Monte

Where in the hell do gay guys buy there jeans from?! I asked myself this question when my friend and I went to dinner at a very “happening” place in the West Village where all the young money in Dallas hang out. Many, if not all, of the men in the restaurant were gay, which I thought was odd considering we weren’t in the “gayborhood.” As I watched them mingle and flirt, I couldn’t help but notice all of the beautifully tailored asses moving around the room, each stitched with paisley designs and monograms of brands I had never heard of like Rock and Republic, True Religion, and 7 For All Mankind.

Ramone Johnson from About.com says, “Every gay man should own at least one pair of premium jeans.” Oh, well of course, Ramone! What was I thinking? Every gay man should know how to throw a dinner party, decorate a lamp shade, and own at least one pair of premium jeans. I must have missed class that day.

I was looking at porn the other night out of boredom, and I came across a video entitled… oh, I forget. It was either called “Gargle My Nuts” or “Pole Grinders” or something like that. Anyway, the video was shot amateur-style in a dark club somewhere where a few guys sat around a poker table playing cards. The camera man suggested that whoever was dealt the highest card gets a blow job from anyone around the table. So the cards were dealt, and the camera man asked the winner, “So who’s it gonna be?” Nonchalantly, the winner looked around the table and pointed to a younger, blonde boy. “I pick him.” And with no hesitation at all, the boy, who looked like your average joe, probably once a cub scout or alter boy in some distant childhood, got down on all fours, unzipped the winner’s jeans, and went right to work.

I’ll be the first to admit I’m a pervert, and I’m unashamedly into all sorts of bizarre sex acts, yet for some reason I found this particular porno, “Gargle My Nuts” or whatever, to be offensive. I realized that this is how society perceives gay people. What’s even more depressing is that it’s true. A stereotype wouldn’t be a stereotype if there weren’t at least some ounce of truth to it.

Here was a roomful of gay men acting just as causal as they could be—chatting about their jobs, dancing with their friends, drinking beer—meanwhile, two guys are going on down on each other and nobody seems to mind. Even worse, some don’t even seem to notice! Some sit around and casually watch. Others throw in comments like, “Yeah, boy, you suck that dick real good,” and, “Fuck. I wish had that mouth around my cock.”

This all reminded me of the time that James and I were in New Orleans, and we went to a couple of gay clubs at end of Bourbon. I remember walking into one of them and being approached by a Mexican who looked me up and down, grabbed his crotch, and said, “You’re cute.” And then when I was standing by the bathroom, two men, much older than me, stood on either side of me and stared me down.

It’s no wonder why people hate us. I hate us, too.