Something for All The Stupid Gay Guys Out There
Nothing more, nothing less...
Good afternoon, my loyal Vapid Whores!
Thanks to the kind words of mother Hunter Harris, my subscriber count has tripled (or something) in a matter of days. We bow down to mommy and we say, “Hello, and good luck” to all of the new readers who have taken the dangerous plunge into the wretched realm of Babbling On.
What’s on my mind these days… hmm… can I be frank and confess my brain activity has reached dangerously low levels in this summer heat? I’m suffering from a crippling phone addiction and rewatch strangers’ Instagram stories to stave off the existential dread bubbling just below my lobotomized surface.
I have had a few thoughts, though… the tits of men come to mind most immediately. The ass cheek of man follows soon behind. Yes, I’ve been engaging in sexuality. What can really be said of that except — regarding my h*le — Something’s Gotta Give, a 2003 Diane Keaton vehicle which I have not seen.
Here’s something — I went to Fire Island a couple weeks ago. It was supposed to be for a day trip with two of my closest women, but of course, mushrooms and gay guys being what they are, our triad got into a really tense spat, then collapsed into the sand and sobbed together for three hours before crashing on the couches of a lovely woman named Gina, who offered us refuge from the marketing executives fornicating all around us.
My friends and I — known henceforth in this newsletter as The Jonas Brothers, as we were lovingly christened by an anesthesiologist who would later ask if I was interested in “going to the bathrooms” with him (we thank him for doing the work) — are certainly annoying as fuck. Our stint of the Isle of Flames involved much harmonizing, screeching, and shoulder rides. But when a man in a skirt passed us on the boardwalk at approximately 10:35 PM and went, “Wait a second, I know you three…” we had no idea what we were in store for.
“Yeah, my friends and I were on the train with you guys, and then the ferry, and then at the beach…” he recounted bemusedly, as the three of us, rolling on our second batch of mushroom chocolates that day, dehydrated and covered in a layer of grime and sand, blinked back at him, dumbfounded.
“I think you have the wrong gay guys,” said my friend Alec.
“Isn’t one of you named… Alex… Alec?”
“No,” said Alec.
“Yeah, you guys have been so annoying to me and my friends all day,” the man in the skirt proclaimed.
The whole world stopped at that moment. Pins dropped. Thick, velvety silence occurred. I looked at my two comrades in shock before turning to our assailant and asking the vital question:
“Ok, but do you mean like we were charming, or actually annoying?”
The beskirted man blinked back at us before responding: “Definitely really annoying.”
Then he walked away, as my friend Benny roared after him, “Fuck you. And your outfit is atrocious!”
From there the three of us proceeded to giggle, fart, and frolic our way through the Meat Rack in honor of our forefathers, who queered the island and fucked each other hard so we would have the right to screech along to Robyn’s “Dancing On My Own” while elderly gay men moved away from us to protect their ears.
Speaking of Fire Island, I hope everyone here has by now taken the time to watch the titular film Fire Island on Hulu. I watched it with three — you guessed it — gay guys the other night on an air-conditioned couch in South Brooklyn. To say nirvana occurred would be a gross understatement. For someone with gorgeous tits, Joel Kim Booster sure is talented at writing! He and I share those qualities, of course. And Bowen Yang deserves a Best Actor nom this year. It’s that simple.
I loved the movie because it wasn’t afraid to address reality. This group of gay friends yelled at each other, found each other to be annoying, and even acknowledged large tit and ass privilege! Like, that’s real life. Seriously, though, Fire Island was hilarious, moving, beautifully shot, and charming as hell. Highly, highly recommend.
I guess it really is my gay guy era at the moment. Of course I’m a well of femininity, but I’ll admit I’ve been leaning into the culture of basketball shorts, texting at the gym, and gulping down psyllium husk as of late — it’s almost lesbianism, but then of course you sit back and really analyze the facts and conclude that, no, this is the work of gay-guyntism. As such, the other show I have watched of late is HBO’s Looking.
I’ve tried watching this programme on numerous occasions, and always been really bored. Then I started from episode 4 the other day (obliterated on marijuana) and discovered that actually, there’s some really interesting scene work happening here. The way two gay guys can feel about each other at the beginning of a diner scene versus the end left my jaw rolling into a trunk on Highway 10. It helps that the tits of Mrs. Murray Bartlett are on display in full force as well.
I wish I had more intellectual pursuits to share, but since it’s Pride, stop reading this newsletter and go have some sex, sweetheart. A few more pieces of housekeeping below for anyone reading this as they prepare for the aforementioned fornication:
Donate to G.L.I.T.S. Inc. and support their work helping the LGBTQIA and sex worker communities (slay) here.
A few work things I’ve written in the past month for The Hollywood Reporter:
Thank you again to all my new subscribers for joining this community of brainless academics! We’re so happy to have you, and don’t forget to schedule a time for your inaugural “Babbling On” neck tattoos as soon as convenient, girlie!!