The story of a gay frog-prince

You remember the story about the princess and the frog? How they kissed, metamorphosed, and lived happily ever after? Well, they missed out on an important part. I’m assuming they did because, well, amphibians aren’t very literary (ex-amphibians aren’t either).

It all started out very hunky-dory. I was rich, handsome and of course, a prince. Girls loved me (as did guys). They were everywhere, and well, I must have offended one of them at some point, because she cast a spell upon me. In those days, witches were everywhere. So there I sat, upon a mossy rock, waiting for some foolish girl to kiss me. Well, when the propitious day turned up, I turned back into a man. Only, I was gay.

I didn’t figure it out at first. I was too happy to have been released from my slimy life, to care particularly about who I was kissing. But when she got the banns posted, and the wedding bells rung, it dawned upon me that the fireworks were missing. Not actual fireworks, mind you, the wedding was full of ‘em (as if it wasn’t hard enough to breathe already). But you know, the fireworks that all those fairy-tales say you’re supposed to be getting? Nada.

Anyway, there wasn’t much scope for a gay ex-frog to frolic, because I had duties. My palace was full of these very able-bodied men, who were just dying to help me out with anything I might undertake. Oh, those were fun times.

The trouble came when my wife caught me swatting flies with my tongue in front of the mirror. I was simply practicing my technique (it had taken a lot of practice in the early days, and I didn’t want to my lose touch). Although, on hindsight, the fact that I had on a pair of exquisite high heeled Gucci pumps may not have helped matters. She filed for divorce, and that was that.

Turns out that the nasty old witch who cast a spell on me had included a clause for divorce, namely, that the state of human-ness would last as long as the marriage lasted. On the steps of the courthouse, as we stepped out after the divorce, there I was, the frog amidst some very expensive-smelling finery.

As I struggled to get out of my heels (my valet did always lace them on too tightly), who should descend upon me but a writer, who promised to make my story known to the world. I was only too happy to oblige, and later in the evening, as we walked down the streets, she encouraged me, a fellow sufferer of life (the world isn’t kind to writers and frogs) to write my own stories. For who knows, if it only takes a kiss to turn a frog into a man, what it may take for a man to become a writer.