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Ha. Ha. Ha?
26 Thursday Jan 2012
Posted It's A Gay World
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26 Thursday Jan 2012
Posted It's A Gay World
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16 Monday Jan 2012
Posted It's A Gay World, Out This Week
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I never thought to consider the ranks of international male models as a base for those who will be coming out in 2012. Their sexuality always seemed to be a given. But evidently, like Olympic male ice skaters, the majority claim to be straight and homophobia looms large within the industry. Huh. Homophobia in the world of fashion. Right.
Be that as it may, the first celebrity to open the closet door in 2012 is Brazilian model Francisco Lachowski. Yeah, I know, Kristy McNichol, blah, blah blah. But she’s a has been who can’t even get a spot on Dancing With The Stars, and fish too boot.
The 20 year-old little hottie started his career in 2009 after winning a modeling contest in São Paulo. Currently ranked as the hottest Brazilian male model and 16th of the 50 Top Male Models, Francisco has worked for designers such as Gucci, Dior Homme, Armani, Mugler, and more. He’s become a familiar cover model and has appeared in magazines such as GQ, Vogue, and FHM, as well as in campaigns for DKNY, Armani Exchange, and D Squared.
Rumors about Francisco’s sexual orientation have circulated since his career in modeling took off, and he finally made it official during an interview with the Advocate magazine which will appear in their February 2012 issue.
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02 Monday Jan 2012
Posted It's A Gay World, Out This Week
inThe last week of each year is a popular time for just about everyone involved in the media to publish a retrospective of the year’s events. Top Ten lists are a popular way of hitting that mark. But way too limiting. I thought maybe a ‘rearview’ of the year could be fun, but then I’d want to post new pictures of bodacious male butt rather than re-post those I’ve already shown you. And that’s kinda cheating. I thought a review of the world’s leading terrorists Obama’s killed off over the last year might be a nice political ending for the year too. But, he’s got another year before the end of his term and many other bad guys to assassinate, so we’ll leave that one for next year. Ditto for the republican party crazies vying for the top nutter position; but they all spent the year assassinating themselves and with the election less than a year away there will be plenty of opportunities to delve into that little ball of freakdom, so no reason to do so now.
Stumped, I suddenly remembered as a youth one of my favorite annual articles in the local newspaper was Jeane Dixon’s predictions for the upcoming year. I don’t know that I ever tracked her forecasts during the year to see if she was as good as she thought she was, but do remember going back to check if she’d got that one the year she died. Nope. Seems to me any psychic worth her salt should at the very least be able to predict when her time would be up. But there ya go.
In any case, Ms. Dixon’s annual list of predictions saved me from being late with a year-end wrap up by offering a chance to post the same info as a forecast for 2012 instead.
2011 was a big year for celebrities deciding to finally come out of the closet. So many so that you may have missed or forgotten some of the more recent additions to our tribe. And really, who is and who isn’t gay in Hollywood is of far greater importance than whose turban Obama knocked off at neck level. Quite a few fresh from the closet have been lesbians this last year, but other than Justin Bieber, when a woman announces she’s gay it’s not really news that gay men care about. Newly minted lesbians do tend to get breeders quite hot, but gay guys, not so much.
Any celebrity of note who came out or was outted got major press. The lesser stars – and lesbians – got but an honorable mention. But that’s yesterday’s news. Rather than re-trash the list of notables who joined our team in 2011, I thought I’d steal a page from Jeane Dixon’s book and cover those who will be coming out in 2012. Jeane used an ouija board for her predictions, I rely on a much more reliable source: Google and its auto suggestion predictive algorithms. And I gotta tell you, it’s shaping up to be a very pink year.
So here are my predictions of the famous men who will open their closet doors in 2012:
Mario Lopez:
Yeah, I know. I thought he’d come out years ago too. While Mario is still a hottie, age is quickly creeping up on him so we can expect 2012 to be the year he makes it official so that he can snag a husband – or at least a room full of tops – and make his life complete.
Mario tried to follow the route many other celebrities have taken out of the closet by having a baby last year. Unlike others, he announced who the mother was but she quickly faded into oblivion and it was soon all about Mama Mario and his little bundle of joy. But Hollywood snored through that act. Been there, done that, way too many gay guys with kids now to pay any attention to yet another one. So Mario tried a different tack, by shining the light on a different little bundle of joy.
Because it’s what all straight celebrities do (wink-wink), Mario has just released his own line of mens underwear. And decided to not only be the designer and spokesperson for M wear, but its model too. Thanks Mario! And I have to say, for an obvious bottom, Mario looks to be packin’ some heat!
Lopez teamed up with online retailer FreshPair.com for his underwear venture. As quoted on the waistband of his undies, it’s “For manful men and their very special guests.” When asked what the “M” stood for, the Hollywood Hottie and all-around media whore replied, “the ‘M’ stands for masculine, modern, Mario… make it whatever you want it to be.” Um, could that also be ‘Might be gay’? Or should we just go with the traditional ‘‘Mo’.
Why Mario felt he had to dip into the world of fashion to establish his pinkness is beyond me. His greatest hits of gay moments read like a salute to Charles Nelson Reilly. Decades ago he took on the lead role for the made for television biography of Greg Louganis, Breaking The Surface and was so convincing in the sex scenes that his closet door should have swung firmly opened. Instead the world politely waiting for Mario to make the announcement of what we all all ready knew. Granted Greg was pure hotness in those days and I’d kill for a video of Mario and Greg getting it on, but when the two met they faced the age-old dilemma of many gay men: what do you do when you are both bottoms?
Mario also tried the Kenny Chesney ‘ I’m not gay so don’t ask me why my marriage only lasted two weeks’ route, but Bradley Cooper beat him to that one and again the world waited for the little gay boy to tell us he was. Mario then went for the ‘I’m gay AND a bottom by playing gay while his naked ass played the bottom role in a guest stint on Nip N Tuck, but that too failed to justify his closet door being opened for him. He followed that attempt up by playing gay again on Dancing With the Stars, and still no bites.
So even though Mario has still not made it official, it’s time we throw him a bone and call it a done deal. Or wait for the photographic proof sure to surface in 2012. Mario is gay, and unless it means him showing off his naked ass again, we need not hear any more on the subject.
