Let's Get This Over With...

Ugh, I have so many housekeeping issues to discuss with you and none of them are all that funny or interesting, but we can't move on and talk about the shenanigans Chris and I got up to this past weekend if we don't address them, so let's just get this over with:

1.) That was horrible sentence structure.

2.) As I'm sure you've noticed by now, we're trying out a new way to visually differentiate my posts from Chris'. From now on, both of our blog posts will be in gray text and the little bird icon at the beginning of each post will correspond with the author. (<--- I could not mathematically figure out how to word that so it made sense for a solid five minutes. That felt like taking a test for Autism.) We can always go back to the old format if you decide you really don't like it, but as with anal sex or a friendship with your dad's new girlfriend, I urge you to give it a chance.

3.) In updating the first page of the blog with the new formatting last night, I accidentally deleted the version of Chris' post from last Friday with all the comments. I 100% apologize and assure you that it was a complete accident and I wasn't trying to censor any negative opinions to protect Chris' fragile little ego or anything. Quite the opposite, in fact. I say bring 'em on! The more the merrier! I like watching him get riled up because it makes me feel slightly less crazy about that time I called him curled up in the self-help section of Barnes and Noble having a full-blown panic attack because someone left an aggressive comment saying that I was the most self-involved blogger they'd ever read. In retrospect, I may have overreacted slightly. Oh, me. Let's talk about my reaction to that comment some more. And then a lot more.

4.) Speaking of comments, I'd like to address this old one:

I mean, I get it. Times are lean. You're here to read about our awkwardness and flatulence and gentle love affair with Megan's Law jokes; not get harassed for money while taking a much deserved break from your day. I get it. (Specifically because I was BOMBARDED by kids trying to get me to donate to the Boys & Girls Club of Greater Washington the other day when I was on the metro taking my laundry to my parent's house to do it for free. I mean, don't get me wrong—the Boys & Girls Club is a very worthy cause. Let's not pretend like I've never had to use an ill-strung badminton racket or like I wasn't the laughing-stock of field hockey camp because I always had to use my sister's hand-me-down CranBerry stick when everyone knew it was all about STX® that year—I speak your jive, kids. I get it. But I got hassled by kid after kid after kid when we offloaded at Brentwood Ave, and it's like, look Junior—what part of me standing on this metro platform in 100-degree weather holding an Ikea bag stuffed with my dirty underwear makes you think I've reached a point in my life where I have disposable income? Was it the Chipotle-stained Hall and Oates t-shirt that just tumbled out and onto your shoe? Because that was a gift.)

The point I'm trying to make here is that I find the business side of the blog just as boring and irritating as you do. So much so, that I tend to just ignore it completely and cling to the hope that Scrooge McDuck will one day waddle into my apartment, quack, leave two sacks of gold coins on my bed, shine his monocle on my blouse, and waddle his way back out. That being said, I'm slowly coming to terms with the fact that that might not happen, and every now and then we have to remind you how much it helps us when you follow us on Twitter, join our Facebook page, forward the blog to a friend, and "like" and buy our book(s) on Amazon. It makes me uncomfortable, but then again so does debt and having to snort fresh cracked pepper for $5 a line as my father's post-dinner entertainment. (True story.) (Sadly.)

We're also eager to schill our book because, well, we're proud of it. Writing it with Chris was probably one of the most fun things I've ever done in my life and as cheesy as it sounds, we're just really excited to share it with you. Because (and I know I'm biased here) it's a really fucking funny book. The following is from an email one of our editors sent us after her first read-through of the manuscript:

"Without sounding like a gushing dork, I have to say that I haven't read a manuscript that I've enjoyed this much in EONS. You guys pulled together one helluva book. You should be really proud. It was hilarious! [...] Again, loved the manuscript! I was laughing out loud and I think my landlords (who live upstairs) are probably wondering what kinds of drugs I've been doing...."

