We’re Afraid We’re Going To Have To Ride This One Out, Boys.

Someone told us that we hadn’t posted enough about “Brokeback Mountain” today.

We’ve been trying to avoid this, so as to not contribute to the clusterfuck that has been gay coverage of the movie. But under pressure, here is what we think:

“Brokeback Mountain” is a necessary evil. For years, perhaps decades, we will have to deal with “BM” jokes – much like blacks had to hear about “The Jeffersons” and “What’s Happening!!” for much longer than they would have liked. What’s so noteworthy about the movie is that it’s just a regular, good movie – with gay protagonists. Like the “Jeffersons” was a regular, family sitcom, that happened to star a black family. It was long overdue, but it finally got mass coverage, and brought us a leap forward in understanding, even if it was not the way we’d prefer to progress.

We loved the movie. It was important, seminal, and painful. It wasn’t perfect, and it wasn’t uplifting, but we realize it was important step to take. It made us cry, and feel sick to our stomach for days.

In other words, we feel about "Brokeback Mountain" the same way that we felt about the first time we got fucked up the ass.



We shall not speak of this again.

There Is Really Nothing To Write About Today. Where Is Fred Phelps When You Need Him?

Students in Britain are finally doing something about an issue that’s made us mad for quite some time. They’re finally fed up with hearing about blood donor shortages, while gay men remain blocked from giving blood.

It used to be that we would lie on the form and donate anyway, if we had been recently tested for stds. But then we got on some phone call list where a woman harassed us daily about donating blood (at the Port Authority, of all places!). Finally, after getting tired of making up excused why we couldn’t schlep up to the grundle of Manhattan during the work day for 45 minutes, we snapped:

“I’m gay! Now will you leave me the fuck alone?”

Then we hung up the phone.

It really felt like that time when the enthusiastic theater girl in high school never got the hint.

Thank God for those girls, really. Back then, they did such a good job of urging us out of the closet.

Now, they do such a good job of making our Pumpkin Spice Lattes.

It's Too Bad He Isn't Gay, Because We Bet He Has A Really Smooth Asshole

“Desperate Housewives” cutie Jesse Metcalfe has been covered so aggressively by Perez Hilton that we feel we must comment on this. Metcalfe seems obsessed with getting the word out that he is. not. gay.

A Perez spy who saw Metcalfe at LAX nightclub reported: “He was chatting with people here and there but seemed to be standing alone looking awkward, throughout the night so we started to chat with him. Out of the blue, he told me and several friends of mine "could you please tell your people I'm not one of them, I'm not gay". We all looked at each other like, where the hell did that come from?"

OK, Jesse. Let’s go over what this tactic achieves:

1) It makes people wonder if you are gay, when before they were just wondering who does your eyebrows.
2) It ensures that people will think you ARE gay and trying to overcompensate.
3) It makes gay people, who make up a big part of your fan base, think you are a jerk.
4) It alerts women that you are insecure, and which makes you less sexy. And gay.

See, Jesse faces the classic g-list conundrum – is it better that people talk about you being a homophobe? Or that they don’t talk about you at all?

But seriously. Who does do his eyebrows? Because for phony craftsmanship as obvious as that, she should have her Korean citizenship revoked.

We're Sorry We Were Gone For The Weekend, But Thanks For All The Dirty Text Messages

We know, being gay, that cruel humor at other people's expense is a little bit unoriginal. Cliched, if you will. A cop out - like getting your trick to jerk himself off so you can finally get some fucking sleep. Easy - like you, after we feed you two vodka sodas and tell you that your eyes are pretty.

But we just had to say something about this. Boy George, the only 80's pop star currently living in drag and in exile (oh, wait), is opining on the subject of gay marriage:

"Gay unions, what is that all about? I haven't been invited to any ceremonies and I wouldn't go anyway. The idea that gay people have to mimic what obviously doesn't work for straight people anymore, I think is a bit tragic.

"I'm looking forward to gay divorces."

You know what, George? We're done, thanks. If anyone ever overextended their welcome, it's you. In exchange for ONE listenable ironic novelty song, we have had to put up with your unending presence at our Thursday night parties, your appalling Broadway show, your nauseating fashion lines, and the constant reminder that gay stars don't burn out, they just turn fat and deplorable.

We're no experts, but when your greatest achievement in life is to be the only aging gay British singer MORE detestable than Elton John and George Michael, it might be time to just cut your losses and give up.

Perhaps by hoovering up, all at once, the ten kilos of cocaine you have hidden under your bed.

With your massive, vacuum-like asshole.

And Yet They Won’t Let You On An Airplane With A Pair Of Tweezers.