Oscar de la Hoya:
Maybe it’s old news now, but a recent post I did about a muscle stud at Tawan who is a ladyboy at heart prompted a quick trip down memory lane of hunky Latino Oscar de la Hoya and the photos of him from 2007 wearing a wig, lingerie, and fishnet stockings. At the time Oscar said they were fake, but late in 2011 he admitted they were in fact real. Turns out the golden boy of boxing is more of a golden girl. But according to Oscar, it was the drugs he was taking, and not his preference for cock that made him don his gay apparel. Sorry, Oscar, but “The devil made me do it!” didn’t really work for Flip Wilson, and your rep precedes you.
Of course the ladyboys of the world would argue dressing in drag does not mean you are gay. So perhaps using those photos as proof that Oscar plays for the pink team is unfair. At best, he fessed up to being Oscar De Lady Boya. On the other hand, when Googling your name and the first predictive result the Google wizard offers you is ‘gay’ you might just consider that the word is out and admit it.
The world of professional boxing is a difficult one to be out in, but considering that three or the last four men Oscar met in the ring all publicly referred to his gayness, it would seem his secret really isn’t. Since there are no more ranked boxers willing to accept money to use Oscar as a punching fag, expect his next opponent to be his flimsy closet door.
Will Smith:
It’s a bitch being on the down low when you’ve hit an age where once you get down it’s problematic getting back up. Will Smith is another one of the unsung gay heroes of Hollywood who is quickly approaching an age where when he finally announces he favorite color is pink, no one will care. For years Hollywood insiders have referred to Will’s overly large ears as love handles. Marrying a boyish looking woman did little to quell the rumors that rang true especially in light of a notorious Hollywood Madame’s declaration:
“The first time I spoke with Smith, I had to reassure him over and over that I could guarantee discretion. Once I convinced him I could, he placed his order. It was for a man. You’d be surprised at how many Hollywood stars requested the services of the guys.”
Well, no, actually we wouldn’t be surprised. John Travolta has to do something with all that money he makes. But Will hasn’t always needed to fork over cash for his man meat. Actor Duane Martin was allegedly Will Smith’s gay lover in the past. He recently divorced TV actress Tisha Campbell after exposing himself as gay.
More recently, the Jizzy Fresh Prince has been busy with R&B singer Trey Songz. For years rumors have been constant, claiming Trey has had numerous gay relationships with men in the music industry. The 26-year-old Grammy-nominated artist has repeatedly denied that he is gay. Because straight guys always have to repeatedly deny they like cock.
In a recent interview, Troy Taylor, a record company executive and mentor to the singer said, “I know that Trey and Will have been friends for a very long time, but I can’t speak to the nature of their relationship. It’s none of my business.”
Huh. That’s almost as good as being damned by faint praise. Will attempted outing himself last year with rumors that his sham marriage was over. And it’s not like Will acts gay, I mean, definitely not Nathan Lane gay, and not even Kevin Spacey gay. But Tom Cruise gay for sure. On Google’s Out Meter, Will gets a big #4., so expect him to announce he really plays for the Men in Pink in 2012.
Taylor Lautner:
Taylor is so gay and so out he not only made it on this list but was a featured Gay of the Week earlier in the year. So I really don’t need to list all of his gay points here. But then one look at Taylor is all it should take to know that he plays on our team. Even if it is on the girl’s side.
He made today’s post, however, thanks to a fake People magazine cover that made it’s way around the internet last week. The cover quickly went viral and that People had to issue a statement denying its validity should tell you – and Taylor – just how out the boy really is.
The word is Taylor won’t be making it official until he has established himself as a major star. 2012 will be the year for reality checks and recognizing he’ll soon be slated for a run on Dancing With the Stars, expect Taylor to admit the line of boys waiting to do him will always outnumber the line of guys waiting to see his next flick. Unless he goes the gay porn route.
Rob Kardashian:
I know. The Kardashian ugly little sister isn’t even D List material, but the poor boy deserves to be thrown a bone. And you know that any supposed straight man who refers to his ass as ‘his secret weapon’ is dreaming of just how big that bone might be.
Not everyone involved with Hollywood is a celebrity or a star. Some only rank as a personality, and while none of the Kardashians actually have a personality, this last year Rob followed the lead of so many other out gay has-beens by shaking his booty on Dancing with the Stars. Jealous of sister Kim’s butt implants, Robbie boy made sure his most valuable asset was featured weekly, referring to the prodigious mounds of hotness as ‘his secret weapon.’
Um, let me guess: bottom?
Rob outted himself via Twitter (because that is what media whores do these days) with a series of drunken posts. The first one read: ‘I love men’s private parts.’ Followed by: “Yum yum yum.” Rob then started writing about his attraction to one of his skank sister’s husband, Lakers star Lamar Odom. “I love my brother-in-law. He is so big and sexy.”
You may feel that qualifies as being out, especially as saying three letter words is a difficult task for any Kardashian, but like the rest of his family, Rob is a media whore, so as soon as he learns a new “G” word, you can expect him to try and make the news in 2012.
Don Lemon:
CNN’s Don Lemon decided to be the news instead of reporting it in 2011r, but the shocker wasn’t his announcement that he was gay (it’s not news when everyone already knows about it), but that he was black. Don’s announcement this last year that he was gay didn’t work because everyone thought it was Anderson who was opening his closet door, so he followed up by announcing he is black.
Granted, his race was of more of a question than his sexual preference, but it turns out he needed to qualify the former thanks to his memoir in which he gushes over Ronald Reagan and speaks so sweetly about Bill O’Reilly you’d think he was trying to get into the FOX News pundit’s pants. Or vice versa. On hearing about Don’s conservative leanings, his white boyfriend of four years, Ben Tinker, said, “Don’s black????”
Anderson Cooper:
Not news either, but you really can’t mention CNN and gay in the same post and not give a shout out to Anderson who spent the year trying to make Andy Dick look straight.
Jealous of the mantle worn by Ellen as “gay but still acceptable to the breeders who have no life and spend their days watching television”, Anderson threw a hissy fit until someone gave him his own talk show this last year. Gay men used to have fag hags, now being BFF with a talentless skank seems to be all the rage and Anderson claimed MTV’s Jersey Shore’s Skank Snooki as his gay not-beard, joining her on-air tanning themselves orange.
Anderson, really, I know it’s an open secret but come on. The girlish giggle is enough of a clue already, do you have to go the full queen route to boot? CNN’s ratings have been dropping, and along with his pants, Anderson’s talk shows have been bottoming out too. Nothing gets a Neilson rater hotter than a celebrity announcing he is gay, so expect Anderson to take one for the team in 2012.
