Ask Francine – Don't Take Away My Rainbows!

The truth about me? I’m on hormone-replacement therapy, better known as HRT, where women with tragically reduced estrogen levels (like me, still in their youth) get extra doses of the stuff. This includes the male-to-female folks who know the euphoria from having a vial of pure estrogen pumped into your veins.
This elixir makes us feel glorious and beautiful, like a rainbow over the Emerald City in Oz. I feel light, bright and young.
Because this magical female hormone boosts, tightens and stimulates just about every part of a girl’s body, I’ve decided that it’s time for me to begin dating again. It would be a shame to keep my multi-colored light from God hidden under a bushel basket, now wouldn’t it?
But I’m not sharing my light with just any heathen. The man of my dreams (and future husband/fornicator) will need to be a Christian, too. Because I am Kansas City’s favorite Christian, I understand that my needs will only be met professionally, so I arranged a date from
It appeared that the guy they chose for me would have made the Lord envious. This man’s reckless parents named him Goliath, which made him run away from home at 16 to rob QuikTrips, but his seven-year stint in prison is now behind him and he has found the Lord. That’s all that matters.
Our date? We met at a local Chick-fil-A, because it’s a Christian-owned franchise. Afterward, we went shopping at Hobby Lobby, another Christian business. You see, he had to be home before the sun set on Sabbath eve.
Oh, sinners, my heart was fluttering like a butterfly! An hour before the date, he sent me a text message (such a modern man!), which read:
I want a lady that will put God first and me second. I want the same thing too. God first and she will be second. This is how the bible says. I want a biblical marriage. I just want the other half so that we can be one flesh.
As the youth of today say, “that was _hot_.” In fact, my loins were burning as I drove to meet him, but with this 100-degree heat wave, I believe it was my dark leather seats affecting my nether region rather than lust.
Goliath makes most of his living during the holidays, playing Santa Claus at local shopping malls. The rest of the year he does street preaching in downtown Kansas City, screaming at the top of his lungs at street corners. He preaches against men putting their seed into lesbians to create babies; he screams God’s word at buxom bike-riders showing their wares to the world in a devil-may-care fashion (look at the front page of this issue if you doubt his outrage).
And the worst thing? He hates rainbows.
Unfortunately, I was wearing a gorgeous pair of Georgina Goodman’s rainbow-inspired pumps. During our meal, I kept my legs under the table, nibbling my nuggets.
Once we arrived at Hobby Lobby, however, I decided to test him: Would he succumb to my long, luscious legs, or would he choose to ignore the stirring of his manhood and concentrate only on my rainbow pumps?
As we were admiring the aisle of wrought-iron lawn art (which consisted mainly of crosses in every size and shape), I decided to re-create a tap-dance number from my childhood to draw attention to my glorious gams (toned from Jazzercise and HRT) and impress him. As I started dancing, Goliath sweetly smiled … until he saw my shoes.
Sinners, I don’t think his plumbing is working, so we’ll just say that within minutes, I was back in my car without a cross … or a second date.
You perverts have ruined my life. I loved the word “gay” and used it frequently as a word for “happy.” Then you came in and took away my favorite adjective.
You dye your dogs rainbow colors. You have a rainbow flag. You are trying to take away my rainbows, too.
But this time, I’m fighting back. Rainbows belong to us all: gay, straight, and the homeless. I’m not afraid to admit it. I am on estrogen. I am a Christian. I’m certainly not gay. It’s only… I just love rainbows.
(Francine offers her slightly skewed viewpoint on issues in the Kansas City metropolitan area's LGBT community in each issue of Camp. And since you're asking, yes, she's a fictional character. Well, you asked.)

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