A gay male best friend is a crucial addition to a girl’s circle. He often makes the best shopping or dancing buddy and he offers a (slightly skewed) male perspective. I’ve been a fag hag since I was in high school, when I outed my friend Steven at the lunch table when we were 15. In short, gay men like me.
I met Mikey, who lives in San Francisco but frequently visits New York, through our mutual friend Arianna. The day we were introduced he gave me a hair cut, did my make-up and then bought me $200 worth of MAC cosmetics. It was like winning a contest. For all intents and purposes I assumed Mikey was a blatant homosexual. Even as he started rambling about an ex-girlfriend and not being gay I figured he was clearly misinformed about his own sexuality and ignored it. He boarded a plane and I totally forgot about him until the other day, when he was back in New York.
“Come over. I’ve got a hotel room over Times Square! Let’s drink and order room service—you should bring an overnight bag.” These sound like the words of a p-i-m-p lady-killer, but if you picture them said in a really faggy way it changes things. I made it clear there would be no sleepover and came over half expecting another trim and hoping our common friend would already be there.
The hotel room reeked like the most potent gay club cologne ever. There was house music playing through a neon pink iPod. Mikey was drunker than the last time, which means he was gayer, but it was aggressive and directed towards me because he claims to be straight. It was like when your gay best friend awkwardly fumbles around and talks about his crush, except in this situation you’re the crush. The only thing I could do to thwart the crazy was make my self as small as possible on a corner of the bed. Luckily there were other people in the room; including a girl who’s sexuality was equally as questionable. She had footballer broad shoulders and really short, partially shaved hair; she kept making allusions about liking women but wasn’t a “lesbian”. The other guy in the room was very tiny and spent 35 minutes folding his jeans. When he was showing Mikey his photos (he drives the largest truck I have ever seen), they managed to pretzel up so it was like sit spooning.
Going to cosmetology school may seem like a genius ploy to get close to women’s faces, but it will not get you laid. Girls want to fuck men that kill small animals, not men that know the nuances of eyeshadow. It’s even better if the guy kills large animals; though we may feign outrage for your benefit, we think murder is sexy. Mikey gave me a lil’ lesson in bronzer before we went out, and though I was informed, I was not turned on. Moral: Like I said, don’t go to beauty school if you want to get laid. Go to motorcycle-surf-shark wrangler school.
All the sexual weirdness made me sexually weird and so we went to a strip-club. I completely homo’ed out with all the strippers, but I got in trouble when trying to suck their tits, so I guess things didn’t get that gay. We went back to the hotel (Arianna had joined) and for some reason that I didn’t question at the time; Mikey had stripped down to his underwear. I really wanted to leave but Arianna wouldn’t let me so we ordered more room service. I’m not sure what was said, but Mikey started tearing—and then he started to cry. He was in his underwear crying. Nothing says, “fuck me” quite like a meltdown in front of two girls fresh from the strip-club. I left, but not without throwing up. I texted him to apologize the next afternoon (I guess I really wanted that hair cut) and he replied “U can make it up to me by coming to my hotel and banging me really good!!!” It’s one of those situations where I almost wish I had had sex with him because 1. It would probably haven been very, very funny and 2. I would have had an ample bet going with myself on whether or not he could have penetrated me.
FIN