Another thing that unites us except for other men is claustrophobia and its close relative agoraphobia. We suffer of both. We feel trapped most of the time. In a house, in a relationship, in our dependency on white sheets. We’d like to get out and live in a suitcase. Imagine that. We can’t, however, because, from down there in the suitcase, everything seems taller. And that, we have already established, can be momentarily misleading.