So we had a long talk with porn star/director Michael Lucas yesterday about his new star, Clay Aiken-outer John Paulus. We also talked to Paulus. The whole story has begun to make us sad, so we won’t dwell on it.

But within an hour of when we talked, a messenger arrived at our office with a basket full of five of Lucas’s porn DVDs, three giant bottles of lube, some naked trading cards and some bath salts. After being ridiculed by my co-workers, bosses, and boss’s bosses, we stuffed the porn, lube, and salts in our bag.

As we headed out of the office, we were handed a few pairs of women’s panties, because we were going to a Tom Jones concert, and when in Rome, one throws panties at Tom Jones.

So after chugging a bottle of Bacardi Razz in the cab with a co-worker, we skipped to the gate of the concert where, yes, you guessed it, our bag was searched by an enormous stern black man. Out came porn, lube, and women’s panties. We were horrified.

Brother didn’t even bat an eye.

This is why we love New York.

Johnny Weir, Are You Queer?

For those of you who were desperately seeking a retropop/spoken word mashup deliberating on the sexuality of an androgynously fashion forward ice dancer, your prayers have been answered.



It’s amazing what a community can achieve when they don’t have to waste their energy on child-rearing, or paying attention to women.

Pollin' Altar Boys In The End-o, Sippin' On Gin And Juice

This makes us uncomfortable. New Hampshire’s gay Episcopal Bishop, Gene Robinson, has checked himself into rehab for alcohol dependency.

Now, we’re the first ones to say that being gay and being a drunk go hand in hand. Check out Wonkette lately, for example. But for a person like Robinson, there’s just so much more pressure on him to be a good example. After all, his appointment caused a rift in the international factions of one of the world’s largest religious organizations. Even party boy George W. Bush kicked the habit when he realized that he was going to be a prominent public figure. Every time Robinson comes out with a sentence like this:

“In his letter, Robinson, 58, said he has been dealing with alcoholism for years and had considered it ‘as a failure of will or discipline on my part, rather than a disease over which my particular body simply has no control, except to stop drinking altogether.’”

…it makes us involuntarily shudder. It’s not going to be very difficult for critics of Robinson to pick up on his “failure of will or discipline” and lump homosexuality as just another one of his weaknesses, to be fixed.

Then again, for how many gay people was alcohol the raison d’etre for their first foray into gayland? How many of us would have really made that first leap without a few cocktails to guide our nervous pubescent hands steadily into an Jack Twist-style reach around? In a way, in fact, we owe alcohol a lot. Robinson was just paying the piper.

We think this is the spin that the Episcopalian publicists should aim for. Or this: “Hey – at least Robinson was getting drunk and sleeping with someone his own age…”

People Say We Have A Problem With Alcohol, But We Can't Remember The Last Time We Drank!

We have nothing to say in honor of Valentine's Day. We are going out to get drunk with one of our best gals. But this joke, which we learned from George Clooney, pretty much sums up the way we feel about the holiday, and love in general. Minus the wife part:

(As told to Quint from Ain't It Cool News):

GEORGE CLOONEY: "A guy is in a bar. He's so drunk he throws up all over himself. He tells the bartender, "What am I doing? When I go home my wife's going to kill me..." The bartender puts twenty dollars in his shirt pocket and says, "Go home..." Have you heard this one?
QUINT: No, I haven't heard it.
GEORGE CLOONEY: He says, "Go home and tell your wife you were in a bar and a guy came up... he was drunk, threw up all over you, but put $20 in your shirt pocket." He goes home, walks in and his wife says, "Hap, look at you. You threw up all over yourself!"
He goes, "Honey, a guy got drunk and threw up on me and he put $20 in my shirt pocket." She reaches in and pulls out $40 and says, "What's the other $20 for?" He says, "He shat in my pants, too!"

Onward to Easter!

If You Wishful Think Hard Enough, It Just Might Come True.

Our friend Perez today illuminated some courtside subtext between Jake Gyllenhaal and his "Day After Tomorrow" co-star, Austin Nichols. We didn't realize they were friends, but we do remember meeting Nichols at the premiere of his most recent flick, "Glory Road." We stopped to talk to him because he was so tall and handsome, and for no other reason. He admitted to us that he was the only person in the movie who wasn't good at basketball.

"I lied and told them I was a basketball player," he giggled, as we swooned. "I am a terrible basketball player."

We then told him that if they ever made a movie about Tom Brady, he should play him in the lead role. This comment thereby exhausted all of our sports knowledge.

We eavesdropped as he chatted with someone else nearby, who asked him what his favorite recent movie was.