It's exciting! I also feel like it's a good sign that despite having analyzed, torn apart, re-written and slaved over pretty much every line in the book, Chris and I still found ourselves laughing-out-loud every read-through during the editing process. There's an excerpt available online on our publisher's website, should you feel so moved. It's the introduction and the first half of the first chapter, which we wrote first, so we were still in a relatively healthy mindset. I wish you could read the shit we wrote when it was three o'clock in the morning and we hadn't slept for a few days and suddenly helper monkeys, Cincinnati Bowties, and Rod Roddy's ghost were in the mix, as well as The Most Racist Joke We've Ever Written And Are Still Shocked (And Appalled, Quite Frankly) It Got To Stay In, and more thinly veiled Jessica Walter shot-outs than you can shake a stick at. I mean, you can read them. You just have to buy the book. Which I promise I won't nag you about every day, but try to keep in mind that this is our career and we need to buy pants 'n shit. (So much pants...)

SO IN CONCLUSION:

5.) I think I caught the flu from Chris when he was here this past weekend because I feel completely God-awful right now. That's what I get for splitting a hummus platter with a homosexual.

6.) Also, if you buy the book for an e-reader, you get bonus material.

OK! We're all caught up to speed. Thank you for sitting through that. And if you have already made moves to support us, I would just want to say: thank you, thank you, thank you! We truly appreciate it. (I was going to say, "And so does Evie!" and post an adorable picture of her, but, frankly, she doesn't, and she really wasn't cooperating during the photoshoot:

But thank God her hinders are clean. Christ. Oh well, new 2 Birds Investigations tomorrow! ZIG-A-ZIG-HA!)

Worst of Netflix: Miss Conception

Oh, the comments section. Oh, dear. I feel guilty when I don’t read them, and then when I do they spark me into irrational action that I come to regret. Case in point: last week someone wrote something to the effect of “I never think Tulane Chris is funny, but I’m a straight guy.”

In short, fuck you. If you don’t think I’m funny, fine. Neither did my elementary school teachers, my Korean boss, or the lady at the DMV. But if I’m not funny, it’s because I, as a person, suck, not because “tuh I don’t speak faggot tuh.” I don’t write in some weird gay pig Latin and I limit myself to one dick-sucking joke per post (except on high holidays obviously.) I make people laugh or not on my own merits as a humorist, not because of my extensive business contacts in the Lavender Mafia.

This pissed me off a thousand times more than the standard “you suck” and I stewed on it. I decided that if they (at this point I was kind of drunk and lost track of who, exactly, I was mad at) wanted gay THEY’D GET GAY, so I Netflixed Beaches to review.

I couldn’t handle it. I recently learned that a loved one of mine is seriously ill, and I just couldn’t deal with a movie about cancer and Bette Midler, just at that particular moment, especially in light of the fact that it’s apparently over two hours long. That’s a lot of wind beneath a lot of wings, and I rebelled against my own plan. Instead, I looked for a nice, slow-moving chick flick to fire at.

Miss Conception. 2008. From the mailer sleeve: Georgina is a high-powered London businesswoman who's decided and determined to add "mother" to her long list of accomplishments. Unfortunately, her longtime boyfriend, Zak, isn't ready to be a daddy. With her biological clock ticking, Georgina recruits her best friend, Clem, to help her find the perfect father for her baby-to-be.

Let he who plans revenge dig two graves. Miss Conception is bad, sure. What do you expect from a foreign-made Heather Graham vehicle? Worse, though, is the fact that it’s bad in such a predictable way. The script reads like it was assembled from a kit developed in some very literal post-Soviet land, and the characters are so dull they approach being ­zero-dimensional. Sometimes actors phone performances in; I’m fairly sure this cast sent their performances in by text message.

For those of you don’t like to read these reviews, I’ve made a list of clichés in Miss Conception:

- All the women are bitchy, at a low level, all the time, like background radiation. None are pleasant, but none have the force of character to go out and be a really admirable shrew.

- Women in their early thirties are DESPERATE TO HAVE BABIES.

- There are several jogging sequences.

- The main male love interest is tall, handsome, vaguely artistic, and as boring as a fire safety video.

- WOMEN SHOP.

- Male friendships are haunted my the specter of homosexuality, and straight men live in fear that one day they and their drinking buddy (who, in this movie, is a narcoleptic Scot) will make eye contact and just FUCK.

