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It’s because-and I’m going to quote a friend here-“They’re acting like douchebags.” There were comparisons to the cast of Jersey Shore. It has nothing to do with the fact that these guys are gay. I’m talking about the fishnet tank-tops and cutoffs with pockets hanging out of the bottom. I’m not talking about crossing your legs at the knee or speaking like … well, like a gay guy. But they agreed, almost unanimously, that overly flamboyant gay men are, to put it gently, hard to take. I’m not friends with anybody from the Westboro Baptist Church, so none of my buddies have anything outright malicious to say. And one of the benefits is that you attract women. The food must be good the place must be trendy, progressive, “coming up.” My brother Jon works in luxury retail, and contends that his gay clients have more expendable income and take better care of themselves. Without thinking too much of it, we gauge the affluence of whatever place we’re sucking down beers in by the number of gay men we can pick out in the crowd. In the car one afternoon, entirely unprovoked, my friend Eric, who does tech support, offered this about a bar we frequent: “There were a bunch of gay couples at the Taproom. But truthfully, you come up in our conversations anyway. I sat friends down in my living room, ambushed buddies on a snowboarding trip, recruited wives to corner their husbands in their kitchens. For this article, I gossiped with every straight man I know about gay guys.
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You’re not like us, you have cooties, and we gossip. Yo, man-two guys fucked each other on our couch!”Ĭonversations between three men in their late twenties about their gay friend are eerily similar to conversations between boys in their early teens about girls. “Wait! He said he fucked that one girl on the couch when we were at the beach. “Me too! I said he looked gay when he was wearing those white pants.” “I said ‘fag,’ like, a hundred times around him. In the few weeks immediately following his coming out, though, my other two roommates and I clucked like hens. We gradually slipped back into our routine. It was understood that I was not upset, that he would not have to pack, and that the details could work themselves out later. “He was a married guy.” I conjured an image of him, hunched over some guy whose poor wife was out of town. I rolled his answer around in my mouth for a minute. The look on his face told me he wasn’t expecting that question. “But what about all those girls you said you banged?” I asked. I wanted to let him know that I wasn’t disgusted, or angry, or whatever else he might think my silence implied. “I understand if you want me to move out,” he continued. I could tell he wanted me to say something he looked like he was about to burst into flames.