Buncocky

On New Years Eve my friend Satan J called me gay because I was wearing a striped shirt and a badass green vest I had copped on the cheap. We were standing on his porch smoking a cigarette, drunk from a long night of whiskey and Guinness. It was cold and the stars were twinkling with the endless possibilities of a new year. Slates were to be wiped clean, and resolutions were to be made, and I, on the dawn of my 28^th year on earth, had just found out that solids and sleeves were essential to heterosexual manhood. I thank Satan J for that. It led me to question some shit, to probe deep into my consciousness to find out that if, despite my love for crazy sex with my wife and the fact that I have reproduced a child, I am actually gay.

I looked over to J. He is a grave-digger, his face permanently covered in dark brown stubble as if the dead had reached up from their already filled holes, like in Thriller, and caressed his cheeks, leaving long dirt smudges. He was wearing his navy grave-digging sweatshirt which was filthy with the dust of the dead (alliteration, bitch). I did not want to fuck J. I thought about my friend Mike who was inside. He’s round and Italian looking. I did not want to fuck Mike. I tried my hardest to think of a dude that I would fuck, some strapping lad that would give honest tribute to my good friend’s prophecy. I was hard pressed. The question haunted me for days. Did my penchant for broken up colors make me want to do unspeakable things to other men’s butts? Did free arms mean I wanted to cradle cock and balls? As I pondered the possibilities over the course of a week, maybe two, I was able to come up with three hypothetical situations that would make me gay. Here they are:

1. If futuristic technology advanced to the point where I could get a robot clone of myself, I’d probably let it give me a hand-job. I mean, if we were kicking it on the couch watching Rachael Ray, just existing in the world of sloth together, and robot me reached over like he owned the shit, I think I might let him take a go at it. Nothing more than a hand-job, though. It could only be something that I could, or would do to myself.

2. Rachael Ray makes me hot. I don’t know why or how, but I can admit that wanting to bang her makes me a little gay. The big smile, the flabby little boobs, the hoarse cackle as if her throat was burning with gonorrhea, it all works for me. She’s got sass, moxy, that special quality that is usually reserved for ugly girls who understand that they are not beauty queens—that they have to get by on personality, no matter how brash that personality may be. Sometimes the abandonment of pretense can be sexy. I’m not saying that Rachael Ray would be a great person to live with, even though after we did it she’d whip me up some fancy-ass quesadilla in like, three minutes. I’m sure she’d get annoying pretty quickly, as the novelty of her scratchy voice would probably wear off fast. I’m just saying that in a world where I was single and she was slumming, I’d totally throw her a shot.

3. When I look at Tom Brady, raw jealous energy wells up in my gut and I want to lash out and strangle him. That happens because I know that he is perfect. All of the angels, fairy sprites, chocolate, and the Fonze got together, had an insane night of fucking, and nine months later the stork came fluttering by with a wicker basket. He flew extra careful and gentle-like, and laid the basket on a bed of Charmin and clouds that fell from the sky solely to cradle the new mega-human. That baby grew up, raised by the hand of magic, to be Tom Brady. I don’t think saying that makes me gay. It’s in the bible. It gets gay because if Tom Brady tried to fuck me, I’d probably let him. How could I not? He is superhuman. Better than human. His eyes probably shoot out some Dracula-style you-know-you-want-me-to-fuck-you super magic. And truth be told, he’d probably know how to do it just right. Why? Because he is Tom Brady, and I have no doubt that he is the perfect ass-fucker just like he’s the perfect everything else. I do not actively want to fuck him, but given that hypothetical scenario, I suppose it could go down and make me a gay.

So there you have it, Satan J, Internet People: the whole gay truth of the matter. But before you pass judgment on me, rummage through your closet, take out your finest striped shirt, your cruddiest vest, and put them on. Then ask yourself: “does this outfit make me like butts?”