- WOMEN LOVE CHOCOLATE.

- Every woman has a gay male friend who is an offensive combination of stereotypical gay traits and gladly performs in pinkface for her and her clique of vapid, selfish harpies.

- There is a makeover scene.

- Americans are just awful, especially when forced to go to third-world countries like Ireland.

That, in a nutshell, is this movie. Scatter those clichés around the word “infertility” and you’ve probably reproduced the spec script. For both of my loyal fans, I’ll recap the “plot.” Clichés in red.

The first words we see on the screen are “Northern Ireland Film Commission.” Gaza Strip Opera Company. All-Tibet Youth Orchestra. Miss Somalia pageant. Sure, whatever. Throw arts funding at conflict-riven pseudo-countries and see what happens.

Heather Graham is Georgina Salt (yes), a lady construction worker in her early thirties who lives with a handsome, immature documentary filmmaker. As the film opens, we learn that Boyfriend’s sister has just given birth, and that Georgina, a woman in her early thirties, WANTS A BABY but her selfish prick of a boyfriend won’t jam her full of seed. Georgina goes shopping for a baby gift in a white, domelike baby store where the strollers are mounted high on the walls. Oh, by the way, there’s a screen on the wall playing an ad for a doctor who performs fertility check-ups: he just looks around and pronounces your womb as either rich farmland or an arid, lifeless waste. This man advertises, on a continuous loop, in an ultramodern baby store. And is French. Any sane woman in the real world would laugh and continue with her own gynecologist, but since we need Heather Graham to get some bad news about her ovaries she makes an appointment.

The choppy storyboarding makes us wait to see what happens at the French Gyno so we can have an awkward scene at the after-baby party for Georgina’s sister-in-law. Sister-in-law has, as a focal point of her drawing room, a cast of her pregnant belly and breasts. Now… no. I don’t believe that a single woman ever had a plaster cast made of her belly at its largest and displayed it. Boyfriend knocks it over, which leads to an argument about how he’s a bad person for not wanting children, which leads to his hiding out at the narcoleptic Scot’s house while Georgina cools down.

Oh, God, Mia Kirschner’s in this movie, the nightmarish Jennie from The L Word. If you hated Jennie, you’ll love seeing the same oh-so-precious sense of entitlement played with an English accent, punctuated with dead-end references to her new-age beliefs. She is Georgina’s “sassy” best friend, for some reason, and accompanies her to the French gyno. Georgina proceed to have surgery so French Gyno can count her ova.

It’s a testament to how trite this movie is that the characters aren’t even interesting when doing something objectively insane. One afternoon, Georgina has surgery on a whim so a strange French man can look at her ovaries (presumably with a penlight) and count her ova. In any other movie this would be completely unbelievable, but we’re already so benumbed 20 minutes into Miss Conception that we’d accept, nay, welcome Superman checking her gonads with X-ray vision.

Womp, womp. Georgina has ONE OVUM LEFT. She’ll be ovulating in two weeks, over the course of a four-day span culminating on her thirty-fourth birthday. She must be inseminated by her birthday or remain barren. (The insemination is new, but the whole by-your-birthday, you have three days timespan reminds me of Beauty and the Beast, The Little Mermaid, and every single other fairy tale.) A lot of tiresome setup takes place: the end result is that, due to the machinations of his Awful American Assistant who wants him for herself (“machinations of the other woman” and “awful American” are two cliches in one), Boyfriend doesn’t hear about The Little Ovum That Might and goes with his AAA to film a documentary on the remote Aran Islands, where his cell phone doesn’t work.

Meanwhile, Georgina, Mia, and Standard Faggot create a chart of insemination strategies, one of which will be tried on each day of her Fertility Window. This becomes a labored, labored (see what I did, pear? LABORED) device to move the plot forward. This movie is about as feminist as the Saudi remake of “Leave it to Beaver.” Georgina, though attractive, accomplished, and the owner of her own business, has to be a mother, has to be pregnant, to be complete. Somewhere in heaven, Margaret Sanger just poured Elizabeth Cady Stanton another shot and said, “Those broads just don’t get it, do they?”