The Girls of Jersey Shore:
As long as we’re on the subject of not hot guidos, the interchangeable cast of Jersey Whores will all step through the closet door in 2012. Though they may have done so last year, or whenever these guys first started appearing on television. A friend – who is now an ex-friend – suggested I watch the show telling me it was like watching a train wreck about to happen. The episode I caught was about one of the gay guidos running his head into a cement wall because, um, I’m not sure there was a reason. So really the train wreck part of the show is a done deal. Guessing whether any of the ugly male cast members is gay is too. And isn’t ‘gay guido’ an oxymoron anyway?
But it’s nice that MTV continues its tradition of including gay guys in its ensemble casts. This one has four little gay boys in it: the ugly one who thinks he has great abs, the ugly one who has incredible muscles and an ass I call dibbs on, and the other two ugly ones who might as well be straight ‘cuz no gay man would ever be interested in them.
There are an equal number of fish in the show, but the entire gang spend their days sharing make-up tips, plucking their eyebrows, and drooling over each others’ boyfriends. So which have peni and which only act like they do doesn’t really matter. Come to think about it, none of them really matter anyway, but it’s always a good thing to have gay men represented on TV.
Richard Nixon:
I guess along with so many other things, Tricky Dick was wrong: we still have Nixon to kick around. A recently publish biography about America’s most infamous president by journalist Don Fulsom claims Dick liked dick. And had a lot better taste in boyfriends than he did in wives.
Nixon’s Darkest Secrets is based on Fulsom’s reporting during the Nixon administration, along with interviews with members of Congress, former White House staffers and others from the 37th President’s inner circle. According to Fulsom, Nixon had a gay love affair that spanned multiple decades with Cuban-American businessman Charles ‘Bebe’ Rebozo.
In his book he states, “Nixon and Rebozo, who the feds believe laundered money for mob kingpins in Florida and Cuba, swam, sunbathed and dined together during guys-only vacations in exclusive Key Biscayne, FL., and were once spotted holding hands under the table during a dinner with K Street power brokers.”
Another reporter told Fulsom that he once caught a tipsy Nixon nuzzling Rebozo “the way you’d cuddle your senior prom date.” The fact that the two were pals was no secret to Washington officials, and whispers often floated around about the two being a possible item right up until Nixon’s death in 1994.
As for Nixon’s beard – and possibly not the first first lady to take on that role – according to Fulsom, Dick and Pats’ relationship was a platonic one and Nixon was even given kissing lessons to help his relationship seem valid in the public eye.
Being dead makes it a bit more difficult for Nixon to come out, but this story will grow legs in 2012 and maybe then we’ll finally know what was on those 18 missing minutes of tape.
Some Rapper:
Okay, maybe that should be all rappers. I’d pay more attention to the gay hotties of the rap world, but most are just plain thug-ugly. The world of rap has a rep for being homophobic, but it turns out all those nasty lyrics about fags are really all love songs.
Ice Cube got his nickname for kneeling in worship to Vanilla Ice, it’s no secret that 50 cent is 100% in favor of his homies, P Diddy’s old moniker, Puffy, was about his skills playing the skinflute, and Dr. Dre only likes to play doctor with the boys. Then there’s the drag queen known as Queen Latifah. Add Tyrese, Busta, Redman, Method Man, Puffy, Russell Simmons, Ray J, Soulja Boy, Deadlee (though he’s already officially out), Eminem, Kanye, Q-Tip, Sisqo, LL Cool J, Lil Wayne, Ludacris . . . do I really need to go on?
The world of rap music may not be your thing, but damn is it gay! Several well-known rappers have admitted over the last year that there’s a ‘gay mafia’ that runs the rap music world, and that the only way anyone gets the industry behind them is to, well let the industry get behind them. The east coast / west coast rivalry has been done to death (literally) so expect the new battle front for 2012 to be the gay / straight rapper wars. Though it appears finding a rapper to play on the breeders’ team will be a difficult one.
17 Monday Oct 2011
Posted It's A Gay World, Out This Week
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Kirk: Spock?
Spock: Yes, captain?
Kirk: Be one with the horse.
Spock: Yes, captain.
This week, the world’s most famous Vulcan boldly went where no man has gone before – okay Ricky Martin went there first, but that hardly counts since he’s a bottom. Mr. Spock finally admitted what we all knew all along: he’s a ‘mo.
Kinda gets your ears hard just thinking about it.
Rumors about the half-human‘s willingness to explore strange new worlds have been around for light years. But with Starfleet Command’s recent abolishment of its Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell Policy, what was once fiction has become fact. Though many fans’ gaydar pinged into the red over Spock’s life-long interest in art, music, literature and poetry from many worlds, as well his mastery of the Vulcan lute and harpsichord, a good deal of the assumption about Spock playing for the pink team has always been due to his heavy bromance with the man he affectionately calls his captain. Few ever doubted that they two shared more than Vulcan mind-meld moments of intimacy.
Witness Kirk and Spock’s tear-streaked confrontation in The Naked Time, Kirk’s tantrum when Spock takes up with a woman in This Side of Paradise, Spock’s jubilation at seeing “Jim” alive in Amok Time, and Kirk sacrificing his career, his ship, and his son to have Spock back at his side in The Search for Spock. Less specifically, the countless moments the two share significant looks has always been all the proof anyone needed that Spock and Kirk were in fact a couple. That proof of the obvious has always been referred to but seldom chronicled is undoubtedly due to Spock’s reticence with showing human emotions – especially ‘those’ kind – as demonstrated in The Final Frontier, where Kirk moves to hug his friend, and Spock says, “ Not in front of the Klingons.”
“Spock’s lips beneath his were warm and yielding; his breath, intoxicating. Kirk held himself quiet, drawing away after only a moment, but immediately the dark eyes opened and a small sound came from the back of the Vulcan’s throat. His captain captured it, swallowed it, pressing their mouths together once more-”
The chemistry between Kirk and Spock has always been a given and took off at warp speed into the world of gaydom through the creation of ‘Slash Fiction’ back in the 1970s. The ‘love that dare not speak its name’ morphed into a blabber-mouth as more and more writers began providing a glimpse into the love – and photon torpedoes – shared between the two. Their bromance that blossomed into something more was even acknowledged in the 1979 novelization of Star Trek: The Motion Picture: Captain Kirk mentions their romantic relationship in the book’s forward and twice in the novel Spock refers to Kirk as ‘T’hy’la’, a term that a footnote explains means friend/brother/lover.
