I admit that I can be set in my ways. My father was a Marine, and I spent a lot of childhood during the ’50s and ’60s in the American south, so I had a conservative upbringing, which I got over when I grew up.

When I got interested in kink and open relationships, both activities felt natural, so I didn’t have an issue with keeping an open mind. The same thing goes for trans folk, but I do get tripped up occasionally on how to address them.

As Ret mentioned earlier, I’m Estonian by birth, and remember enough of the language to remember the genderless personal pronouns ta and talle. You’d think the notion of he/she being fluid would be an easy thing for me.

That’s what you’d get for thinking.

After Wren, Teddy, and their crew left, I sat and stewed about my inability to keep gender IDs straight (so to speak). Ret asked me if I was all right.

“Yeah, I am. Just frustrated with myself. That is not the first time I’ve done that dance with Wren. It’s a wonder sh . . . I mean, he’s put up with me. Dammit!”

Ret patted my back. “It’s okay. You try, and you’re an ally to those folks, so they’re willing to cut you some slack. From the Abbott and Costello bit you almost did, I think it has almost become a game with them.”

I went back to stewing, despite Ret and even Boss’ efforts to pull me out of my funk.

It got busy at the bar a few minutes later, and I let work pull me out of my blues. I had to go down to the basement and change out an empty of Big Eddy Russian Imperial Stout (sita! Mark drinks a lot of that stuff!), and checked the Jägerbrew keg. (Interesting stuff, Jägerbrew. More about that later.)

And no, I am not talking about Jägermeister. I carry that, but I hide it in the back, dusty corner with MD and three very old bottles of Boone’s Farm that I use to clean chrome.

By the time I finished grunting things into place, I felt better. I was tempted to tap a tiny sip of Jägerbrew for a pick-me-up, but I’m not prepared to be awake for three days straight.