Your Author, the Fag-Stag
Sometimes I envy the queer guys. I really do. There’s a remarkable simplicity to their couplings. Yeah, I know they fight just like everyone else, and there’s nothing quite as frightening as two guys getting into a lovers’ quarrel. But still. Their mating game is simplified. There’s none of the second-guessing that comes with the gender divide. None of the “I want to fuck you but for whatever byzantine reasons I find myself unable to.” And most are poly-sexual to a fault.
My friend from college and his fuck-buddy showed up at my door yesterday doing the whole Queer Eye for the Straight Guy routine. After a pleasant seafood dinner with the two of them, Leslie and ex-harem girl Roberta, the guys literally dragged me to open-mike night at a little cabaret in the West Village. The fuck-buddy belted out a couple showtunes to much applause and, of course, felt the need to announce to the entire room that I was the “straight guy”, making me, of course, the butt of the jokes for the rest of the night. “I must be straight,” I said to the fuck-buddy at one point. “My hands smell like fish.” Later on I took them to the place where I bought my skivvies in preparation for the underwear party a couple of weeks ago. I ended up in a conversation with the clerk who had helped me out. “Let me guess,” I said. “You’re gonna tell me I just haven’t met the right guy yet.” And that’s exactly what he went on to say.
Roberta, incidentally, is the girl at the top of that picture above, a large-breasted Italian-American girl from Jersey. Along with Leslie and the young Jewess at the bottom of the picture, she was one of the harem girls of 2001. Yes, I once had a harem. There’s no better word for it. In fact, the girls chose the term and appointed me their harem-master. One of these days I’ll write the story of the harem, but it is a long one, full of twists and turns that I find myself unable to navigate at the moment.
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