Chris Pine, one of Captain Kirk’s alter egos used when visiting the planet Earth explains, “It’s a relationship between two men that spend a lot of time together in space. It is very much a story about two men learning really to love one another.” And the hunkster Pine should know. His preference for outies has been an accpeted fact in Hollywood ever since his adorable face shot onto the scene.
Spock: Captain.
Kirk: Spock, we’re on leave you can call me ‘Jim’.
Spock: Jim.
Kirk: Yes, Spock?
Spock: Life… is not a dream.
Kirk: Go to sleep, Spock.
Spock is not the first officer of the U.S.S. Enterprise to open the closet door. Chief Helmsman Lt. Sulu transponded out of the pink ether in 205. But Asians don’t age as well as Vulcans do and the world let out a collective, “Eh” not indifferent about his coming out so much as rather aghast at the mental image of the 58 year-old Asian acting out his new-found freedom to engage thrusters on full. But Sulu opened the closet door, allowing Spock to own up to his own gayness, and to perhaps finally accept his deep love for his favorite captain. Possibly it was the wise words of Spock Prime (the old Spock) telling his younger self, “ I could not deprive you… of a friendship that will define you both in ways you cannot yet realize.”
Live long and prosper, indeed.
Kirk: Damn it Spock, goddamn it!
Spock: Captain, what I have done?
Kirk: What you have done is betrayed every man on the ship.
Spock: Worse, I have betrayed you. I do not expect you to forgive me.
Kirk: Forgive you? I ought to knock you on your goddamned ass.
Spock: If you think it would help?
This mean that Master Spock’s personae he uses when visiting Plant Earth, Zachary Quinto, is also gay, though as Quinto, Spock has refused to discuss his preference for men in the past. But has acted pretty gay in an off-Broadway production of Tony Kushner’s Angels in America at the Signature Theater in New York, playing Louis, the gay word-processing court employee with lofty political critiques and a lover dying of AIDS, who he cheats on with a closeted Mormon, and more recently on TV in he new sci/fi series, American Horror Story.
Quinto announced his homosexuality during an interview in New York Magazine, while promoting his film Margin Call, a financial-crisis thriller in which he co-stars alongside Kevin Spacey, Stanley Tucci, and Jeremy Irons . . . wait! Kevin Spacey?
Ouch!
That must be a bit uncomfortable. Time to seek out a few final frontiers yourself there Kevin?
04 Sunday Sep 2011
It was the biggest gun I’d ever seen. It was a thing of beauty. And not just because of its size. It gleamed; a malicious radiance throwing off sparks of danger, a miasma of silver and blued metal that held promise of protection. Or evening a score. Or ridding your life of an obnoxious pest. Like your neighbor’s little yapping dog. Dirty Harry would’ve been jealous.
Its owner was the blackest lady I’d ever seen. She had one of those sharp, angular faces that casts shadows on itself. With hair piled high to add substance to her stature, jaundiced yellow eyes should have completed the drugged out crack whore persona, but hers were as vividly white as a winter moon, a permanent twinkle having taken up residence giving lie to the menace projected by the enormous pistol cradled in her hands.
Of course, with a gun like that you can afford to have a twinkle in your eye. “Welcome to Naw’leans honey,” she purred in a deep souther drawl that made molasses seem quick. “Hop in.”
A candy apple red Cadillac of vintage age sporting ginormous fins, slung low on a set of tires so bald that the Hair Club for Men would deny them membership, idled at the taxi stand fronting the Louis Armstrong – New Orleans International Airport. Her inviting ‘Hop in’ sounded a bit too much like the come-on from a trench-coated sleaze ball plying a child with an offer of a free piece of candy.
The car’s eerie resemblance to Christine screamed, “Don’t Do It!” But that twinkle bespoke an earthy friendliness surely capable of warding off the malevolence that hovered in the fetid southern air; the pucker factor eased with an assumption that any town that lived off touri dollars frowns upon those soon to be bilked out of their last buck meeting death and disfigurement at the airport. Those were frequent flyer miles not to be awarded until a traveller’s arrival in town. San Francisco may entice you to leave your heart there. New Orleans will settle for nothing less than your gonads.
A destructive hurricane of low morals, greed, and total disregard for the value of human life insured New Orleans’ top ranking as the murder capital of the country in each year’s listing of the places where you are most likely to die. Even before Katrina’s visit.
Violent crime isn’t a way of life in New Orleans, it’s a passionate hobby enthusiastically embraced by its citizenry. Katrina’s waters only served to wash away the most recent layer of grime, crime, blood, and sin. And to show how ineffective the federal government can be when it runs up against the twin blunt force traumas of a natural disaster and Southern politics.
But Katrina was but a zephyr riding the jet stream, years away from gathering her full force, when my buddy Dave and I made our first trip to the Big Easy. Having successfully navigated the puke filled gutters of Chicago’s Rush Street and a death-wish trip into the city’s south to pay homage at Buddy Guy’s blues club, we’d decided the trip needed a hard shot of high octane sleaze to finish it off. And Bourbon Street in New Orleans’ French Quarter fit the bill.
New Orleans is a town filled with characters; a southern gothic novel of incest and insidiousness brought to life. The front desk clerk at the hotel was worthy of a chapter of her own. Her greeting carried none of the southern charm the cabbie had oozed. But then she wasn’t armed either.
She squinted at us, attempting to bring her blurry world into focus as smoke from her cigarette snaked toward her receding hairline. She was a tough looking woman, all creases and folds, like an elephant’s wrinkled ass. What remained of her hair straggled down the nape of her neck in wispy yellowing strands. Too red lipstick glared a freak-show smile that had more to do with the pleasure of fresh meat than it did of welcome.
We’d selected a hotel in the French Quarter. With no plans other than to hang out on Bourbon Street, an outlying hotel didn’t make much sense. We wanted to be within walking distance of the town’s hot spot. And were. Though we quickly found out that that walk could be the last one we’d ever take.
