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By Kirk Read
There are at least two kinds of men in the world: those who read and
those who don't. Within the category of those who don't read, there are
corporate commuters whose occasional forays into literature include titles
like Creating Wealth or, if they're feeling particularly erudite, some slim
Deepak Chopra volume.
Those new age gift books are all interchangeable, as
far as I'm concerned. This group of men, I can say from perhaps too much
experience, is largely untenable and best avoided altogether. There's nothing
sadder than a 42 year-old man who walks like a circuit boy, quacks like a
circuit boy, but much to his chagrin, is not really a circuit boy.
Five weekly visits to the gym cannot compete with the deleterious effects of speed and too many late nights wasted on bad ambient muzak. These men would do well to abandon their regimen of anabolic steroids, stop wearing baseball hats to cover their bald spots, and stop listening to Cher remixes. I say this for the benefit of 40ish men in particular, but let's face it: gay culture would be no poorer should the millennium bring a moratorium on steroids, baseball hats, and Cher. Another group of men who don't read includes men who never really got into books from day one. They never finished Silas Marner in high school. They don't have bookshelves in their homes. When they visit other cities, the queer bookstore is not one of their guaranteed destinations. This group can be deceptive, because these men often throw the best fucks on the open market. They are sometimes sweet, gentle men who bowl, hike, and barbecue. In other words, they're sorta like straight guys who get into boy's butts. Which is fine on a limited basis.
The other reason our relationship can't go much deeper is that he has a primary boyfriend. Not that I'm "the other woman," sneaking around like Dolly Parton and Burt Reynolds. This is San Francisco. Many couples here accept that sexual exclusivity isn't necessarily a realistic goal in a city where erotic possibility exists in every passing doorway. Monogamy is a great way to bond early on, but gay men are dogs, and when dogs go to the park, they sniff the butts of other dogs. So he'll call me, all sweet, and in his utterly unaffected drawl, say "Hey, baby...why don't you come over and snuggle." In such situations, his lack of proficiency with Balzac or Susan Sontag becomes a non-issue. Successful snuggling requires no academic credentials, unlike having dinner with someone, or going to New Zealand with someone, where extended conversation is a distinct likelihood. Naturally, I go over there, fall into his arms, and gurgle like a toddler as his untutored arms squeeze me like a mother bear hibernating with her cub. Among men who do read, there are also pitfalls. Imagine my despair when, after riding home from a leather bar with a promising gentleman following some lovely on-premises smooching, I found his bookshelves filled with every book ever published by Dean Koontz, John Grisham, Stephen King, Scott Turow, and (this one really hurt my feelings) Tom Clancy. I'd almost rather he didn't read at all.
I turned away from the shelf, thinking it couldn't get
any worse. There before me was a full shelf of every Disney movie ever made.
Charming, I rationalized, so long as he watches them with a certain degree of
irony.
He assured me, practically imploding from excitement, that he'd seen each of the 100+ titles 3-5 times. Mama Mia! Repeated viewing of Disney videos is something heterosexuals do instead of real parenting. It's reasonable to expect men to grow out of this by midlife, isn't it? I'll admit that I can be a snob. I'll admit that I'm occasionally arch. I concede that this column will infuriate a lot of perfectly lovely men. For that I am reluctantly apologetic. In the battle of inner selves, my toothy trickster typed this rant before my gracious Southern host could suppress it. Kirk Read lives in San Francisco. He promises that he is not typically as snotty as this column. More of his columns can be found at www.temenos.net/kirkread Photos from Badpuppy's review of Collegiate Muscle |
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