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Gay Men Are A Girl’s Best Friend

05 Friday Sep 2014

Posted by in Single in New York

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I’m not knocking on my lady friends here, nor am I looking to generalize all gay men into one category or push them into certain stereotypes, but there is a lot to be said about having a gay man as your BFF.

My best friend and I have been super close since we were 12 years old and living on Maui. We both moved to New York for college and have lived together ever since.

He’s my main source of support, my rock in this concrete jungle.

I know I can depend on him for anything and he knows the same about me. We’re like brother and sister, Batman and Robin, Seth Rogen and James Franco. In short, we’re unbreakable, unshakable and remarkable.

I have to say that I think a lot of what makes us such a power couple (he’s clearly my gay husband) is the fact that he, as a gay man, shares so many fantastic qualities with myself, but from a male perspective.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Gay men are the best. They have all the emotional wherewithal of a female, while having the same kind of power that we feminists are trying to achieve in the workplace and in relationships.

They’re like women 4.0, and I adore them all. I know that it isn’t fair to lump all gay men into one (although absolutely perfect) category, I just think that gay men make the best friends for any female. Here are the eight reasons why I love having a gay best friend:

1. They always support you

My gay best friend wants me to be the very best that I can be. He isn’t afraid to push me, to challenge me and to make me fight for my goals. He’s been the greatest safety net when I’ve felt my most afraid and my shoulder to cry on when I’ve felt my most vulnerable.

Gay men aren’t afraid to show their emotions; that’s what makes them a lot like girlfriends. There’s no hard exterior or “Mr. Cool Guy” act going on; they just generally want to be there to support you unconditionally.

2. They want to gab about boys, etc.

I love that I can talk to my best friend for hours on end about boys and about my relationships. Likewise, he wants to talk to me about his relationships. I never have to worry about being tuned out, judged or embarrassed about anything I divulge.

Not to mention, you know we have fun playing with his Grindr app while we pregame.

Your gay best friend is the easiest person to talk to because he doesn’t care you were making out with that rando at the bar last night because he was right there with you. This is a time when having a gay best friend is like having a best girlfriend; he’s always up for anything and is always right there by your side.

3. They are (relatively) drama free

I tread lightly when I say this, but gay men just have less drama than women. They are no-nonsense, get-to-the-point kind of people.

I love this about my gay husband. If I do something to set him off, he tells me how it is. He’s not into sitting around, being passive aggressive and talking a bunch of sh*t behind my back. He just tells me what’s going on and how he’s feeling, and we mutually find a way to remedy the situation so we can hightail it to happy hour.

4. They tell it like it is

If I look like a beached whale in my horizontally striped, mid-length, body-hugging dress (yeah, not my best fashion choice), my gay best friend is going to tell me straight up that I look like Shamu.

I love that he doesn’t lie to me because what service does it do me to spend an entire Friday evening out on the town looking like Rosie O’Donnell?

I appreciate the honesty I can always count on, even if it does sting a little.

5. They’re clean

Hygiene in the gay community is non-negotiable. My gay husband is borderline (okay, completely, sorry!) anal. It can be a little annoying since I tend to be a bit of a slob, but I appreciate that he wants a clean home and is always clean-shaven with a trendy haircut and smelling like Burberry Homme.

6. They dress to impress

My gay husband is impeccably dressed. I can’t even deal with all of these straight men in their high-tops and jerseys. Give me J. Crew, tailored jeans and V-neck sweater kind of guy any day.

7. You always have a shopping partner

Okay, not true of every gay guy, I know. They don’t all love shopping, but my gay husband LOVES shopping. It’s so nice to be able to spend a carefree day with a male who I know is going to love hitting up H&M and won’t mind holding on to my purse while I’m trying things on.

He also won’t hesitate to tell me my ass looks fat in those jeans.

8. You always have a handsome +1

I love being single. When I get invited to fancy par-tays, I can always rely on my fantastic, gorgeous BFF to be my arm candy for the night. Sometimes it can be a little tricky finding nice boys since they tend to think he’s my boyfriend, but it’s so worth it for all of the awesome photos we’ll take throughout the evening.

Hopefully we’ll both get lucky.

An Aside–

My only lament about having a fabulous, amazing gay husband is that all of these things aforementioned are the qualities of nearly every hot guy in New York. Sigh, I feel like all the good ones are gay. It’s actually quite depressing sometimes, but at least I have the best friend I could possibly ask for.

I love you, PW!

Originally Posted on Elite Daily

Dear Boy: Featured On Confessions of a Love Addict

29 Friday Nov 2013

Posted by in Articles, Single in New York

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I contributed to a fantastic post by Confessions of a Love Addict called Dear Boy.

The post was a series of letters written to boys from bad dates.

Here is mine, which was featured last Friday:

Dear Boy Who Thought Talking About Other Girls Would Turn Me On.