Gnarled hands shaking from lack of sufficient drink, she attempted to smooth a cheaply copied map across the pitted countertop. The hotel’s location, marked with a big X, was encircled by large areas of the town angrily backed out. It was a grade school child’s drawing that called for a battery of psychologists and social workers to prevent a life from spiraling out of control and ending in a dank cell surrounded by dead men walking.
She nodded sharply at the crumpled paper, confirming its accuracy and her memory that it was in fact a map, and belched a mouthful of smoke that included the cheerful greeting of, “Here. You don’t go.”
“Um, at night? We should stay out of those areas at night?”
She fumbled for a red marker, knocking over the cheap glass jar she used as a home for a collection of pens and pencils as motley as the lobby’s faded decor, the spillage of no concern. It wasn’t like it was a glass of whiskey that had been spilled after all. Holding the map flat with one arthritic claw, she scribbled a wide zigzagging path that covered an additional quarter of the map’s white space. “No,” she grunted pointing out the two color coded areas. “Black. Never. Never. Never. Red is where you don’t go after dark.”
Seems tourism in the Big Easy prefers the safety of a circling the wagons approach, the danger not from red skins, but from sons of the south whose lifestyle relies upon a steady supply of fresh blood enticed by Po’ Boys, sugary beignets, chickory tainted coffee, and the carnal pleasures flaunted and embraced by the citizens of Sodom, Gomorrah, and New Orleans alike.
Everything you’ve ever heard about Bourbon Street is probably true. It is unique; a blight of grimy historical buildings, their colors faded from years of sin, booze, greed, and lust. Southern hospitality along the world famous boulevard dictates that you do not have to actually enter a bar to grab a drink, walk up bars serve take away shots in plastic cups, the alcohol content higher than John Travolta’s libido after spotting the juicy plump ass of a Hollywood hopeful willing to trade his flesh for his dreams.
Old buildings still stand along narrow sidewalks, survivors from last time the town burned down. Wrought iron railings encircle feeble balconies overflowing with nubile young women who compete for the chance to bare their tits for a handful of cheap gaudy beads. Their numbers are legion, a disgusting display of flesh saved by the occasional cute college boy drunk off his ass and willing to show his willy for the same cheap reward. Too many tiny guys brave the display and earn nothing more than the sound of derisive laughter. The guys with more to show get their beads. And usually a bed for the night, too.
Enjoying Bourbon Street is not about adopting a New Orleans state of mind, it’s about leaving your mind back at the hotel; the brain cells you take with you will never survive the night. Drinking is rampant; overindulgence is required.
Every corner boasts a live music club, the sound of the electric twang of southern blues, the syncopated beat of zydeco scrubbed on old wash-boards, and the blaring brass of jazz compete for space with the steady call of, “Show us your tits!” Street musicians, many more talented than their paid brethren, add to the cacophony, the tinkle of coins dropped into open cases serving as a reminder that nothing in New Orleans comes without a price.
The women are cheap, the boys are sleazy, the drunken melee that passes for tourism firmly anchored at one end of the trash strewn street by a smattering of gay bars, their patrons throwing their own brand of sexuality back into the faces of the unsuspecting visitors from America’s fly over states. Raise you glass. Toast the town. Salute the DD cups displayed overhead. There are too many reasons to celebrate the decadence that fills the air on Bourbon Street.
New Orleans celebrates, embraces, and promotes all seven of the deadly sins. Many will tell you the town is all about drinking, about getting drunk, smashed to the point where the Quarter’s piss filled gutters look like a cozy spot to rest your head. Others will tell you it is about sex, naked breasts exposed for the titillation of those passing by.
Music lovers, perhaps getting it almost right, will tell you The Big Easy is all about the soul of the South floating in harmonic melody, the never ending beat of live bands offering visitors the chance to boogie the night away. While each of those are a worthy cause, the deadly sin New Orleans embraces to its chest is gluttony. In New Orleans food is not a necessity of life, it is life. And sometimes death, too.
We’d eaten our way through the French Quarter, wolfed down warm beignets frosted with enough powder sugar to kick start a dead man’s heart at Café Du Monde, dined on steaming bowls full of crawfish, sucking the juicy meat out of their little heads, and slopped our way through Po’ Boys filled beyond capacity and washed down with Dixie longnecks. But by day #2 of our trip, it was time to get in some serious dining.
We headed out to Emeril’s, a world famous landmark restaurant squatting outside of the touri infested French Quarter. The food was known to be sublime, the location had as famous of a rep. It was a place for an early dinner, catching the first seating was recommended. Not dawdling over the meal was also recommended. The word was, enjoy your meal but get the hell out of that part of town before the sun sets. Failing to heed the warning could mean your most recent meal would be your last.
The food at Emeril’s was worth the risk of life and limb. Cooked to perfection, served with equal amounts of pizzazz and aplomb, the cute waiter readily befriended the gay boys he’d landed as customers – even though the more flamboyant of the pair was straight – and willingly passed on the recipe for what would quickly become my go-to dish to serve when trying to impress guests back home.
We survived Emeril’s choice of location, survived another night of staggering our way through Bourbon Street’s watering holes, survived another early morning of the sugary confection that Café Du Monde serves with a side of beignets. And then met death yet again at what passed for breakfast for us and brunch for the other dinners who we joined at one of the French Quarter’s numerous upscale eateries the next day.
The food anywhere within the city is so incredible trying to remember one meal from the next is impossible. Our brunch that morning was memorable for the decor: small french-style black cane tables covered in starched linens as white as sin forgiven, twinkling cut glass chandeliers echoing the scene from above, bowls of southern blooms adding their heady scent to the tempting aromas wafting from the kitchen, and the refined service of dignified black men of an age gone by set that meal apart. As did the sideshow of a fellow diner having reached the pinnacle of her dining life, and with no reason to go on, deciding to give up the ghost while her dining companions sipped oil-black chicory coffee from bone white china.
It wasn’t the uniqueness of a fellow patron’s passing soon after the desert course had been served that made the meal stand out – though that has got to be a fairly unique experience even in New Orleans – but rather the combination of apathy and clam, collected efficiency in which the mournful event was handled by the staff. A dead body or bread crumbs, neither was reason for concern. Both as easily dealt with, both requiring nothing more than a quick sweeping away of the debris, a new table cloth spread, and menus passed out to the next group of hungry patrons. “Hi. My name is The Grim Reaper and I’ll be your server today.”
