I might be queer.
It's not easy for a straight man to come to terms with certain things: that he may be losing his hair or might not ever be a super-powered crime-fighter who walks the streets at night taking down the scum that the police cannot, or will not, deal with. In general, men have a hard time with the fact that they probably aren't going to be professional basketball players who live in opulent mansions filled with cases of expensive Scotch and nubile, bare ladies in cheerleader outfits prancing around at all hours.
Nothing is harder for a presumably heterosexual dude to admit, however, than his gay tendencies.
As a brief aside, and before you read any further: if you are the type of person who thinks that "God hates fags" or that gay people are freaks of nature, please go find another website to look at. This one should be right up your alley. (Also, you are an idiot. Seriously. An utter, mindless, nose-picking, poop-throwing, troglodytic buffoon.)
See, a hetero guy, for better or for worse, is pretty much totally disinterested in - if not slightly repulsed by - the physical aspects of man on man love. It'd be wholly wrong to simply accredit this phenomenon to homophobia or bigotry. It isn't. Straight dudes just don't like to watch other straight dudes hump. Gay men know this, and generally take great delight in making their breeder pals squirm with graphic descriptions of their sexual escapades (at least my gay friends do). Even the most open-minded film buff who never misses an Academy Award-nominated flick has a hard time watching Heath Ledger (R.I.P.), err, butt "love" Jake Glynenhagahol (sp?) for like twenty minutes in full framed close-up glory. The more polite and reserved audience members probably just close their eyes for the bulk of it, whereas the less socially dignified tend to make audible groans and hide their faces in their hands.
But recently it suddenly struck me that there's a strong case to be made that I am gay, if one lays out the evidence in list format. And in the spirit of self-discovery and via my total lack of shame, I'm going to lay it all on the table for you, Dear Reader. Hence, the following:
"The Top Five Reasons I Am Probably a Closeted Homosexual"
First: I live in San Francisco.
I don't really know how much history I need to delve into here, so I'll just briefly explain that statement. San Francisco is widely accepted to be the gay bastion of the United States. For a little background about this, you can go see the inevitably ten-thousand Oscar-winning film, Milk, in theaters now. It stars Sean Penn, who critics absolutely can't help but fellate in print whenever he takes on a dramatic role -- even when he goes "full retard" as warned against by the fellow brilliant character-actor Kirk Lazarus in the movie Tropic Thunder.
Tropic Thunder will not win any Oscars, by the way, which nobody will care about except me, for I am familiar with the signs of the coming apocalypse. Sean Penn was good in two movies: Fast Times and The Game. That's it. Otherwise, he's just a smug, smarmy cokehead who lives in Marin. You hear me Sean? You just got dissed hard by a maybe-gay guy!
Second: I am way into superheroes.
Have you guys looked at a comic book in, say, the last hundred years? With the notable exception of the Amish guy in Freshmen, every single superhero is rippling with tight, sweaty muscles and packed into a skin-tight outfit that no doubt gives crazy moose knuckle when it starts to ride up. That look is not sexy to anybody with a uterus. That look is, however, way, way Tom of Finland, the most popular gay cartoon artist ever.
Third: My pants fit.
I like a little freedom of movement as much as the next guy, but I don't own a single pair of pants that won't stay up without a belt on. That look is not at all modern, nor is it hip. Furthermore, if the leg has a slight taper: perfect. I'd like to say that I'm fashion conscious, but I really am not. I've tried to go baggier, and have purchased pants that were more relaxed in fit, but I just never wear them. I guess I like the feeling of packing my abnormally large white booty into snug denim. If that isn't a huge rainbow flag, I don't know what is.
Fourth: I cannot stop playing Little Big Planet.
Little Big Planet is the most fun game ever made that probably decreases testosterone output as the player progresses in levels. For those of you that aren't familiar with the premise, I'll summarize it now. The player assumes control of a "sack person." The player dresses his or her sack up in a variety of clothing options, such as pirate shorts, a Goldilocks wig, cat-eye glasses and/or bunny ears. The player then non-violently maneuvers through perilous obstacle courses with the goal of collecting more outfits and stickers to put on things. The player can also decorate his or her cardboard base-thingy with said stickers and or cute little objects like flowers or self-portraits taken in-game. There are also cute animals.
And then we all sing show tunes, and open a bottle of champagne with notes of raspberries.
Fifth: This picture. (And that one isn't even the worst one of that set; it's just a mere peek at how bad that night got, and no doubt how bad it will get the next time my equally gay friends and I are in a hotel room together with a few drinks on board.)
There are three people in this picture.