So, as it turns out I’m a great big fag. Well, I’m not really that big at all, but suffice to say I’m about as straight as a plate of spaghetti. Uhh, cooked spaghetti. Because raw spaghetti is quite straight indeed. But not that you’d pick it though–I couldn’t flame, flounce, flirt or be fabulous for the life of me, and I don’t exactly trumpet the fact of my sexuality to everyone I meet.
(Then again, it’s pretty obvious if you take the time to know me. I mean, how many straight men have nice streaked hair, clean clipped fingernails, a coordinated wardrobe, an all-over tan, select their eyewear depending on the occasion, own more than 10 pairs of shoes, go to the gym and cook for themselves? Okay, well probably tens-of-thousands (damn you “Queer for the Straight Guy” for muddying the waters!) but coupled with the fact that I’m always turning up “single” at work-related functions, it certainly narrows the odds that I’m destined for a nice country girl, a white picket-fenced house and a secret fetish to wear a diaper while being relentlessly whipped by a fierce dominatrix named Kinky Cassie. But I still don’t talk about it because, like, who really cares anyway?)
Well as it turns out, some people do care. Chiefly a couple of buddies at my gym who’ve cottoned on to my not-so-straight-after-all status and have decided to weird out on me. I didn’t tell them of course, but a couple of other gay guys at the gym (they’re the type that, uhh, stand out) decided to spread the word that Jervoise is a great big male homerrrsexual. Oh, the horror.
It’s no biggie to me, except that aforementioned buddies have become just a little too precious in the change room and weight room as if I (all of a sudden!) am about to jump out and snag me a tasty snack of poor, helpless, innocent straight man. Talking to some guys now, they’re on the metaphorical tip of their manly toes–like I’m about to suddenly snatch up a man in my Big Gay Arms and spirit him away to my Big Gay Love Nest of Depravity for home-made hors d’oeuvres, spinach quiche and a nice bottle of Perrier.
Well, I’m not. I don’t want a straight guy. I have no interest in the men at my gym. I don’t even like quiche! (And Perrier tastes like pee.) There’s a few key points I’d like my straight male friends to remember–just to make my life a little easier and less awkward: (i) I’m gay, but I don’t want your dick; (ii) I’m gay, but I’m not interested in checking out your ass; and (iii) I’m gay, but I don’t want to throw you to the ground, wrestle you into submission, tear off your clothes, lick you from head to toe, straddle yo… ahem.
To put it another way, I’m gay–and this is a message for all you scared, panicky drama queen, attention-seeking, straight men out there:
• I’m not peeking at your dick in the changerooms. I’m not interested in you or your cock. You’re straight. I don’t go for straight men. See, my eyes are focused above your waist. Notice how my vision never strays below. I have great self-control. I’m looking at you dead in the eye. I have absolutely zero inclination to look at your weenie. I’m sure it’s perfectly lovely, but I’m conditioned not to even notice. Respect that.
I do notice, on the other hand, that now that I’m suddenly The Gay Guy, you are checking me out with a mixture of curiosity and misplaced sense of novelty. Yeah, feel free. I’m still the same guy you knew a few weeks ago. My body parts haven’t morphed into something special now that I’m suddenly gay. I haven’t grown a third testicle, sprouted a Enormous Throbbing Gay Man’s Boner, or gotten a pink triangle tattooed on my arse.
(More’s the shame; I’d love to have a…
…
pink tattoo.)
I’m exactly the same man. So get over it. Stop freaking out like a nervous 13 year old first time in a bikini. I’m really not interested in starting at your man boobies. They’re nice, but to be honest you don’t have anything I haven’t seen before.
• I’m not interested in hitting on you. You can still chat to me without awkward pauses or nervous sideways glances. You can still tell me about your weekend. You don’t have to mention your “girlfriend” and your busy, loud, virile, STRAIGHT AND MANLY sex life with every fucking breath. Fear not, I will not assail your tender ears with my tales of my wicked and debauched life(style). (Although I’d love to–the Pride Party was last weekend was there’s plenty of nasty details I’d love to get into!) I’ll continue to talk about sport, complain about working long hours, chat about my weekend plans (censored for straight sensibilities of course) and discuss my cardio routine.
You just do the same, mmm-kay?
Besides, why presume that I’d even be interested in you? Why fucking worry that every damn gay guy wants your straight ass? Some of us gay men (most of us?) have absolutely zero interest in converting straights to our team. Why not? Well first we’d have to practically drag you into bed. Once there, we’d have to take the lead in everything–while you, on the other hand, would probably lie there like a stunned, shy ingénue too petrified and frigid to move on another guy. Bor-ring! Then, in the morning (or immediately after), you’d freak out and either (i) pretend nothing happened; or (ii) blame me for assailing your delicate straight sensibilities by tricking you into bed.
Blah, spare me the effort.
Long story short: me gay; you straight; and therefore, you not my type!
• Please stop flattering yourself. You’re a lovely guy – you really are! – but baby, you’re NOT the be-all and end-all of masculine sex appeal. You’re good looking, but you’re not all that. Contrary to what you may believe, I can resist your manly appeal: you’re NOT the scent of blood to a pack of ravening gay sharks; you’re NOT the last pair of dirty schoolgirl panties in a Japanese vending machine; you’re NOT the melted chocolate at the bottom of Anna Nicole’s handbag; you’re NOT the last drip of cocaine down the back of Courtney Love’s nasal passage.
You’re okay, but to be perfectly honest there’s plenty of other guys out there–available, hot and horny gay guys. Many whom want me. 
Besides you have funny hairy feet, you have an outie belly button, your legs are under-developed compared to your upper body… and your pubes badly need a trim, dude. Like, ewww.
Trust me sunshine, I can do better. Relax!
Jervoise