The minor stir caused by her death at the table went largely unnoticed. Her dining companions, obviously locals used to death making its appearance at odd times daily, moved off to the bar to raise a glass in the old biddy’s honor, plans to be made for enjoying one of the city’s famous jazz-infused funeral marches later in the week. Not used to death being such a normal part of daily life, to us her passing was a sobering event. Which meant a quick jaunt back around the corner to Bourbon Street’s conglomeration of bars to rid ourselves of our new found – and not long to last – sobriety.
New Orleans is a city of excess. It brings out the best and the worst – or at least the most venial – in all of its visitors. And we, or at least I, were no exception. Dave and I had been buddies for most of that year, had become BFFs, partying together nightly back home and travelling to the more famous dens of iniquity spread across the American mainland frequently. You can’t suffer rock fever in Hawaii if you leave often enough; time your trips right and the specter of living on a tiny island with nothing much other than going to the beach to do is camouflaged by nursing a hangover that lasts longer than your most recent trip abroad. We’d become friends, familiar drinking buddies, and travelling partners. And at least one of us was in lust.
New Orleans’s magical mix of voodoo and vodka whispered in my ear late one night as we lay in our separate beds waiting for the room to quit spinning so sleep could come. We always spent those times deep in debate over philosophical questions of morality and ethics. Like, “If you had to chop off an appendage, which would it be, and how much would you be willing to pay for a replacement on the black market?”
That night, Dave made some unremembered comment that presented me with the perfect opening, a comment undoubtedly about the gay bars strung along Bourbon Street, ‘cuz I picked up on the cue and matter of factly announced, “Yeah, well, you known I’m gay . . .”
Dave didn’t bat an eye. He ignored my comment, and continued making whatever unimportant point he’d been trying to make. Shit. I’d just come out to him. The first official time I’d ever done so in my life. Normally, I don’t push the matter, but rather allow friends and acquaintances to make that discovery on their own. Usually when I show up at some event or gathering with a boyfriend in tow. But this time I made the announcement. And was ignored.
At the next opportunity, I tried again. Agreeing with some point he’d made I said, “Sure, but as a gay man, blah, blah, blah . . .”
Still no takers. WTF? Were his brain cells too frazzled, too drenched in alcohol to realize what had been said? Was the boy going deaf at such an early age? Did the hunk not know he was supposed to announce his own leanings toward bedding men and immediately jump into mine, offering his ass to be used into the early morning hours?
Dunno. He failed to respond, failed to acknowledge my brave confession, failed to provide me with the orgasm I desired. My coming out story was a failure. A single ticket sold for the event, reserved for someone who couldn’t be bothered to show. Perhaps I should have gone with the ‘boy was I drunk last night’ routine instead.
We spent another few days in New Orleans nursing cheap bottles of rot gut whiskey at night, nursing monstrous hangovers by day, my coming out churned over and spit out like the muddy brown waters of the Mississippi coursing through the paddles of the river boats whose horns announced their presence just off Jackson Square. It wasn’t until our last diner in town that Dave showed that he’d heard what I’d said.
Southern boys can be quite dreamy, a mix of races that highlights the best from each, their slow southern drawl as enticing as a strip tease in a 50s burlesque show. Our waiter that night was the epitome of the best the South had to offer, southern charm and Cajun hotness perfected, his attentions made obvious that he played on my team. But of the two of us, his sights were set on the gay acting straight boy. Dave was not amused. “Why am I the one he wants?” he whispered across the table. “You’re the gay guy, not me!”
I didn’t have the heart to tell him that his upbringing had resulted in a few too many effeminate gestures in his repertory, that my gay friends who’d met him all agreed their gaydar pegged into the red over his unmanly mannerisms. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I’d made the same assumption, or that I wasn’t really buying into his ‘I’m not gay’ claim either. “Shit, dude. It’s Naw’leans. Maybe it’s time you tried a little southern decadence on for size.”
Dave wasn’t convinced. He passed on the waiter’s advances and ordered another double shot instead. New Orleans may be known as the Big Easy, but getting Dave to walk on the wild side wasn’t going to be an easy chore. Dave failed to live up to expectations, at least the gay ones. But New Orleans responded in spades, becoming one of our favorite hangouts when we hit the mainland to kill off some brain cells before returning to the tropical malaise of the islands.
08 Wednesday Jun 2011
Posted It's A Gay World, Out This Week
in≈ Comments Off on Out This Week: The Early June Edition
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Who’da thunk that ‘Out This Week’ would become a recurring post? But then who’da thunk we’d have spent the last five days talking about a Congressman’s penis? Yeah, I know, other than the penis part, there’s nothing gay about the story, but it does qualify as a coming out tale in its own right. Unless you spent the weekend with your head buried between Lindsay Lohan’s thighs, I’m sure you’ve already heard about Rep. Weiner’s rise to the tip of the news cycle.
Regardless of whatever drugs it was you ingested that made you think, “I’m going to become a politician” if your last name is Weiner, you know that there is going to be a penis scandal sometime in your future. It’s not like it’s a proud name with a long historical record, Weiner should have changed his name before entering the political fray. A simple circumcision, a quick snip of the last two letters, and Rep. Wein would not be facing all the puns he is today. Or if size matters, he could have changed it to Winner; trust me the caption ‘Winner’s Penis’ accompanying that meaty photo would have had a much more positive effect on his political career.
Politicians in this country are too far removed from the voter base. President Obama looked like a fool this week sipping a mug of beer when everyone knows you chug beer, not sip it. Sarah Palin, on her magical mystery tour, sat down to a pizza dinner to show her affinity with the common folk, and pulled out a knife and fork to eat it with. Come on Sarah, it’s pizza. You should have been deep throating that slice like it was the first dude’s dude.
And our beloved Tony the Dick ignored the example set by what is becoming a long list of male rappers showing their tunes, turning to Twitter to show off his best feature and blew it: Dude, you do not peter tweet a photo of your little buddy dressed in a pair of cheap J.C. Penny’s boxer briefs. I mean it looks like you could give Chris Brown a run for his money shot, no reason to be shy when you’re packing something like that. But then not having the balls to let it all hang out is a problem the entire Democratic party seem to have. They come up with some good ideas, but just can’t commit 100% to the effort and end up looking like a bunch of limp dicks.
