Haines His Way

SHEEPISH
by Paul Rudnick
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Enough already. I’m Troy, a gay sheep, and I’ll tell you the truth. Although I’m conflicted about calling myself a gay sheep, because I don’t like to think that my sexuality defines me; let’s just say that I’m a sheep who happens to be gay. Being gay is just a simple biological fact, like having a fleecy undercoat or bleating while you’re being shorn, or getting aroused whenever you see a bulky turtleneck sweater.

When I was growing up, I assumed that I’d be just like everybody else, and that someday I’d be bred with a ewe and slaughtered. But, of course, those other feelings were always there; even when I was only a few years old I would gaze at another male lamb and think about sharing a stall, with just enough hay and maybe a nice mid-century trough. I tried not to focus on my urges, and whenever my mom caught me rubbing up against the fence post that I called Skipper I’d pretend I had lice. But as the years went by I started to act on my desires, first with Ed, who was a ram, if you know what I mean. Later, I became involved with Rick, a sheep my own age, although after our encounters Rick would always claim that he was drunk on compost, and he’d butt me with his head and insist, “Dude, let’s go get us some mutton.”

Finally, my dad found me with Rick, and he flew into a blind rage, yelling that he had no son, and that if I was lucky I’d end up as a cheap Peruvian cardigan worn by a truck-stop hooker in Alaska. And so I ran away, and I went wild. I experimented with everyone and everything. Bulls. Mules. Duck, duck, goose. I found out exactly why they’re called the Three Little Pigs. Call me Old McDonald, because I had the farm. I even made some adult films, and maybe you’ve heard of them: “Wet Wool,” “Lassie, Come Here,” and the mega-selling “Hoof and Mouth.” Then, one morning, I woke up next to a horse, a hen, and an ear of corn—that’s right, all the food groups. And I was disgusted with myself. What was I, livestock?
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