Or, more accurately, an ex-sex-buddy.
In 2003, I got a call from a guy I used to do it with, and was delighted to hear his voice.
He congratulated me on my success and I sputtered, “Aw, it’s nothing! Just some writing and TV appearances, blah blah, nothing more!”
He gushed even more about how great I was doing, and I went into the faux-humble routine all over again — “Oh, come on, I mean I’m doing all right, but nothing that major, aside from lots of recognition and book deals, blah blah.”
Finally, he got to the point:
“I live in [small town] now and we’re having an intimate but very important Gay Pride parade next month.
“We have a budget and we were thinking of which recognizable gay names we could send in to grand-marshal the parade …”
“Oh, really?” I said, batting my eyelashes loudly while glancing at my empty schedule.
“And … ? And … ?”
“And so I tracked down your contact info and called to ask if you would … ?”
“If I would … ? If I would … ?” By now, my lashes were batting so hard they were hurting each other.
“If you knew any way we could get in touch with the Queer Eye guys.”
Your mother sucks cocks in hell.
“I guess call Bravo. So nice to hear from you,” I cooed and firmly placed down the receiver, wishing I’d given him crabs.
This article from the Village Voice Archive was posted on December 28, 2011