Some stupid French woman on Bill Maher’s panel last week said that once again Europe is laughing at us thanks to our most recent political penis scandal. First, the French have no right to laugh at anyone. More importantly, thinking the issue at hand is all about dick is wrong; Europeans just don’t understand the American political process. We are quickly coming up on a presidential election year and the Democrats and Republicans are jockeying for position. Weiner’s peter tweet was not an accident, nor was its release by happenstance. The Democrats were putting their best foot-long forward, raising the stakes on a political move started by the Republican party.
Weiner was going chest to chest with Republican Congressman Chistopher Lee who already made the news by posting a shirtless photo of himself on Craig’s List. While both of the New York Reps like to think they sport nicely ripped chests, the powers that be were not sure that Weiner’s would win the day so they upped the ante by having him also post a picture of his monster, a savvy political move that must be hard to beat. Give it a week or so, the Republican Party is sure to respond with an even more massive effort and Herman Cain’s inclusion as a possible Republican presidential candidate will suddenly make sense. It was, after all, Republican President Teddy Roosevelt who advised, “Speak softly and carry a big stick.”
Both parties prefer dirty politics, hence their use of cyber world porn pix to further their candidates’ agendas. Leaked photos sent to dubiously aged women will always get the most press. Taking the high road, Illinois Congressman Aaron Schock showed off his six pack on the cover of June’s Men’s Health magazine and even though his is a much more smokin’ bod, with no scandal involved, his efforts went largely ignored. Mainstream beefcake just doesn’t cut it in American politics.
Meanwhile, Sarah Palin outted herself as a blithering idiot this week. Once again. She’s been touring the New England states on a bus and attempted a bit of political one upmanship of her own. Noting that President Obama got good press while visiting England, and figuring it was but a short bus trip away, she contacted former Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher to schedule her own version of pressing the flesh (Sarah is anti-gay and didn’t want to have anything to do with some damn queen, turning instead to a British politician she felt had a big of set of balls as hers). Lady Thatcher’s aides nipped that idea in the bud, stating, “Lady Thatcher will not be seeing Sarah Palin. That would be belittling for Margaret. Sarah Palin is nuts.”
Moving away from the story of a big dick, and beyond the congressional penis record too, there is a real gay coming out story to report this week. Kinda. The word from Perez Hilton, a blogger respected all around the world for his high standards of journalistic integrity, is that now that everyone knows True Blood’s Sookie Stackhouse is a fairy, one of her male costars is planning on making the same claim in real life. Hunky Ryan Kwanteen, whose cute ass plays Sookie’s brother Jason on the show, is set to make the big announcement that he is gay. I wouldn’t kick the hot little Aussie out of bed, but there are numerous other Hollywood Ryans I’d rather see join our team.
Ryan Seacrest is almost there; even his girlfriend thinks he’s gay. But then I would kick Ryan Seacrest out of bed. Ryan Phillippe is inching closer to gaydom having dumped Reese Witherspoon (and seriously, could you find a more obvious beard?). Thanks to type casting, Ryan played gay on TV back before it was a popular career move. More recently he starred in Stop Loss with previous Gay of the Week honoree Channing Tatum in which Chan, and his penis, and Ryan Phillippe spend a lot of time gazing into each other’s eyes with passion, then get into a fight and have this dialogue:
Ryan: You wanna fuck me?
Channing: No… Kinda.
And we are all waiting for Ryan Reynolds to make his big announcement. Ryan played gay in the movie The Nines, and played straight in real life by marrying Scarlett Johansson (because the more obvious beard, Reese Witherspoon was already taken). But he’s traded in the color red for a run at the pink, being voted the celebrity gay guys would most likely cheat on their partner with in a sex survey conducted by Out Magazine. Ryan blew away the competition, winning hands down (and up, and down, and up and down . . .)
Even straight guys want a piece of Ryan’s ass. A Facebook fan group, “I’d Go Gay for Ryan Reynolds” has been in existence since 2006. It’s a site dedicated to straight guys who swear they are not gay, but would drop to their knees in a second to pay homage to Ryan.
But beggars can’t be choosers so for now we’ll have to wait with baited breath for Kwanteen to lead the Ryan pack out of the closet. Though admittedly this may be nothing more than Hollywood hype with the new season of True Blood just weeks away. Series producer Alan Ball has made sure that Ryan took care of his gay fans over the last three seasons by frequently appearing nude in the show. That trend should continue in the new season.
Though Ball plays loose with the storyline from the Sookie Stackhouse novels, from last season’s events it appears that he will remain true to Jason’s story and we can expect to see Kwanteen’s character being bit by a werepanther this season, turning into a furry little naked ball of hotness himself. Ooops. Was I suppose to provide a Spoiler Alert before I said that? My bad.
19 Thursday May 2011
Posted It's A Gay World, Out This Week
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The world got a whole lot gayer this last week thanks to numerous celebrities saying yes to same-sex sex. Celebrities coming out is becoming so routine it’s getting difficult to tell who is officially gay and who is still claiming to be straight. Seems like every time you turn around another celebrity is popping through the closet door making it a bit frightening for straight boys to, um, turn around.
Whodathunk that famous folk coming out would become so routine that publicists would need to start comparing notes to avoid their client’s grand announcement getting lost in the crowd. Professional bowler and Rookie of the Year Scott Norton came out this week. A decade ago he’d of made it on to the cover of Time. Now, except for a few throw away jokes about his love of big balls, it was hardly noticed. It’s pretty amazing that these days it’s not who came out that gets the press but rather how high of a Q rating they have.
This week’s winner was CNN anchor Don Lemon. Before his announcement of playing for the pink team, Don didn’t set my gaydar off. My gaydar just raised it’s eyes with a ‘Oh, come on. You really need my help?’ look instead. Cynics claim Don’s announcement was because he has a new book to promote. And yes, it does seem you can’t come out without having a book to promote these days. Or maybe it’s you can’t have a book coming out unless you do too. I’m so confused. But I prefer to believe the acknowledgment of Don’s place in queerdom is a result of the email I sent him last week proposing marriage. He was just clearing the air in anticipation of accepting. I’ll keep ya posted.
Don has dreamy eyes. The kind that you see when you wake up in the morning and roll over to check out who you bedded last night to find the dude is eyeballing you, enthralled and madly in love. And you know he has been staring for at least an hour. I had a crazy Guamanian boyfriend that used to do that a lot. That relationship did not end well. So I should know better. But there is just something so boyishly ripe about Don, even at 45, that I can’t help myself. Plus, one look is all it takes to know he’s a squealer. I am in lust. In any case, now when Don says, “This Just In”, it takes on a whole new meaning.
