I Can’t Be The Gay Best Friend You Want Me To Be
Our waiter? Uh- yeah, sure, I guess he’s cute. I didn’t really notice, to be honest. What? What do you mean — like on a scale of one to ten or something? No, I’m not going to do that. I’m not going to rate our waiter’s ass. No, Jenn, I’m not being “such a little bitch.” I just don’t want to talk about asses with you over brunch. Can you understand that? Can you? I’m not sure that you can. You know what? I’m actually glad that we’re discussing this right now, because I think that this speaks to a larger issue, something that I’ve actually been thinking about for a little while, and I guess that now is as good a time as any to get it out into the open.
Jenn, I don’t think that I can be the gay best friend that you want me to be.
Look, I really like you and all. I think you’re fun to hang out with — you’ve introduced me to some really nice people, shown me some fun new spots in the city — honestly, it’s been really great getting to know you. I just get the feeling that you want something different out of this relationship than I do, and I’m just not the gay guy to give it to you.
Look, I get it. You like having a gay best friend. And you love telling other people that you have a gay best friend. It makes you feel progressive and urbane. It gives you a sense of liberal pride — something to show your suburban friends just how chic you’ve become since you moved to the big city. I think it makes you feel like you’re a character on Sex and the City. (Which, despite all of my protests to the contrary, is a show that I’m not familiar with. So please stop referring to me as “The Charlotte of our group.” I don’t know what that means.)
I just don’t think that I can live up to the expectations you have for this relationship.
So please, going forward, stop introducing me to your friends by saying things like “This is Mike; he’s my best gay.” I know you think you’re being cute and irreverent, but, really, it’s demeaning, and reduces me to one single facet of myself that I would never personally choose to be my defining characteristic. On the same note, can you please stop telling your friends how “fabulous” I am? This isn’t “The Bird Cage,” and I’m not Nathan Lane. I live in Astoria and I work as an accountant at a decent, but not great, accounting firm. I’m happy, but I’m certainly not going to be a guest judge on “RuPaul’s Drag Race” anytime soon.
Speaking of which — when did you coming over on Monday nights to watch “RuPaul’s Drag Race” become a “thing” that we do? I know that you love having that as “our tradition” that you can tell your friends about at work the next day, but it needs to stop. I don’t even like that show, and, if we’re being completely honest, I’d like to have my Monday nights back.
Also, the summer-share in Fire Island is not going to happen. So please stop pushing it. If you want to go spend the summer in Fire Island, please, by all means, go and spend the summer in Fire Island. Have the time of your life. I just don’t want to be a part of it. I don’t have any desire to go, and, to be honest, I don’t think that you do either. I think that what you want is to have a photo of yourself surrounded by fit, topless gay men dancing in a nightclub that you can make your Facebook profile picture. I’m not going to pay $5,000 and take the LIRR every weekend so you can make that happen.
I know that in your mind we’re like a current day Will and Grace. That’s why you always use the phrase “We’re so Will and Grace.” But we’re not. That show was a fiction, and so is your idea of this relationship. I’m a real person. So, please, stop calling me “Girl,” “Girlfriend,” “Bitch,” “Huge Bitch,” and “Huge Girlfriend Bitch.” That last one doesn’t even make sense.
And don’t you have any other friends that you can invite as your plus-one to weddings? I understand that you think it’s a novelty to have a gay man as your date, but I’m tired of renting tuxedos and having you scream and drag me out to the middle of the dance floor every time the DJ plays a Lady Gaga song. I understand that the gay guy in your mind owns his own bespoke tuxedo and has the choreography to every Lady Gaga song ingrained in his muscle memory. I’m not that guy. Most gay guys aren’t that guy. I don’t even like Lady Gaga. I still like Matchbox 20. The gay best friend you talk about to try and push your father’s buttons definitely doesn’t listen to Matchbox 20.
And since we’re on the subject of weddings — let’s talk about weddings. Look — I love the fact that we live in an age where the tide of marriage equality is turning so quickly. I truly, truly do. It gives me nothing but pride as a gay man, and, more importantly, as an American, to live in a time when my country is beginning to recognize basic human rights for all citizens regardless of race, creed, or sexual orientation. Nothing could make me happier. But you need to stop showing up at my apartment in tears every time a new state legalizes same-sex marriage. Do you remember when marriage equality became the law in Utah? You came over to my apartment, hugged me for, like, four straight minutes, and just kept whispering, “We did it. We did it” into my ear. I mean, I didn’t do anything to help the marriage equality effort in Utah, and I’m sure as hell that you did even less. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Jenn, but getting drunk at the gay pride parade and yelling “Oh my God I’m such a hag!” at every float that passes by hardly qualifies as political activism.
On that note, please stop saying that you can’t wait for my hypothetical “Big Fat Gay Wedding.” If, and when, I end up getting married, just exactly what do you think is going to happen? You act like my wedding is going to be catered by the cast of Naked Boys Singing carrying trays of sushi on their perfectly sculpted abs while Madonna personally sings “Like a Prayer” for my first dance with my husband Cheyenne Jackson. Do you know what my wedding is really going to be like? It’s going to be like every other wedding — at a banquet hall in Long Island with decent-to-passable-food and maybe a photo booth in the corner. And my first dance is going to be to an early Matchbox 20 deep cut.
I’m sorry if this is coming across as harsh, Jenn, but I really wanted to clear the air before you try and push the issue of the two of us going to Mike’s annual Halloween party dressed as Matt Damon and Michael Douglas a la “Beyond the Candelabra” even more than you already have. I know you already spent a ton of money on a sequin cape. That’s on you.
And, just in the interest of fairness and full-disclosure — I give our waiter’s ass an eight.