I was out yesterday with friends. We’re drinking beer and quoting RuPaul’s Drag Race. We’re operating on various levels of cuntiness while still being charming. I’m deep in conversation with a friend I havent seen in a while, and out of nowhere appears a man who feels me up like I’m a fucking prize stud. He tells me that him and a group of unidentified friends had been talking about me, and they had a wager going on how old I might be. He ask me to disclose my age, and I reply that I want to know first what the bets are and how high the wager is. He says the bidding goes from twenty-four to thirty-six – I’m thirty-seven and very pleased with myself at this point of the evening. I’m perversely thankful for being able to pass for twenty-four in the eyes of a stranger whom I’ve never met, and at the same time I just want Colonel Feely McGropeson to get his fucking hands of my back and stop complimenting the broadness of my shoulders.
My voice of concience tells me to be grateful for the attention, because as we all know, being handsome is the ultimate currency amongst a group of men who shares no common trademark other than their sexuality, and even that is at best debatable. Who the fuck taught me that my looks are all that matters? I’m not even that fucking hot. I look unphotogenically dorky on most pictures but I do have a striking physical presence as all scandinavian men does who are built for a climate where the power of sunlight looses it’s grip six months out of a year. Why do I feel guilty about not wanting the attention. I hear the voice of a woman hawking: “other people would be thrilled to get the attention”… i put this warning in the same box as “children are starving in Africa, so eat your potatoes!”