Beautiful in Their General Direction

**It's nice to have pretty friends.

I have this close acquaintance with a 14-year old dude who has the makings of a fabulous beauty queen. He prefers to be called Luisa, but his birth certificate refers to him as Luigi. He's taking female hormone pills this early on because apparently, you can never be too young to be beautiful. It's a fact best proven by his first accomplishment in his first beauty contest; he outranked fifteen veteran pageant contestants in a 25-strong beauty contest that had boobed transsexuals in the roster.

Its fucking outrageous, I tell you, unfair even that some bucky lastards get to have the elusive Gorgeous Gene. They're guaranteed a lifetime of worship, catcalls, beauty contest titles, and unsolicited free sex. And it gets no better than that, because there goes all the golden opportunities available to us gayfolk. In the third world, at least. Them in the unfashionable end of this spectrum live life anonymously as statistics in the all too de rigueur payroll. Because its the only way they can get laid.

I'm comfortably lodged in the precise middle of this spectrum where the margin of conceit is at it's most critical. See, I'm neither prettier or uglier than the next screaming fag out there, and that leaves very little room for the life threatening "I am beautiful, hear me roar" tantra. I'm afraid it's a comfort zone that's closest to home, and I'm not complaining or none. It's the inner Pageant Candidate in me that's crying foul.