THURSDAY – Georgina places an ad for a room for rent, hoping to seduce a prospective tenant. UH-OH one’s ugly, UH-OH one’s gay, UH-OH she’s about to bang the third but then Boyfriend gets a window of reception and calls. Why, yes, he does leave an “I love you” message on the machine before she can get to it, spoiling the mood! How did you know?

FRIDAY – Georgina has taken to opening each day with an alliterative Goddess-power fertility chant, along the lines of “I am a FFFertile FFField of FFFabulous FFFemale FFFecundity.” Fomit. Today’s plan is to go to a funeral and try to bed a mourner. (It’s like wedding crashers, but completely nonsensical.) So, they find a funeral of young, athletic man and crash it. UH-OH TURNS OUT HE WAS GAY TOO, so of course ALL HIS FRIENDS ARE GAY TOO, so of course THE FUNERAL TURNS INTO A DISCO AND THE MOURNERS TAKE OFF THEIR SHIRTS AND GRIND EACH OTHER. I would love to be kidding. I don’t care what you all do the day after my funeral but at the event itself I want some tears, crocodile if necessary. Georgina takes the departed’s presumably straight accountant home, where he finds her Insemination Strategy Battle Plan Sheet and leaves, after calling her a freak and insulting her décor.

SATURDAY – All this time, a mindless little subplot has been going on in the Aran Islands. Boyfriend gets tired of his Awful American assistant, who is revealed to be a spoiled Daddy’s girl. Someone accidentally says “fuck” in front of a nun, Boyfriend gets tired of his AAA and decides to go back to Georgina, following a strange and unlikely conversation with another nun. (They swarm over Ireland like ants on honey, apparently.) His flight is sold out so he has to drive to Cork and take the ferry to England. He’s suddenly in a desperate hurry for no reason – it helps the plot, but he doesn’t know about the Little Lost Ovum. Why is he in tearing haste? Too many nuns? Meanwhile, Georgina brings an Italian stripper home and he steals her purse.

SUNDAY – Georgina almost sleeps with a coworker, but it turns out he had mumps and was rendered infertile. MUMPS. You remember, that disease that almost no one in the Western world gets anymore because of aggressive vaccination? That one. Instead of going for it anyway (why on earth do you waste a construction worker clad only in briefs?) she runs off to buy semen online. She prepares the baster in the kitchen (ugh), but UH-OH her mom walks in and Georgina accidentally sends the swimmers all over her birthday cake, a la teenage gross-out comedy, although to the film’s credit no one eats the cake. She tries to get Standard Faggot to take one for England, but he can’t get it up enough to provide her with a sample, then gets a call from George Michael asking him to do costume design for him – like, that second. As he tries to leave, Georgina wrestles him to the ground and tries to tear off his pants. Just then, the housekeeper walks in, and Georgina gets kicked out of the motel room they were to use for the conception for attempted rape.

There’s still a lot of movie left. Boyfriend goes through a travel montage that implies that he walked to London from Bristol. Mia Kirschner confides that she had an abortion once. Georgina thinks Boyfriend’s cheating on her with AAA, Boyfriend thinks Georgina’s cheating with the sleepy Scot, a lot of yelling happens, it turns out the Scot’s in love with Mia Kirschner (ugh) a lot of blah happens, everyone pairs off and she gets pregnant. She figures it out during a jog, so of course she turns around and RUNS home, instead of taking it at a nice miscarriage-avoiding walk. Everyone hugs.

I’ve drawn the following lessons from the film:

A woman is only a worthless, dry husk until she falls pregnant within the context of a heterosexual union

And

Northern Ireland is less problematic as a war zone than as a sponsor of the arts.

If only Jeff Foxworthy had an album of, "you might be dating a homo, IF" jokes...

