Cute straight guy in line just ahead of me at the post office. One of those Russian looking, impossibly pretty men. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. High cheekbones. Unquestionably masculine, but with the delightful contradiction of soft full lips and long eye lashes. He’s wearing a pink shirt. I love when men are confident enough in their sexual identity to wear pink.
Something powerfully attractive about a straight guy who knows that gay men are checking him out, and likes it. He gets off on the attention. Nothing will come of it, of course, but there’s no harm in being generous with one’s admiration, is there?
He knows this. Everything about him says so. Certainly the gym body. He gets up to the counter, and thrusts both hands into the pockets of his snug fitting, pale blue jeans. Barely enough room in there. Searching for spare change he may or may not have left behind the last time he wore them. The thought flashes through my mind that he knows perfectly well those coins are stacked neatly on his night stand. He just wants to show off his butt.
One of my friends posted a link on his faeebook page. This particular friend is always the most handsome face in every picture posted on his wall. He is almost always surrounded by gay boys. For the longest time, I had no idea if he was gay or straight. He talks sports easier than he talks about anything remotely fabulous. When I finally learned that he is gay, it was almost a let down. Somehow, he seemed much hotter straight….
The link he posted was to an online discussion among straight guys. The question posed was whether or not they ever had sex with a guy. The point of my handsome, not-straight sports pal posting this link was (apparently) that plenty of straight guys have had sex with at least one guy. That they aren’t afraid to admit it. Even to write about it. Online. Where other people could read it. People they knew, even.
That was apparently the point, but I could not get past the overriding homophobia that most of these guys inadvertently expressed, while writing about having had sex with a dude. Back in college. While drunk.
Very few were able to simply say, “Yeah, I did it once with a roommate. I thought it was kind of hot. There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s not like having a sex with a guy automatically makes you gay.. In fact, it’s interesting to see how common the experience is.”
Instead, most of them prefaced their stories with emphatic assertions that they are one hundred percent straight. That they find the idea of having had sex with another man disgusting. That they are so filled with shame, they have never talked about this with anyone before.
Most of them described the other fellow as a near rapist. Someone who took advantage of them while they were vulnerable. Some wrote that they felt molested.
An alarming number of replies contained variations on this ridiculous theme:
“When he saw me naked, he couldn’t believe how large my erection was. He told me he’d never been with a guy my size before.”
A few of these stories included intercourse. Most did not, and it was disturbing to see how many men think that because they made out with a dude once in college, or let a gay teammate give them a massage, that they have been sexually compromised. To the point where they carry this deep dark secret around for years.
“Honey, before you agree to marry me, there is something you should know. Something I have never told anyone. It may change everything between us.”
Deep breath. Dramatic pause.
“Once, at summer camp, another boy gave me a hug. We were both in our underwear. He held me and stroked my hair. I blocked it out for years, but my therapist helped me to remember. Do you hate me? If you never want to see me again, I’ll understand.”
The funny thing is that most of these oafish guys are the least likely to inspire adoration among the gay boys. Beer bellied, homophobic neanderthals are not attractive to any gay man I know. Sometimes, I just want to scream over the football game playing on the giant flat screen tv:
“Hey, Thog! Have you ever been to a gay bar? Don’t you realize you wouldn’t even be noticed if you stood too close to the scented candles and went up in flames? You’d have to run out into the street like one of those stunt men in action films in order to get help.”
It’s funny that the least attractive straight men are the most frightened of homosexuality, while the most attractive straight men are not the least bit afraid.
Or at least it seems that way. At times. Like while waiting on line at the post office. Watching a hot Russian in a pink shirt. In fact, waiting in line can be an ideal time to notice the cute straight guys. There was one at the bank a few days ago. Tall cowboy. Probably in his early fifties, with that rugged manliness that renders age irrelevant.
This guy was handsome, and not only due to his features. It was in his bearing. The way he moved. He was tall, with broad shoulders and strong looking hands. He leaned against the column, and I stared at the blank deposit slip I was holding as if I had no idea what it was for. He looked at me sideways, and grinned.
When he stepped up to the window, the teller went positively ga-ga. She had sparkles in her eyes and I swear she started to twirl her hair absentmindedly. Like a teenage girl at the mall. Except she was a full grown woman. Not immune, however, to the fantasy of being carried off by a cowboy on a white horse. Can’t blame her. I was imagining the same thing.
Then there was the guy at apple. (As much as I want to capitalize the brand name, I know they write it in lower case.) Standing in line, I noticed a grungy sort of fellow in a baseball cap and cut-off shorts. There was something about him that was vaguely sexual. It may have been the lazy insolence in his eyes, which he refused to focus directly on anyone. Including the employees waiting on him. Or, it may have been the fact that his back pockets were missing. Torn open. He was wearing white cotton boxer briefs, which were on full display.
Now, he must have known this when he put them on to head out the door. He must have felt the draft on his cheeks. Which means that he wanted people looking at his butt. Including, since he was heading to the apple store, gay people. Gay men. This didn’t seem to bother him at all. He was plugged into his ipod, ignoring everyone. As if the reason he came into the store was not important enough for him to interrupt the song.
Knowing I was tossing around the idea of writing about waiting on line behind handsome straight men, I took out my iphone and snapped a photo of the missing back pockets. Perhaps I could use the image.
He looked sort of familiar. Who did he remind me of? Joseph Gordon Levitt? Greasy hair pulled back in a ponytail. Kneepad on one leg. Maybe he had been out jogging. He was definitely interesting to watch.
It was only when I got home that I realized it was Shia LaBeouf. No wonder he was plugged in, avoiding eye contact. He was hoping no one would recognize him as he came in to pick up his macbook pro. Still, he had chosen to wear those pocketless shorts. So, maybe Shia fits into my theme, after all.
A straight guy who gets off on drawing attention from gay men.