There’s still a handful of gay guys left in Chelsea, and they continue to engage in cruising rituals like dinosaurs roaming the terrain for one last stomping party.
And I know for a fact how they play the cruising game because I got ensnared into it by chance just last night.
As they walk towards you on the street, they dart their head down, as if to scream the fact that you are not to glance their way, even by accident.
Suddenly they’re Katy Perry and you’re the limo driver, and you’re feeling extremely dissed and shut out, deprived of your eyes’ legal right to some casual candy.
But then right after they pass you, they swivel their head around to look at you and see if you’re checking them out!
How do I know this? Because after a guy darted his head down on 18th Street last night, I turned around to check him out and saw that he’d swiveled his head to look at me!
Talk about mixed messages.
Here’s what I figure the psychology is:
“Don’t look at me, don’t look at me, don’t look at me, don’t even think of looking at me.”
Followed by “Did he look at me?”
God, gays are so sick!
Romney may be right.