I love gay men

Maybe it's when I find myself looking at another man's shoulders or forearms and wishing they were mine. I end up sitting next to the ventripotent man with a Bud and stogy, who flagellates as the women wrap their legs around his face. I rimming gay men partially because my friends cheer me on to "be a man for a night, dude," but also partially because the alcohol in my system is making me melancholic about my actions throughout the evening, about how I've spent the entire time trying to be a particular type of "man" that I am not.

How do you know when a man TRULY loves you? Gray dress pants with a hunter's orange vest and a green beanie tilted sideways on the head? Maybe it's their uncanny vesture, the way they can put any two articles of clothing together and make them match.

When the umpire makes a bad call, a drunk man behind me stands up and says, with an alcohol induced slur, "That was bullshit, blue," and I slap my knee and think to myself, "Darn. I drink bottle after bottle of Corona, and at this point in the night I'm so drunk I take to squeezing the lime slowly, watching the juice slide down the walls of the bottle and into the beer with a fizz.

Where they run their hands through men hair and down their neck, flickering their eyelashes so that their eyes cut through like the slides of a languid filmstrip. I allow my eyes to rove over the women's bodies, fastidiously attacking their curves from each angle.

Afterwards, we stagger to the strip clubs where Bart and Dylan spend their entire paychecks on lap dances, and occasionally take some of the women home for free. "Loving Martin" is a moving drama of love, loss, and renewal, showcasing the healing power of community and second sure to follow us on Socials fo.

I ask myself as I crush another lime into and down the sides of a Corona bottle. While Dylan is in the VIP room, verbally coercing a woman into fellatio, I lean against the bar, cross my legs, and try to drink myself happy again. But maybe it's not their actions that I pay so much attention to.

If they were sober enough to notice me sitting at the gay with my legs crossed, maudlin and dismal, sitting amid four or five strippers, yet not beckoning any of them to my love, certainly they would call me a "fag," as they do when I admit their ex-girlfriend's new boyfriend has nice eyes.

Can I act effeminate sometimes, and still be a "masculine man" not a "gay man," or would it be so bad if I were a gay man? Some of the sweat on his brow is his, some theirs. There are still those nights when I participate in the traditional "Guy's Night Out," the beer commercials proudly advise.

Not a problem. Does my lack of male aggressiveness mean I am acting homosexual? Or maybe it's when I go to a professional baseball game, cross my legs and sip lemonade from my thighs, rather than a beer from my gut, that I feel as though I'm acting "feminine," and therefore homosexual.

Does he act a certain way? My persistence in falling in love with gay men. Maybe it's the way these men's aura froths across the room. Maybe it's my actions, especially those times when I find myself acting "gay," or maybe more accurately, effeminate.

I know not all gay men act effeminate, and that not all straight men act masculine all the time. What a preposterous official. Here's 10 signs he's passionately in love with you big time.

Loving Martin Incredible Gay

Is that really what being a man is all about? So then why do I feel as though I'm acting like a homosexual just because I occasionally act effeminate, because I occasionally cross my legs? And I don’t mean having a crush on Neil Patrick Harris or dreaming about removing Anderson Cooper’s black-framed glasses to share a thin-lipped.

Maybe it's when I realize I enjoy cuddling, and I have always cried at the end of a relationship, even if I was the one ending it. When I get together with three or four of my guy friends, go to The Main Street Bistro, get drunk, and sputter at women.