"Brokeback Mountain," he grinned. We gripped a nearby publicist for support. "I can’t think of any other love story that got me so..." and then he trailed off.

We'll end here because we don't want to jump to any conclusions. And also, because we don't want to have to clean out the inside of our jeans twice today.

Does Valentine's Day Make Bloggers Less Funny?

We are a little bit jaded about love, if you haven't noticed. Like most people, we've been bent, broken, and (very recently) physically scarred by it.

So it takes a lot to make us choke up. But today's FHC post did the trick. Congrats on your anniversary Tristan and LL.



Aw, who are we kidding? We cry at De Beers commercials. This weekend we watched "The Princess Diaries 2: A Royal Engagement" and were unable to move for hours...

R.I.P. Boy's Room. Go Go, We Hardly Knew Ye.

So we’ve been following the coverage of the whole John Paulus/Clay Aiken scandal that has been played out slowly in the press, and on Howard Stern. Basically, the gist of it is that Clay Aiken found John on bigmuscle.com, they emailed for a while, and then they had an unsafe sex session, in which Paulus, a former marine, bottomed for the pop twink. Paulus has a semen-stained towel to prove it.

As always, we wanted to wriggle ourselves right to the prostate of this matter, so we’ve actually had email conversations with Paulus. It turns out, contrary to what’s been reported, that he received no money for telling his tale to the National Enquirer. In fact, he was fired from his job, but he ended up getting a deal with porn director Michael Lucas, so hopefully he has enough money to buy condoms these days.

But it brings forth the question: if you slept with a closeted pop star, would you rat him out?

On the one hand, you wouldn’t tell a closeted guy’s parents that he was gay. But do people in the public eye have a greater responsibility to set an example? Is their personal comfort less important than getting mainstream America comfortable with gay figures?

Luckily, we’ve already had four shots of tequila at our desk in the last half hour, and couldn’t give a twat.

Viva la weekend!

(a moment of silence (and another shot) for the death of Boy's Room. Oh, how we loved/hated that place...)

Isn't This Confusing Enough As It Is?

We’re sorry that the FAGAT Guide has taken such a personal bent lately – we’ve just been very busy and interesting things keep happening to us. But we promise, this will be the last personal one for a while.

You see, we recently met a very cute boy at a men’s show last week at the start of Fashion Week. We pursued him through a mutual friend, asking him what his deal was (as in, is he single or in a relationship – because boy clearly wasn’t straight). Her response? “He is Omni.”

We were flummoxed.

We’ve heard of gay, we’ve heard of lesbian, we’ve heard of bisexual. Hell, we’ve heard of transgendered and transsexual. But Omni? As far as we understood it, bisexual meant that a person liked both boys and girls. Do we really need MORE than that? At what point do children and animals get involved?? So we asked a bisexual friend of ours to explain the difference. “Well, when you’re omni,” he said, rolling his eyes as if we were born yesterday, “you can pick and choose what you want from wherever.”

Not being enlightened at ALL by that statement, we went back to the source. She clarified: “He'll date a man, woman, vegetable, as long as its right!”

Now, we appreciate that sentiment, but really, did we have to bring in the VEGETABLES? Still confused, we consulted the final word on everything everything: Wikipedia. They helpfully explain:

“Pansexual, omnisexual, and pomosexual (postmodern sexuality) are substitute terms that rather than referring to both or "bi" gender attraction, refer to all or "omni" gender attraction, and are used mainly by those who wish to express acceptance of all gender possibilities including transgender and intersex people, not just two.”

So, wait. We’re used to getting the sloppy seconds of some random female hos. Most gays at least stop at second base on their way over to our team. But our rear end could be in the proximity of the same cock that, say, tickled Amanda Lepore’s fauxgina?

We’ll pass, thanks.

If I Can Make It There, I'm Gonna Make It Anywhere

We went to the Heatherette show last night, and once again it was amazing. It began with thumping music and darkness, and a monologue about New York voiced by Richie Rich. Then the lights went up on three tap dancers dressed as zombies. After that more (sexy/scary) dancers came out, and then the show began.

Of course the clothing was mostly unwearable (the guy dressed as the Indian was mega hot, but we don’t know HOW that shit stayed on his lower body) and the crowd was irreverent. But it felt like a rock concert, and with Naomi Campbell closing the show, we thought it was a complete success.

Afterward, in the backstage lounge as we watched Alan Cumming hit on one of the shirtless models, we wondered why it was we took up writing, and not sit-ups, full time. Then we overheard a pair of models groan:

“I’ve had a piece of glitter stuck in my eye for two days,” said the first.

“It’s like déjà vu all over again,” the other replied.

