Hey Fat Ass!

Photo courtesy of Bronwyn Keenan

Hello. I am of the homosexual persuasion. When I was young, I was ostrichsized, sorry, ostracized, and felt bad about myself. As I grew older I became gayer and prouder and more predisposed to going out and having a good time (i.e., getting laid). That meant primping and preening and meeting more primpers and preeners.

Outside of the totally obvious places, a great place to meet other men is the magazine business. Not just women’s fashion magazines like Vogue and Harper’s Bazaar, but men’s magazines like Details and Maxim. Usually we spend half the day flirting and the other half telling people what to look like. Sometimes it’s the same thing. Sometimes, too, I think we have too much power.

Dramatic pause.

When we put dresses on skinny bitches it was because they hang well on bony shoulders—like a coat hanger. We never intended for teenage girls to puke themselves into an haute couture version of Skeletor. And the straight guys—OOPS! Even fag bashers are running around in short socks, with waxed chests, frosted tips, manis, pedis, facials, plucked eyebrows, shirtless at the club with gel in their hair…calf implants! Calf implants?! Straight guys are overtaking us in the primping and preening department, and whenever I bring it up with them they say, “Um, it’s called grooming.”

I went to see a black female comedian with my very straight brother the other night and watched him turn red with rage when she said, “Brothers like a woman with some meat on her bones. White guys, you all want your bitches too skinny.” He leaned over to me and said (in a very accusatory tone, I might add), “Actually, we were never consulted. It’s you faggots controlling all the magazines and brainwashing everyone.”

That night I went back to his apartment and noticed this Steve Canajay painting on his wall. “Is that what you guys wanted?” I asked, pointing to the absurd ass. “Almost,” he replied, “almost.”

All I could say was sorry. I was just trying to meet guys.