Stay with me. This blog pays off. Here hold my hand. Off we go-- Well..., my little blog reader, you have rather soft hands. Soo smooth. Like a baby's bottom. Sorry. Anyway... I was reading the Bloggy Award winning blog of my friend and (Big -Time Australian Television Mogul) Ms. Fits and she brought up an interesting phenomenon. Click this now and read just the post entitled "Boys" and then come right back here and read the rest of this post. Go. My blog isn't going anywhere.
The rest of this post
You're back. Isn't Ms. Fits witty and talented? Yeah, whatever. Now back to me. So, it's a good question. Why do straight guys, and I mean genuinely straight guys, not sitting on the fence swing both ways or college experimenty types. Why do they often do little comedy bits in which they pretend to be gay when there is an audience. I suppose it's for attention. Who can one up the other person with how comfortable they are with their sexuality. I'm so cool and liberal. No, it's attention. Any question about actors and the answer is "because they crave attention."
I will now embarrass myself by sharing information that will no doubt be used to mock me and forever ruin any chance I have of entering politics.
My friend Ted and I are both straight guys. Teddy is an actor and I am a writer, and recovering sketch comedy performer. We would try and make the other person as uncomfortable in public as possible by doing or saying something "gay" to the other person. For instance, a bunch of us would be out at a bar. Perhaps I'd be off talking to a wickedly hot girl (pre-my wife) and this gorgeous female is hanging on my every word, lost in my hazel-brown eyes and laughing at my clever jokes. (Hey, it's my blog, and it has happened before) and Ted would come over to us and in a mildly lispy and slightly jealous voice ask me if he should order me a Cosmo or some other fruity drink. (No pun intended there.) If I couldn't immediately retort with something "gayer" than that or if I laughed (broke character) he would score one point. We made it into an entire game and it was amusing to our friends and to us so we kept it up. It was like going through on a dare that makes you squirm. We called the game "Gay Chicken." In the standard game of Chicken two cars go at each other and they see who looses their nerve first. Like in the movie Footloose. Only this variation has two straight guys going towards one another trying to top each other with queer behavior to see who'd back down first. It was endless fun and our friends always looked forward to it. I almost always gave up points when he Ted called me "snookums" and wiggled my earlobe. It was my Achilles heel. It was especially challenging if we were around other alpha-grunt-grunt-cro-mag Frat boy types. Because the only thing worse than getting gay bashed is getting Gay Chicken bashed. I'd be on the floor protecting my face as three thugs pummled me. I'd say "You guys, it's just a game of Gay Chicken, we were just trying to make each other uncomfortable in order to score a point." I'm sure they'd immediately apologize profusely, pick me up, dust me off and buy me a drink. Fortunately that never happened. But I always wonder about people who are so threatened by a show of male affection or gay behavior that they need to get violent. It's not unlike those two boys who lived down the street from you growing up, who you knew were going to be gay, and were constantly wrestling with one another. What would Freud say? In The United States Homophobia gets WAY out of control. In many places in Europe, like, Greece, France, The Netherlands, Italy, etc... men kiss each other on the cheek as a normal greeting. Cool no problem. On the contrary, American guys get wigged out if say they have a sharp muscle pain in their shoulder and their male friend offers to massage it. If I was in pain I wouldn't care if Prince and Boy George unknotted my muscles. Okay, bad examples, but I don't really care if a guy rubs my shoulders. I'd prefer a girl of any sort, but I can handle shoulder contact. Most guys can't. They feel totally threatened. You know who you are John Dough, Giggles. But back to G.C., our abbreviated name for the Gay Chicken game. The great thing in G.C., the Gay Chicken slam dunk, was the moment when the other person snapped got freaked out and you won a point. My tactics for scoring points were running my finger up Ted's arm, while other guys watched and wiping something off his face with my spit-covered finger in true mom style. I think we were comfortable-ish with each other. But the rounds certainly didn't last very long. Points were pretty easy to come by. And we only played when we had an audience.
I don't hang out with Ted much anymore, mainly cause he's a ginormous* flake when it comes to making plans. He didn't come to my bachelor party. He bailed on me two days before. That pissed me off. Plus, I'm a married guy with little need for extroverted, single, male, actor friends to improvise with. I recall that Ted got most of his points from being loud and acting flamboyantly, flamingly, faggy in public and calling me pet names. I was more likely to make goo goo eyes at him and unbutton his shirt in the middle of say... a crowded baseball game. Thank got I never got past the third button cause THAT would be totally gay.
* gigantic + enormous = ginormous
Note: You should really stop reading now if any of that made you uncomfortable.
If we had been closet homosexuals I think the game of Gay Chicken would have gone more like this.
GUY #1: "Oh, you unzipped my jeans, you naughty boy. Well I'll kiss you softly on your fingers."
Guy #2: "Yeah. Well what if I take your dick in my hand like this?!"
Guy #1: "Sure, I dare you to cradle the balls."
Guy #2: "Done."
Guy #1: Oh now you think I'm gonna back down just because you have my dick in your mouth? No chance. In fact I'm gonna rub my neck as you do it and make little moaning sounds. So there!"
Guy #2: (muffled) "Man, you are a tough competitor. Take this wet tongue on schlong action! Give up yet?"
Guy #1: "Nope, not yet. You're gonna back down first."
Guy #2: "Woah, you came all over me. How do we score that?"
You and your imagination can take it from there. I'm actually getting genuinely uncomfortable with the image of Ted touching me anywhere near my bald warrior region. And I'm seriously considering not posting this at all. In fact I think I'm going to go shower and then proposition my wife for heterosexual intercourse.
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7 comments:
So after reading that hilarious blog, and being suitably amused (and reminded of faux-gay antics that I've gotten up to in a similar manner with my mates in order to freak them out in public - they don't handle it as well as I do, so it was always a win-win situation for me), I have only one question:
Did you score with your wife?
I found your blog quite amusing as well. I liked it so much that I linked it! Keep up the good work.
-Socialist Swine
Okay Giggles, settle down. Take a deep breath. You are on my blog turf. Don't make me do something drastic like post your home phone number on my blog for anybody to call. Also quit it with all that gay stuff. What are you some pickle sniffin'* Gaylord!? And no, you can't come over to my house to "wrestle."
* I heard that term used at an open mic night at a stand up club in Boston. He was talking about "Fago pickle sniffers marching in the St. Patricks Day Parade." I doubt that homophobe ever went back on stage after we began heckling him with the precision and power of a laser-guided Tomahawk Cruise missles. One of the pickle sniffers in the audience went on to win several Emmy Awards on The Daily Show. The aspiring stand up was wicked** pisser embarrassed.
** wicked means "very" in Bostonian - It's a rich language.
One of my favourite things after arriving in Indonesia this year (yes, I am rather worldly and well-travelled) was standing at the airport watching the male cab drivers stroll around holding hands.
One would stop to talk to someone while the other would idle around, swinging hands like tiny boys in a schoolyard. Then off they'd wander together, occasionally wrapping their arms around each other and moving on their way.
I love this.
Of course, the whole keep-the-chicks-covered-up repression thing doesn't totally rock, but you can't have everything.
I'm trying to picture New York Cab Drivers holding hands and the image just refuses to materialize.
BEVIS: She was already fast asleep and oblivious to the world when I finally got into bed. So in answer your question. Yes, I scored with my wife.
Heh heh... cooool!
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