Rick Welts, CEO and President of the Phoenix Suns (shit, sorry, gay readers: professional basketball team from Arizona. Uh, the sport with the big orange ball) also came out this week. Not quite the same as an actual player, but it’s a start. Hall of Fame player Charles Barkley, now a color commentator, came out too. Not as a gay man but in support of gay players. He basically said he knows there are gay players in the sport and how they play is more important than who they play with off court. I like Charles. He’s always been one to speak his mind. The gay press had a bit of a problem with his statement because he used the term ‘a gay’. I don’t know if attacking someone who is supporting our life-style over pedantics is really helping our team. Maybe they preferred Kobe’s version: faggot.
Studly former Villanova star Will Sheridan, an actual player, at least at one time, (sorry again: basketball, college, same orange ball) joined the pink team’s roster this week too. See what I mean? A plethora of riches. I’m surprised anyone notices anymore. Celebrities coming out is becoming so mundane I’m shocked the press reacts at all. Soon I’m sure they’ll quit covering celebrity outings short of a “Thank you Mr. President. That wasn’t the announcement we were expecting from you today.”
Jeff Timmons, one of the members of the boy band 98 Degrees, didn’t come out this week but did announce he has joined a male stripper review in Las Vegas. So same same but not really different. I haven’t been keeping track but I think that pretty well covers every former boy band member. Like we didn’t already know they were all gay. If there are any still in the closet they might as well stay there. Former Menudo member Ricky Martin topped them all with his ‘I’m Gay’ announcement last year; the first incident of topping in Ricky’s illustrious career.
Female celebrities have a more difficult time announcing they are gay. Gay guys don’t care. Straight guys get hard becasue it has something to do with lesbians. None came out this week, but Cher’s sonny Chaz had his sex change procedure spotlighted on TV. In far too much detail. The ladyboy thing I get. The woman into man, not so much. Seems to be a nonevent to me. I mean seriously, what woman wouldn’t prefer being a man? So now that Chaz has lost his chastity, is he a lesbian for still liking women? Or just another fat, ugly man chasing after pussy he’ll never get?
It’s nice to see that the rich and famous can come out these days without endangering their career or ruining their life. But I think all such announcements should include the warning: Don’t try this trick at home. Despite the multitude of celebrities telling little Johnny that ‘it gets better’, on the local level homophobia still holds sway. Being a role model is one thing (Well, okay, two things. But we aren’t talking about sex right now). Encouraging America’s youth to announce they are gay is another. A bit more caution needs to be advised. The recently out celebrity may get book deals and a chance to star in their own reality TV show; little Johnny might get the shit beat out of him or thrown out of his house. Acceptance is making headway, but we are not there yet.
16 Wednesday Mar 2011
Posted It's A Gay World
in≈ Comments Off on Kurt Gets Kissed On Glee and the World Yawns
The gay blogosphere is all a twitter today with giddy posts over Blane and Kurt kissing on Glee last night. Yawn. I watched the first season of Glee on DVD. Mostly because the show got so much press on the gay blogs. It was cute. Loved Jane Lynch. And I’d do the guy who plays Puck in a second. Though that would last for hours, if not days. And kudos to Chris Colfer for winning whatever in the hell award or awards it was that he won. But seriously, the dude is just so gay. And playing a gay role on TV? What a stretch.
I read on some blog, maybe AfterElton, about what a ‘brave’ portrayal his is. Um, no offense but Chris is a fem twink who plays a fem twink. That’s not brave, that’s just being himself. The character may be brave, but it’s not like the actor playing that part is doing anything more than reciting lines. Uh, fiction? Hello?
Same blogs; coming out is strongly suggested for one and all. You’re life will be so much better. Blah, blah, blah. Right. Whether or not you should come out is a decision every gay man must one day face. But then I wonder: Are you really ‘coming out’ if everyone already knows you’re gay?
Chris/Kurt is a good example. You’d have to be, oh I don’t know, maybe like 3 years old or younger to not know that boy is queer from the second you first see him. In one episode Kurt tries to let his macho side show by taking on a John Mellencamp persona (yeah, I know, but just let it pass). That attempt at butching it up failed miserably. I don’t think Chris would be anymore capable of achieving that goal than his character was. A lot of what is considered to be stereotypical of gays is evident in both Chris and Kurt. And that’s okay. But it also means that him being gay is no big secret.
Coming out when any and everyone already has you pegged as being gay is really a non-event. Okay, to be fair, it may be a big step internally. But to the rest of the world, it’s pretty much ‘Uh, and . . .?” So bravo for admitting to yourself what everyone else already knew. But let’s move on.
I have a strong suspicion that many of the gay bloggers who herald Chris/Kurt’s bravery, and who think coming out is always the right answer, are probably pretty obvious in their gayness, too. They love the role he plays on Glee because they relate to the character’s fem style; they too were the ‘gay guy’ in high school. And I’m sorry for all the shit they’ve had to put up with in their lives because of it. But their, “Yes you should! Come join us! Life will be better!” attitude about coming out doesn’t cut it. It is not a one size fits all proposition. What was an obvious and perhaps unnecessary step for them, is a much larger leap for a gay man who is not immediately identified as being so. The guy whose coming out to his friends and family is met with shocked silence (if he is lucky and truly loved) is something to really applaud. And his decision to do so needs to be more carefully weighed. His life after coming out will be much different than before. And sorry, but that doesn’t always mean better.
Being true to yourself does not always mean having to share that truth with the world. I think it is imperative that every gay man come out to himself. To thine own self be true, and all that crap. The decision to come out to others is just that: a decision. If and when that step is taken is something each gay man has to decide for himself. If a guy decides not to come out, it doesn’t mean his life is then a lie. He doe not have to fake an interest in women, appear with a beard in public, or get married just to quell any doubts. He can merely choose to keep his private life private. And that decision should be as acceptable and applauded as someone else’s to fully open the closet door.
So Blane kissed Kurt. Whoopee. Never saw that coming. When the producers of Glee decide to have Puck come out, I’ll start watching. And hope they provide an honest portrayal of what a guy who no one thought of as gay goes through when he decides to tell the world he prefers men. Of course, if instead that just provides an excuse for him to be shirtless on every episode, I’m good with that too.