guybabineau.com
home / about / channel surfing in the sea of happiness / contact
Cocktails With God by Guy Babineau
Everyone has God’s ear these days. Popes, politicians, pop stars. Athletes, artists, even activists. God is in bed with everyone. There’s a fine line between omnipresence and promiscuity. Is the current hard-on for God among queers a case of sound-bite spirituality or is it for real?
Is it an apologia maybe, yet another example of gays caving in to a social institution—religion—that is diversifying its portfolio for optimum impact in the global village, dragging The Global Village People along in its wake? I had to find out. I dialed 1-800-stpeter on my Fido and booked an appointment with God at one of my fave watering holes.
“How will I know it’s you-know-who?” I asked. “People have a knack for knowing they’re in the presence of God,” I was crisply informed by the officious executive assistant.
And I did. Talk about charisma. The minute God’s silhouette graced the doorway of the bar, a hush fell. Everyone put down their drinks and stared. She looked just like Catherine Deneuve, one of the few women on the planet with a chance in hell of seducing me to the other side.
God sailed in on Prada shoes, the fine lines of a silk Donna Karan pantsuit draped just so on Her graceful frame. The DJ put on Madonna’s “Who’s That Girl?” God slowly sashayed up to my usual spot at the bar, where I sat nursing a vivid Crantini, and slipped onto the barstool beside me. She took off Her Cartier sunglasses. She looked fabulous.
“Hey girl!” said God. We air-kissed “Sorry I’m late. Couldn’t tear myself away from Celine. I’m supposed to coach her for the Vatican’s upcoming spoken word CD but she won’t shut up about that baby. ‘Celine,’ I said, ‘save it. I’ve already seen it a couple of gazillion times. I’m going to see it a couple of gazillion more.’”
God put a hand on my knee. She kept it there while She continued. “Between you, me and the gatepost, I don’t think Celine’s all that bright.”
I tried to conceal my surprise at the masculine voice and trashy comments emanating from those lushly Revlonned lips. I noticed the telltale bulge of an adam’s apple and a hint of five o’clock shadow. God ordered a Crantini too and checked the messages on Her cellphone.
“Ricky Martin,” she sighed, putting it away. “He’s going to be on the papal CD too.”
“Ricky Martin!” I exclaimed. “Isn’t he gay?”
“Is the Pope Catholic?” God responded with a mischievous smile.
We both laughed and clinked rims. I couldn’t contain myself any more and blurted out my delight that God was a drag queen.
“A big one,” she remarked, sweeping out her arms in a dramatic ta-da gesture. “Actually, to be honest with you—and I know darling that with those luscious bedroom eyes of yours I can be—I prefer to think of myself as an impersonator.
“Why’s that?” I asked, blushing into my Crantini.
“Well, girl, it’s like this,” God continued. “I take on an appearance that reinforces someone’s cultural prejudices. For the Judeo-Christians I’m Big Daddy. Then you have your Zen-based Asian religions. For them I have to be an entire landscape and everything in it. You get the picture. I have to be so careful about how I present myself. One slip-up and people are torturing and killing each other, simply out of fashion deprivation.”
God rolled Her eyes and lit up a Players Light. I pointed at a non-smoking sign but She did a four-way finger snap and it suddenly disappeared. She exhaled and looked at me pointedly. “Right now I’m a drag queen because you think drag queens are the heart of the gay community.”
“And mouth,” I said. “The way I see it, if the meek are going to inherit the earth, the strident are going to have to arrange the estate transfer.”
God smiled and slid Her hand up my thigh. She waved over Crantini refills for the both of us.
“I’m confused,” I said, removing God’s hand. “I thought The Bible made it clear that God is a pissy old guy.”
“I never read what they write about me,” said God. “They always misquote. Except The National Enquirer. They’re the only ones who ever get it right.”
Dumbfounded, I gaped at God. “But didn’t you dictate The Bible? It’s supposed to be the word of God. That's what Evangelicals and other hardcore religiosos, gay and straight, rely on to feel morally superior to people like me.”
God furrowed Her pencilled-in eyebrows. “What do you mean people like you?”
“I don’t have a soul,” I explained. “I sold it when I was 15 for a 22-year-old boyfriend and a bottle of glitter.”
“Oh,” said God, not without compassion. She butted Her cigarette, cruised the bartender as he placed Her drink, smoothed out Her pantsuit and regarded me sadly. “To answer your question, yes, I gave humanity my word. But boy did they ever do a lousy editing job. That’s the problem with community-based publications like The Bible, they always have an agenda that caters to special interest groups. The Bible reflects the hardships and sanitary conditions in a patriarchal, far-away desert community thousands of years ago. How many fags do you know who don’t have a fridge, own a wife and prepare fires with dung?”
“No fags,” I answered. “But I can think of a couple of dykes.”
God broke up. I bummed a cigarette from Her while She wiped off Her mascara. Since we were both getting tipsy, I got out my list of questions and fired them at God before She became too inebriated.
“Celebrities on all the awards shows thank you for their careers. Is it true what they say, that you’re sidelining as a personal trainer?”
“Yes.”
“Is it true that you created AIDS to ‘kill fags dead’? That’s what toilet stalls and fundamentalist literature say.”
“No” said God. “And you should improve your reading habits.”
“Dr. Laura,” I said. “Care to comment?”
“Who?” asked God.
“Okay, we’ll pass on that. Are gays in long-term monogamous relationships morally better than gays in open relationships or singletons who pick up strangers in bars, bathhouses, parks and public washrooms?”
“Of course not. To paraphrase Miss Mae West, when queers are good they’re very good but when they’re bad they’re even better.”
“Do you think anonymous public sex poses a threat to children and family values?”
God chewed Her bottom lip thoughtfully, put down the swizzle stick She’d been playing with and said, “If you’re taking your kids to a park or alley at midnight for a family outing then the problem is your parenting skills, not public sex. By the way, where are all these children whose lives have been destroyed by seeing someone diddling in a bush?”
“Let’s talk about Rome. The Vatican fought tooth and nail to stop World Pride in Rome and it got pretty ugly. What’s your take on it?”
“I don’t know what The Vatican’s big deal is,” said God. “Catholicism is a same-sex religion. It’s run by men who don’t sleep with women.”
“Why did you kick us out of Paradise?”
“I didn’t kick out the same-sex couples, dear. You guys were busy in the radicchio patch prepping for a dinner party. As for Adam and Eve, what part of ‘Leave the fruits alone’ didn’t they understand? When they get it, I’ll let them back in.”
“Okay, one last question. Angels. They’re everywhere. They’ve even got TV shows now. It’s enough to make you dash for the insulin. Are they really that nicey-nice?”
“Yes,” said God. “And bored. Not much happens in Heaven. That’s why some of them snuck out and went to Hollywood. The real trouble with angels is that people emulate them. Most spiritual leaders in history have been upstarts. Take Christ. He was no angel. He defied the status quo, contradicted the governing ethics of the time and pissed off everyone in power.”
“Gee,” I said. “He must have been queer.”
After that things began to diffuse into a Crantini blur. The next thing I knew it was morning, I was in my bed and there was God beside me. She—who was definitely now a He—noticed the shock on my face and smiled.
“I’m God dear,” He said. “I always get my man.”
Originally published in Xtra West © Guy Babineau 2003-1004
< home