I’m not gay, but in Florida I’m a faggot. I’d heard the word spit at me in New York City, too, but every time it took me back to Chevron and Chick-Fil-A and hot pavement and pick up trucks, standing dumbfounded but eventually laughing with my faggot friends, our faggot pants, our music and our faggot long hair. We’d seen it coming.
At 24 with a haircut, I thought I’d outgrown the slur. But Misty, my psychic, smelled it on me.