This morning, I awoke from a dream in which I was sharing a house with a friend, hung out and necked a little with Mick Jagger in the living room, went upstairs to pee and clogged the toilet by dropping my sweater in it while flushing, and went back downstairs to discover that Mick was now in garish mannequin drag with cherry-red glossy lipstick and that Ringo Starr and George Harrison (I know) were now in the living room, too. When it was time for everyone to leave, I said wait! Let me get my camera. And the musicians thought I was a big dork for wanting to have my picture taken with them.
So I made out with someone who became flagrantly womanly. Does this make me gay?