I may have committed a heteronormative faux pas at the bookstore last night. They were encouraging customers to buy Little Golden Books and donate them to underprivileged kids. I went through the stack of options, reiterated my long-standing disdain for the product tie-in Golden Books (a rant for another time and place), and then selected "The Fire Engine Book" (not least because the book drive was sponsored by the L.A. County Fire Department), and announced, "Let's do this one; fire trucks make boys to read." At that point, the previously pleasant homosexual clerk who had been assisting me gave me a look of fiery death. I'm pretty was sure he was thinking, "*Gay* boys don't like firetrucks, so just so you know. Also, fuck you." My relationship with said clerk was never the same, for the remaining two minutes we were in each others' company, and I have been feeling guilty since last night that I perhaps inflamed bad memories from his childhood of being expected/forced to play with stereotypically masculine toys and books.