My parents are gayer than me.

It’s Sunday morning. I enter to find the TV set to silent. Lady GaGa’s new album is playing on the stereo. Naked bodies are writhing over the television screen.

Of course I stop and watch. The movie is South Korean. Therefore the two actors are both hairless and (to my foggy eyes at least) similar looking— in gender that is. My parents beat me to it;

‘Where’s the woman gone?’
‘She was there a minute ago.’
‘But that’s her husband.’
‘Yes, but he’s gay.’

All three of us watched the King (it was a period-drama called A Frozen Flower) and his man-cubine give each other the business. The end of the scene cuts to a teary-eyed Queen in waiting. ‘Oh, poor thing,’ said Mum, before trying to decipher who was who in the next scene. The characters were in clothes now—previously my parents had been flicking through the Foxtel, stopping only when captivated by the oily slappage.  

‘Him! He’s the gay one!’
‘No he is,’ replied Dad, pointing at yet another smooth and silk clad courtier. 

Later on I walked in to find more on-screen humping. This was the betrothal scene. The fruity king was in bed with the still dewy eyed wife. Both of them looked on the verge of throwing up vomit and tears.

‘Well this is awkward,’ I said.
‘Yes it’s terrible,’ said Mum. Both she and Dad had their faces pinched in disapproval. 

 Lady GaGa kept singing throughout.