My Dear Queer,

I cannot believe I am NOT a teenager and need this kind of help. Fuck me. Ok, sooooo I have this "friend"...we will call her "Shit Talker". She used to seem like a good friend, we work together, have a gazzillion mutual friends, blah blah. Well, over the last year, I realize she does nothing but talk behind my back. Like, we are talking once a week I walk into work, or see a mutual friend, and someone has something to tell me, ranging from her hating my boyfriend, to I am pretty FOR MY WEIGHT, to being unhappy with some work-related thing I did. (Like, left early because I COME IN SO EARLY and MY BOSS TELLS ME TO GO) Another thing, I am not fat...just not skinny. And she is obsessed with it and hates other girls if they are skinnier than her. And she just generally talks bad about other people in front of me. So, I just don't think she is a good person or that it is healthy for me to continue a friendship with her. I am not good at confrontation, which is why she has no idea that I know all of this stuff...so my question is what do I do? I know it seems painfully obvious, but I don't want to create an uncomfortable situation at work, cause drama between our friends...my biggest fear is Mommy Daddy get divorced and our friends have to pick weekends with us. Plus, since she is such a conniving bitch, I feel like she could really make my life hell when all I want her to do is leave me alone. If I confront her, I know she will deny it...but she keeps hounding me about why we haven't been hanging out blah blah blah. I am considering moving to another town! I feel like a loser, because I know this seems so pathetic...I swear I am a smart, confident girl...I just REALLY hate tension and drama.

Love,

Feels Like Middle School

P.S. Meg, you rock! (Ed. note: Thanks!)

Dealing with shitty “friends” is not a problem with an age limit, I promise. The older I get the more I realize that maturity is not necessarily a function of age… seriously, it’s kind of depressing…

I don’t really see what you would stand to gain from confronting her at this point. You’re right, she’d probably be a total twit about it, but more importantly, confrontation should be reserved for occasions where a) you think there’s a chance they’ll change their behavior or b) you feel the need to assert how you expect others to treat you…It doesn’t sound like those are your goals right now. I get the sense you won’t miss the friendship at all, and that’s totally fine, but it means that trying to fix her or renegotiate the way the relationship works is kind of pointless.

So you’re on the right track, just stick with just not hanging out with her. You don’t need to go out of your way to avoid her at work or in social situations with mutual friend. Just be civil and treat her as an acquaintance or friend-of-a-friend, but not the type you tell things to or spend qt with. And if she doesn’t stop harassing you about why you guys don’t out more, just keep saying something vague and ubiquitous like, “Sorry, I’ve just had other stuff going on.” Don’t lie and don’t give her more information than you would give anyone you’d qualify as a friend-of-a-friend. It’s really none of her business, unless you want it to be. And don’t feel bad about it--be confident in your decision because it’s the mature thing to do given the options you have in this situation that she created.

It’ll be uncomfortable for a bit (there’s no way around that) but it doesn’t have to be full of tension and drama as long as you don’t play in to it. Take the high road; don’t start talking shit about her to your mutual friends, and when other people try to tell you what she’s saying about you, ask them nicely to stop. Just say, “yea, I don’t know what her deal is, but I’d really prefer not to hear about it.” And that’s seriously hard to do, I know, but she’s where the drama and tension comes from, so distancing yourself from her in every way possible is the best way to insulate yourself from it. Eventually she’ll blow her credibility with people (if she hasn’t already), you’ll prove your worth (despite what she says), and she’ll start to look petty and ridiculous for talking shit on someone who’s obviously outgrown her and has better things to do than be bothered by it.

Well. This is awkward. Amy pretty much said everything I would have said and I have virtually nothing to add. Nothing. Not even a comical anecdote. Awkward. I feel like I can't get it up. And this never happens to me. But like, ever. Ask anyone! I can give you references. Don't look at me like that. I DON'T NEED TO EXPLAIN MYSELF TO YOU. I'M TIRED. I HAVE TO WORK EARLY. I'VE BEEN DRINKING. I JUST JERKED OFF. I HAVE A HEADACHE. [If I could dramatically storm out of a blog post, I would right......now.]