And we felt better.

We Think The Public Would Prefer A Vanity Fair Cover With These Two Naked With Tom Ford.

We’re sitting at our desk at work and there is a copy of “O” The Oprah Magazine on the floor near us. It’s an “O At Home” special edition, and its cover features Nate Berkus squatting with a white rose in his mouth. Berkus is staring up at us with a maniacal grin (and perfect white teeth). It’s an altogether ridiculous pose that would make anyone look like a fool, but Berkus is just so. damn. adorable. that it’s actually cute.

We totally hate him.

On a related note, we hear from a VERY good source that the rumors about Berkus dating a certain Latin singing sensation ARE, in fact, dead on. The two have been doing the deed for months. The source is so good, in fact, that in the gossip world we would call it “practically under the bed.”

As opposed to “practically at orgasm,” which is where we are, just imagining the visual.

The Queen Is Dead. Long Live The Queen.

Like all of you, we are in love with Daniel V from Project Runway.

So last Thursday when we ran into a publicist friend of ours who works on the show, naturally we inquired whether he was single, and if we could be set up with him. He is single, as it turns out, and looking for love. Our friend was with last year’s winner Jay McCarroll, who caught wind of our interest.

“You know,” snapped McCarroll, swinging his giant Spin Doctors be-hatted head in our direction, “He is less cute in person than he is on TV!” We assured Jay that it was fine – we are also cuter on television. “I was supposed to get all the ass when I won last year, and I got nothing! Now little Daniel comes along with his floppy hair in his big schnozz and he’s getting all the boys. What the hell?” McCarroll continued. “Why can’t you fall in love with someone real? Get a hobby!”

We laughed it off because, frankly, we’re cute and fun and Jay McCarroll is ugly and appalling. But then, when we were outside of the party (It was a MAC Cosmetics party and Pam Anderson’s boobs were there) he approached us again and continued to berate us. “Think with your mind, not your crotch!” he commanded, as if someone who thought with their mind would somehow want to date Jay instead.

The implication there, we suppose, is that someone with a “mind” has no “eyeballs,” or “sense of touch.”

"Does My Hair Look Too Shiny?"

So our friend Sitting Bull, much like Denise Richards, had an HIV test this week. Denise Richards got hers because she found out her husband was rampantly cheating on her with prostitutes. Sitting Bull got his because he is a bath house troll (when he’s not fucking, he can be found living under a bridge with Cynthia Nixon’s girlfriend).

We tease. Sitting Bull is a demure and well-behaved lady with a lovely and devoted husband. He was just doing his gay duty and getting tested regularly. It’s nice for him that he has a boyfriend who can handle the testicular exams for him. We have to do it ourselves – in the shower.

Anyway, Sitting Bull reminded us today of a universal phenomenon: there comes a time when as gays, we all become Bill Frist.

In the moments before receiving the results of an HIV test we go from being confident, healthy, fun-loving queers to nervous nellies who honestly wonder whether we caught it while wiping off the elliptical at Crunch, or even sitting next to that hysterically crying queer during “Brokeback Mountain” at Chelsea Clearview. All those incredibly awkward moments we spent in the bedroom asking “I don’t have a condom, don’t YOU have a condom?” suddenly seem fruitless. The blundering silences as we waited, grundle humiliatingly exposed, as the top fumbled with the wrapper? Wasted. The annoyingly long period when we insisted upon safe sex with our boyfriend until we could check his dental records to prove he wasn’t crystal whore? Might as well have barebacked on the first date.

Why does this test, which should be an affirmation of health, play upon our deepest guilt? Do we really think, deep down, that we’re all sluts?

Since this post has turned into a column from “Sex and the City,” We will end it fittingly. By going and fucking Jason Lewis.

With a condom.

Be safe!

We Really Wanted To Wipe Off His Little Poop Mustache

The other day when we complained that no one mentioned the word “gay” during the Golden Globes in reference to “Transamerica,” “Capote” or “Brokeback Mountain,” we realize we were being a little bit “glass is half empty” about the whole thing. Last night we ran into John Waters at a Paper Magazine party for his new Next show, “Movies That Will Corrupt You,” and he laughed at our concerns.

“What do you mean?” Waters scoffed. “Everybody refers to them as gay. Every article in the world calls it a ‘gay cowboy movie’. It’s going to be the gay Oscars. They should re-name it the GLAAD awards.”

We will choose to look at this whole situation as well in a glass-is-half-full manner. We made John Waters laugh. That puts us on par with a drag queen eating shit, internal organs on burning pokers, and a woman who can pick up a bottle of soda with her vag.

Score.