This post is about a dish at a local brunch café. A plate full of artery-clogging foods, the dish is aptly named Fit for a King. Or Queen. It literally says that. The dish actually allows you to define yourself when you order. A small allowance of freedom within the menu's rules. Easy enough. Penis: King. Vagina: Queen. Still, it proved more difficult for me to order.
Once the waitress came to take our order, my own inner debate had still not ended: Should I order it as "Fit for a King," or "Fit for a Queen"? The establishment was good enough to let me declare my own identity. But would I go along and order it like the queen I am? Or would I let my straight-boy tendencies take over and smother my sexuality? The waitress interrogated my friend, scribbling down her order of cinnamon apple french toast. My turn. The creases in her face drove themselves together, her eyes searching me for the answer that only I could let out. Those creases, that contentedly delineated the curvature of her face, were defiantly proud of their years. Those eyes, unknowingly searching for my identity, have been subject to the world before my time. My inherent distrust of those born before me rose up inside me like a tall wave bursting upwards.
" 'Fit for a King', please."
With the swish of a pen she noted my lack of courage and left.
