I've known a heterosexual couple. They were young and often tempestuous. As if they were unable to reconcile their fundamental dissimilarities - one being a woman, the other, a man. She was femme, and he played at being her butch. At least, he was arrogant and rude at times, and emotionally distant beyond outbursts of anger. His tattoos were terrible, though. I felt bad for her, looking for masculine bliss in a world of heterosexuality... like searching for pearls in the desert. Last I heard, they're going to have a baby - just the two of them. He's even going to make her carry it to term.
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At the "end" of Story of Heterosexuality, the title obscures all visuals. All you can see is Story of Heterosexuality - the narrative asserts itself. And yet, the heterosexual persists. I know this because I hear him bumping into walls, victim of the title drop. Maybe the male could have gone elsewhere, found more females, or experimented with hormones. But the Story of Heterosexuality renders this impossible - or at least invisible. How many poor heteros have had the possibility space of their lives curtailed by the narrative of their sexuality? I stare into the distance, heart aching for heterosexuality's casualties, as the man repeatedly slams his triangle body into the obscured labyrinth.
