If one looks closely, however, (and here the relation between "detail" and knowledge brought up by the Mimi White essay seems pertinent) one notices that hanging on the closet door there is his blue Muay Thai boxing T-shirt (sweaty and gross -- or hot, depending on how you brushed against your mother's sentencing of male sweat as disgusting) beside my white ballet top (impeccably clean). So there IS difference in this ocean of visually interchangeable garments.
The "same"-sex couple's closet, at least in this instance, is a site of symptom, anxiety and struggle for the necessary establishment of difference that heterosexually-granted queer "sameness" works so hard to efface. You are all just fags. This negation, or prohibition, of detail causes the kind of ontological crisis that our white dresser isn't as friendly to. On the dresser the differences of the subjects involved in this relationship of presumed "sameness" are more apparent -- as well as their latent fluidity. His Kindle on the left, my analog poetry on the right. My cologne bottles on the ledge, his mints under it. His dull-colored underwear in a drawer, my white socks and pink dildo in the other. But who's to say I don't wear the dull-colored underwear when I run out and he doesn't borrow the dildo when I'm away? One thing is certain though: I would never EVER read the contents of his Kindle and he would never EVER consider opening, or even reading the title of any of my books.
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