Dear Queer Abby,

I have to start by giving you some background here. I have a very close (straight) male friend that I've known for years now. Most of our friends believe that we have been secretly been dating, as he's never dated anyone and spends most of his time with me (and we're always hugging, sitting close together, he opens doors and pays for things, etc.). We recently discussed our feelings for each other and he confessed he felt weird about me dating other guys, and said that he loved me but was not IN love with me. I'm pretty sure I'm in love with him but didn't tell him so, I didn't want to mess up our friendship.

On the other hand, there's another guy who is extremely interested in me. We've gone on one date already and he's waiting for me to okay a second. I have some feelings for this guy, but I don't know if they're just due to loneliness on my part. I don't want to put my dating life on pause for my friend, but I also don't want to date someone else if it turns out he really cares for me. Further complicating this is the fact my friend goes to university in a different city than me and will be returning in a few weeks.

Help!

Sincerely,

A Very Confused Girl

VCG, I’m sorry for saying it because I realize you guys are close, but fuck that guy (metaphorically speaking I mean). You DO NOT put your life on pause waiting for someone to ‘come around’. Not just because there are infinite possibilities for how the future will roll out (which makes the odds of this working out exactly how you want it to roughly 1:infinity), but also because you deserve to be with someone who reciprocates your feelings and wants to be with you, unequivocally. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, guys don’t play hard to get. If his feelings for you change at some point down the line, then you can consider him as an option, but don’t just sit around in a non-dating, non-relationship waiting (or even holding out hope) for that to happen.

I’m not trying to say this guy is a total asshole. I’m sure he’s a decent guy that has been a good friend to you. And, for what it’s worth, I think his response is completely natural. It’s an ego thing—and I’m sure he means it, but that doesn’t mean you should cater to it. I’m sorry, but people have to deal with feeling weird about things all the time, so it’s not your job to spare him of that at the expense of finding a relationship that makes you happy. And trust me, “if he really cares for [you],” he shouldn’t expect that of you, because it’s entirely selfish to say ‘I can’t give you what you want, but I don’t want you to find it elsewhere’. So, totally go on another date with New Guy. Get to know him and see how you feel about it. In fact, date whomever the fuck you want, because YOU’RE NOT IN A RELATIONSHIP.

Let's play a game that I call, "OR!". I'm not even going to tell you how to play; we're just going to dive on in and I'm sure you'll pick it up. And this isn't just for VCG; we can all play! READY?! GO!

1.) A ferocious bear who given the opportunity will rip your face off

OR!

A delightful cartoon bear who given the opportunity will steal your picnic basket

2.) A romantic dinner with Andy Dick

OR!

A romantic dinner with Andy Roddick

3.) A bikini wax with packing tape

OR!

A bikini wax packing vicodin

4.) Getting shot in the face with a musket, circa 1776

OR!

Having a lovely dining experience at local restaurant, 1776

5.) Perpetually being haunted by The Ghost of Christmas Past

OR!

Have it perpetually be Christmas Morning

6.) "Date" a guy who won't put his dick inside of you

OR!

Date a guy who will put his dick inside of you

Now, let's all break out our graph paper and TI-83s and go with god.

[Amy’s note: I got roughly the same question twice this week, so I’ve posted both and am handling them together…. heh, kinky, no?]

(1) Dear Queer Abby,

So, I feel a little pathetic writing to a complete stranger for advice. But the fact of the matter is, I'm lost. As a straight woman, I need a queer perspective.

I live in NYC, and for the last year, I've been seeing one guy on and off. I mean, a year. And the thing is, he's really attractive. He makes me laugh. And he listens to me. BUT, and this is kind of a big but, we don't really have sex. I mean, we do, but not often. And he really seems more into cuddling. I'm really starting to think I'm dating a closeted gay man.

· He likes to window shop.

· He bought me vintage luggage, which he had to bid on.

· We once fought over the outfit of a man passing by; I didn't know why he was so invested, he couldn't figure out why it didn't bother me that this man looked unkempt.

· He could be OCD, but once he took the same pair of jeans to the tailor. 5 times. Something about the hem not falling onto his shoe properly.

· He's also really into product and his wardrobe and seems a little more interested in how he looks than how I look.

