I read an article—okay, I skimmed a headline—about a bakery that wouldn't sell to a lesbian couple. I only read the headline—because I couldn't stomach the story—and I seethed.
Anger clouds my brain. I go to "What the Fuck?" really quickly, and then I babble. You need—or I need—cool, calm, and collected in order to make the words flow.
But here is the thing I keep mulling over. So you won't bake a cake for an LGBTQ customer. Would you bake one for me?
I've had the most sizzling sex life. I've fucked two men—gorgeous, beautiful men—been the filling in their sandwich, been the... (wait for it) icing on their cake. And the women—oh, yes, those women. I've been a corner in a foursome, an aperitif before the event. Would you make me a cupcake? Would you ice my cream puff?
Will there be some point in the future when vendors will be able to say, "Have you attended an orgy? No pie for you. Did you splosh? Did you skinny dip? Was there a night—oh, one wondrous night—when you lost all sense of decorum and gave yourself up, let yourself be passed from one man to the next? Limbs tangled and entwined. Moonlight caressing your sticky body? I thought so. No yule log for you. No gingerbread house."
It could be a fab premise for a sci-fi film if it wasn't so fucking offensive.
How about fantasies. If I've thought about doing something dirty, would that nix me for the nougat? Would I get no devil's food cake if I haven't been an angel?
You don't know me. You don't know what I've done or who I've fucked. You can't tell that from looking at me. So would you? Would you bake me a cake?