Why wanting a subscription to GQ doesn't make me a lesbian.

I love my mom. A lot. One thing I don't love about my mom, however, is that I'm 99.9% sure she thinks I'm gay. I know this because she has explicitly told me she thinks I'm gay on numerous occasions. This is upsetting to me because I am very much not a lesbian. Not like there's anything wrong with lesbianism. Hell, the original second bird on this blog was a big 'ole lezzie! I'm hip! I'm cool with it! I'm just not a lesbian myself.

The primary reason my mom thinks I'm gay is because I have a lot of gay friends. Now, believe it or not, this isn't the result of me going to local charter meetings of the "I'M A RAGING HOMO AND YOU ARE TOO! Club" (IARHAYATC, for short). It's because I went to an extremely gay-friendly college, where you can't swing a dead cat without hitting a few 'mos in the face. And I befriended those 'mos and consider myself lucky to have them. To me, having gay friends is the weakest possible argument for thinking someone's gay. I've got some black friends mom, does that make me any less painfully white? No. To my great, great dismay, it does not.

The second most ridiculous reason my mom thinks I'm gay is because I have visible tattoos. When I told my mom that I got tattoos #2 and #3 on my wrists, she nonchalantly told me that I had made a poor decision because from now on people will assume certain things about me. "Like what?" I asked her. Her answer? "That you're a prison dyke." I swear to all that is good and holy in this world, that was her answer. That people are going to assume that I am a prison dyke. Because I have two wrist tattoos. I suppose I could understand this if my tattoos said "INMATE" and "I HEART PUSSY", but they're just of a harp and a crown. To this day, it is completely beyond me why my tattoos insinuate not only that I've been incarcerated, but also that I'm the gayest kid on the block. And yet according to my mom, I should keep this in mind when meeting people for the first time, every time, for the rest of my life. I think if she had her way, one wrist would say "CLEAN RECORD" and the other "COCK-MASTER", respectively.

Her third reason for thinking I'm gay is slightly more legitimate, but still ridiculous. You see, for being such a bitter and spiteful bitch, I love to cuddle. But cuddling is a platonic act. Apparently my mom doesn't understand that two people can come into physical contact with each other without having sex (the brazen hussy!) So, when she came home one night to find me and Anna on the couch watching Troy and having a cuddle-fest, she acted like she had walked in on us in the middle of making hardcore lesbian porn. Grecian-themed, hardcore lesbian porn. Later at dinner, my mom interrupted the stony silence with the following conversation:Mom: "So...that Anna was all over you like a cheap suit. Anything you'd like to tell me?"Me: "WHAT?! We were just cuddling! I'm not gay, mom! And even if I were, I don't think I could get a girl as hot as Anna."Dad: "That's not true sweetie, I think you could definitely get a girl as hot as Anna."Me: "Awww Dad! That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me!....WAIT, but you know I'm not gay, right?? RIGHT?!"

No amount of "we were just cuddling!" could reverse the damage done. This misunderstanding planted a seed of hate in my mother's heart for Anna that has only recently removed itself. If I had friends over to our house, it wasn't uncommon for my mom to say hello to everyone but Anna. One winter break, I had a bunch of people over to the house for a pot-luck dinner and my mom said, and I quote, "It's just so good to see all of you girls! EVEN YOU ANNA!"

I guess it didn't really help when my mom was browsing through my photos from backpacking through Europe and found a picture of me and Anna kissing on the beach. I can see where that looks slightly gay and romantic. I guess. I really have no excuses for that except that it was just a peck! Show me a person who wouldn't give their BFF a peck while boozin' it up on an Italian beach and I'll show you a lair.

Sometimes I catch myself thinking about how sad it makes me that if I were gay, my mom wouldn't accept my partner. I've dated some real asshole dudes in my day and I feel like my mom would take one of them over a chick any day of the week. How messed up is that?...And then I have to stop and remind myself that this is a non-issue because I am straight, and I need to stop mourning my hypothetical homosexuality. And when you have to remind yourself that you're straight, you know you've lost.

This leads to my current conundrum. My birthday is coming up, and I really want to ask for a subscription to GQ, as it has become one of my favorite magazines. I was first introduced to GQ when I lived with Chris and he had a subscription. He'd leave them in the bathroom after he was done reading and I'd sneak in and gank 'em. His subscription to GQ is without a doubt what I miss most about living with Chris. Well, besides his friendship and advice and love and stuff..............................................................(but mostly the subscription).

First, GQ is designed by Fred Woodward, one of my all-time favorite graphic designers. His work at Rolling Stone is what inspired me to go into magazine design in the first place and I think he's a genius. Second, the articles are genuinely more interesting than those in any woman's magazine out there. Take Cosmopolitan, for example. I fucking hate Cosmopolitan with every fiber of my being. I have a theory about Cosmo that I call "The Ball Theory." The Ball Theory states that every article in Cosmo is inevitably about the same thing: remembering to give your man's balls attention. Every single article, every single sex tip—play with his balls. I get that it's important sister, but move on! 50 GREAT SEX TIPS! 1-49? Play with his balls. THE NEWEST SEX MOVE THAT'LL DRIVE HIM WILD! Play with his balls. THE SECRET SPOT THAT'LL REVIVE YOUR SEX LIFE! Starts with a B and rhymes with "schmalls." I get it! Balls! Now move the fuck on.

On the other hand, the articles in GQ are all incredibly interesting, well-written and for the most part gender-neutral. They have provocative interviews, a fabulous cocktail-of-the-month feature, the best food and wine articles since Martha, and humor articles that beat the hell out of Cosmo's shitty "Embarrassing Stories" section. (All of which are just variations of "OOOPS I FORGOT TO PLAY WITH MY MAN'S BALLS!" anyway.) Not to mention it's full of hundreds of glossy photos of sexy, handsome, well-dressed men! I'm sorry mom! I'm sorry I want to look at 140 pages of hot men! That's so queer of me! Meanwhile my W magazine has more exposed tits than spring break on the Jersey Shore, but she doesn't mind paying for that subscription, now does she?!

I just can't see anyway that I can ask for a subscription without having another "something you wanna tell me?" talk. And I don't know if I can take another one. If I snap and start to wear flannel and march in the Gay Pride Parade, it's just not my fault. Therefore, I think GQ should hire me to be a staff writer so I can get free copies and preserve my heterosexuality. It just seems like the logical thing to do. Right?

Sigh...I'll be in my office listening to the Indigo Girls and cutting off the sleeves to my t-shirts if anyone needs me.