Maybe I'm reading into all this way too much, my friends tell me there's no way he could even "perform" if he was actually gay. But then my lesbian friend told me (and she should know) that all it would really take is thinking about another guy.....

Should I keep seeing this guy? Should I ask him? Should I cut my losses and tell him I just want to be friends? There are so many what-if's.

Please help Queer Abbey...

Possible unwitting fag hag.

(2) Dear Queer Abby,

I'm in a bit of a pickle that requires your infinite wisdom. First, a lil back story..

I am a college gal with an atypical college dating life. Last semester, I broke up with a long term boyfriend because he was dumb and annoying and always wanted to know how many eggs a diner would use in a day, then decided the world was my oyster and started looking for men outside my typical nerdy-chic-Jew type. I met such a fellow (but still a Jew, don't worry, mom); let's call him CR. I dated him for about 6 weeks until school ended. I had fun with him, but over time I began to suspect he might be a closeted homosexual. The signs are too numerous to list here, but many of them involve his planning of a charity fashion show, his erectile dysfunction, his carefully decorated room in his fraternity house (there is a sequin lamp), and one time when he told me he watched gay porn as an experiment, just to see if he felt anything. I have many gay friends and would obviously be a supportive friend to CR if this is indeed a turning point in his life and he is coming to terms with his identity. If that is not the case, I would like to continue to date him, as I do not necessarily know that he is gay; many straight men are interested in fashion and interior decorating and also happen to have the occasional slip ups (or downs?) in the bedroom, and I do not mean to generalize in an insulting way. However, I do not wish to continue our relationship if he is simply using me to prove to himself or others that he is interested in women.

Now, just days from the beginning of a new semester, I am about to come face to face with CR and I have no idea what to do. What is the best approach to finding the truth to this situation? I have feelings for CR, and don't want to cut him out of my life. I want to be tactful, but also to protect my feelings. I want to support my friend, but I don't want to be used. How can figure out whats going on without being caught in the middle?!

Best wishes,

Trying to Turn On the Light in the Closet Without Being a Bitch

First off, don’t forget that sexuality is a slippery thing (gross). The options aren’t just gay and straight. It’s that whole sexual spectrum thing… So even if he likes dick to some degree, that doesn’t necessarily preclude the possibility of him wanting/having a totally legitimate, loving, and sustainable relationship with a woman. Also, take comfort in the fact that, most of the time, self-loathing gay/bi guys who are trying to convince the world they’re straight aren’t rocking capri pants and pink polos, getting mannies and peddies or admitting they’ve watched gay porn. All to often, they’re homophobic pricks trying to overcompensate by being rednecks, religious gurus or republican legislators that rattle on all the time about Traditional Family Values… Seriously, there’s something to be said for people who are comfortable enough in their sexuality and who they are to step outside of stereotypical gender norms whenever it suits them. So generally, I’m inclined to discourage people from making assumptions about people’s sexuality based on that…

…That said, as much as I hate to say it, I have serious concerns about both of these cases. It has absolutely nothing to do with your bfs’ interest in décor, fashion or communication though. It has everything to do with the fact that you don’t have much of a sex life. Even when (undoubtedly) hetero-couples don’t have a sex-life that they’d both describe as healthy, I see it as a HUGE red flag. Bad or very, very little sex often ends up being a deal-breaker, even when people don’t initially think it’s that big of a deal to them. So, as much as I hate to say it, the fact that these guys hold the interests they do AND aren’t so sexually engaged lends credence to your concerns….

My advice to you both is the same: you need to discuss it with them, obviously in the most inquisitive, unassuming, selfless and supportive tone you can manage, as though it doesn’t matter either way. Fag Hag, you’ve been with this guy for a year; if you can’t have a candid conversation with him about his fantasies and whether he’s ever considered dating or having sex with men... well, it’s no wonder your sex life isn’t stellar. And furthermore, the lack of personal intimacy + lack of physical intimacy = problems for your relationship, regardless of the root. And Turning on the Light, if this guy has been comfortable enough with you to say that he’s watched gay porn, I think a ‘what did you think’ or ‘would you ever consider…’ conversation is not out of turn in the least. If you’re looking for ways to open up that conversation, maybe you should suggest watching gay porn together…

