How Can I, a Homosexual, Possibly Stop Touching My Face?

With coronavirus on the rise, I am faced with my biggest challenge yet.

As we all know by now, we should be taking certain precautions to mitigate the spread of the coronavirus: Wash your hands, avoid large crowds, work from home, not be in your 70s. Basically, if you’re a young, healthy, germaphobic misanthrope, you’re all set to wait out this global pandemic. For me, that’s a big old check, check, check, and double check.

I’ve been avoiding touching doorknobs since I realized that way too many men don’t wash their hands after using a public restroom. Honestly, being around men in general, straight men in particular, has made me keenly aware of how disgusting human beings can be. If you’ve ever been in a locker room with a bunch of midlife hetero dudes who have aged out of giving a single fuck about personal hygiene then you’d know what I mean.

That’s why when Purell came out on the market in 1996, when I was 11, I made a beeline to the store to buy the little travel-size bottles, a version of which I’ve almost religiously carried on my person for the past 25 years. So I felt uniquely qualified to confront this latest sign of our impending doom.

But then there was that one tricky caveat listed among the coronavirus precautions: Don’t touch your face.

I thought I could handle that simple directive. After all, I’m an adult. I pay taxes. I know what a 401(k) is. But as time wore on I knew this would, indeed, be my undoing. How can I, an avowed and practicing homosexual, possibly stop touching my face?

How will I express my exasperation at the incompetence of others when I am, as usual, right?

How will I feign interest when people start talking to me about sports or their kids?

What am I gonna do after narrowly avoiding a confrontation with my neighbor about her party this weekend that I am so not going to despite RSVPing a month ago?

How will I let these children know that they ain’t got shit on me, even on their best day, in their best hour, wearing their best knockoffs?

How will I know how to find my best angles and my light like Mama Tyra taught me?

How am I going to keep my head from exploding whenever Rihanna decides to show up again with new music?

What am I gonna do when I can’t… even?

How am I going to cope with yet another estranged relative posting about how all of this is just a hoax by the Democrats to embarrass Trump, as if he needed the help?

What am I supposed to do when he unlocks his private album on Scruff?

How am I gonna get rid of the evidence after slutting it up on my lunch break with a little afternoon delight?

What am I going to do after I see someone’s wig get snatched in a public arena?

For the love of Gaga, this is how I got ready this morning:

What am I gonna do now, huh? Not beat my face to the gods? That’s when the coronavirus wins. But desperate times call for desperate measures, and if I have to stop touching my face, so be it.

Also me:

Stay healthy, kids!

Lester Fabian Brathwaite is an LA-based writer, editor, bon vivant, and all-around sassbag. He's formerly Senior Editor of Out Magazine and is currently hungry. Insta: @lefabrat