The bottom line is this: I can’t tell you if your boyfriends are gay, only they can. By extension, I can’t tell you whether or not you should stay with them based on that. But I can say, without reservation, you and your partner HAVE to be able to talk about what you both like sexually. That’s how you find out if you’re sexually compatible and how improve your sex life. Maybe it’s not working because he likes wang, or maybe it’s not working because he’s in to something that you can’t satisfy solely because you don’t know about it. Either way, you’re better off knowing. And if you can’t talk to him about it or you don’t trust him when he says he’s straight, you probably should just break it off because that’s evidence (and will likely be the cause) of other irresolvable issues in the relationship.

Yeah...Here's the thing: once upon a time when I actually had physical contact with members of the opposite sex and didn't turn down Saturday night booty-calls to see if "Say Yes to the Dress: Atlanta" is as good as the original, I was hooking up with a guy who was seemingly a little light in the loafers. I say this because he loved to shop, was obsessed with brand names and was way more image-conscious than the average frat boy should be.

Two real-world examples: One day Senior year, I was sitting in Art History, bored out of my mind when Loafers texted me to say that he wanted to meet for lunch in Friendship Heights. (That's not a euphemism, by the way, for you out-of-towners. That's a real city on the border of DC and Maryland. Although, next time I break up with someone, I am absolutely referring to it as "taking them out to lunch in Friendship Heights.")

I texted Loafers back that I probably couldn't meet up with him because I had class for another hour and he texted me back something to the effect of, "Oh no worries! I'll just shop; I need to go to Juicy Couture and get more boxers!" Troubling...

Example #2: Later that month, the Scissor Sisters were playing at the 9:30 club and I didn't get a chance to buy tickets before it sold out, which sucked because a bunch of my friends were going. The night of the show I texted Loafers to see if he wanted to do something, but he said he couldn't because he was going to the Scissor Sisters show. Half-joking, I offered Loafers a blow job in exchange for his ticket and his incredibly serious answer was: no, thank you. I'd prefer the tickets.

Now, I'm aware that I give a lazy blow job, but both of those events probably should have been giant red-tinted rainbow flags of warning that I was dating Johnny Queer. HOWEVER, (and what I'm about to say, I say with a giant grimace because thinking about myself in sexual situations grosses me out, which is probably a Queer Abby question in and of itself resulting in a talk about self-esteem and embracing one's sexuality,) that kid loved pussy. Like, a lot. Like the most of anyone I've ever been with in my entire life. Breakfast? Pussy. Lunch? Pussy. Dinner? Something sensible and full of vitamins, because scurvy is real people. Dessert? Pussy. I have known a lot of gay men in my life and 0.00 of them ever wanted to go down on me as frequently as that kid did. He wasn't gay; he was just really, really...vain.

I'm tempted to tell you that because of my experience with Loafers, it doesn't necessarily mean that either of you two are dating secret agent homo men. However, neither of your dudes really seem too terribly interested in getting in your pants, and that is truly when the red-tinted rainbow flag of warning should be billowing. If you're dating a guy who's fancy in the street but a freak in the bed, fine; that's between you and your god. Sure, it might be a turn-off for some (clearly not me; I stuck with until he dumped me. Obviously.) but it doesn't mean he's gay. However, if he's a little fancy and wants nothing to do with your lady parts—shut it down. Because does it mean for sure that he's gay? No. Does it mean YOU ARE DATING SOMEONE WHO DOESN'T WANT TO GET IN YOUR PANTS. Yes. And am I on crack cocaine today when I think that that's a giant problem?? I mean, companionship is fun, but gettin' off is way more fun. Don't settle for an ambiguously gay man who's allergic to your vagina when you could utilize that time to find someone who will give you companionship and who's not allergic to your vagina. Or...in my case, utilize that time to watch a lot TLC bridal programming. Sigh...

Got a question for Queer Abby? Shoot her an email at QueerAbby@2birds1blog.com!




NOW GO GET SOME STRANGE, IMMEDIATELY!