It started as very witty flirtation that made me excited to open my phone. I met you on Tinder, which made me wary, but you shared my love for Archer and you looked so cute on Facebook that I decided to meet you for a drink. You chose a crowded place on Jane Street that took me 2 trains to get to. You were shorter than I thought you’d be. Our conversation (or what I could hear of it over all the noise) seemed forced and you seemed strangely aloof. I wondered if I should have worn heels even though it was snowing. I was sure our first time meeting would be our last but to my surprise you texted me the next day asking when you could see me again. I chalked our uncomfortable encounter up to nerves and decided I’d give you another chance. On our second date, drinks again, you were funny and clever. I admired the fact that you were confident enough to leave your job as an investment banker to pursue a promising start-up and when you kissed me goodnight there were definitely sparks. A few more really fun, really alcoholic dates and I was sure this was on its way to becoming something real. But then, you disappeared. Two weeks passed and no word. I decided to take charge and ask you where you’d been. You replied saying that you’d been really busy dating this other girl, but not to worry! It wasn’t serious. I don’t know why you thought this was the appropriate response or why you were surprised when I never texted you back again (though 4 more texts on 4 more occasions did force me to appreciate your persistence).  I don’t know who taught you how to date, buddy, but you should lose their number too. –Gigi

You can find the rest of the letters here on Confessions of a Love Addict
A special thanks to Lindsay Tigar for including me on her wonderful and inspiring blog! xx

I Am Not Okay

27 Friday Sep 2013

Posted by in The New Chapter, This Thing Called Love

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Grey was the center of my universe for a year and a half.

2 weeks ago parted on less than cordial terms–to be kind–there may or may not have been a 2,000 word email sent from my an angry finance guy that laid out my faults and told me (with a surprising amount of eloquence–that’s ivy league education for you) that I was a waste of time–always good to hear–and though I did desperately try to avoid the ugliness that eventually ensued, I did handle the actual break-up itself very poorly, and he was not inclined to let me walk away without making sure that I was damaged.

And the truth is. I’m not okay. I’m not saying breaking up was a mistake or that I want him back –but I’m not okay.

He’s been all over my dreams lately. Various scenes, variations of himself, appearing in many in one night. I came to my internship today in an irked-out haze because he was in so many different scenes of my cluttered subconscious. I know that I don’t miss the actual relationship, the actual man himself. I remember, with bitter clarity, the things he did that angered and upset me, caused me to constantly complain, feel desperately unhappy and, eventually, fall out of love with him. But I miss the soft little things that come with a relationship. The hand holding, someone to squeeze you close in the middle of the night and kiss you softly, and tell you that they love you. Knowing you always have a lifeline.  I just wish he would get out of my dreams. I’m sick of feeling like a dried out coconut husk, like the ones we used to collect in our backyard in Hawaii when I was little.

It’s ok to grieve even if you’re the one who ended it. I have to keep telling myself that. I have loved and I have lost. And it’s okay to feel that loss, to feel that pain. Just because I knew it wasn’t right, that this wasn’t it, it’s still acceptable to feel lost, to feel lonely.

The day after we broke up, sitting alone in my messy, poorly lit apartment, still cluttered with empty bottles from that Friday night’s party, in complete silence with a glass of wine in my hand, I felt truly alone for the first time. I had no one to call, no one who was thinking about me–of course, that was one of my main concerns, wasn’t it? That I was never loved enough. And in that moment I cried. I really cried.

And then in the days that followed—and still even now after a few weeks– I would be walking the crowded streets of Midtown or Chelsea and suddenly recognize a place we had been together and my heart would stop and I would feel raw and sick in the pit of stomach.

It would happen on my way to work or walking home to my apartment on the Upper West Side and I’d suddenly recall a corner where we were holding hands and laughing about something serious, something, trivial? and I would feel those pangs of regret.

At PW’s advice I spent the next few days, the very last of sandal weather, in high heels and cute dresses and bb cream. He said it was important to look radiant even if I didn’t feel at all radiant. I felt like scum.

I still find myself walking past his apartment building (always an avenue west) out of sick masochistic enjoyment. –and then feel empty again.

I’m not going to lie. I am not okay.
There are good days and bad days. Some days I feel strong and some days I feel lost. Today is not a particularly good day– he was haunting my dreams last night like an ominous ghost, drifting in and out of different scenes—holding me and wanting me while I pushed away and held on—knowing it was wrong but wanting to be wanted. He was like a palpable fog running over me, thick and cold. Something familiar that I didn’t want to let go of, but wanted to pull off my skin.

I know that it’s okay to not be okay. Especially 2 weeks after a break up but I am really not okay. Not yet.

Those questions are on my mind again. Did I make a mistake? Did I let a truly wonderful man leave my life? Am I ever going to find someone? My heart is aching like I didn’t know it could anymore.

I know there were reasons; I wasn’t truly in love with him anymore, which means that the break-up had to happen. I forced his hand, I made him call me and he made me do it.

I keep hearing his broken voice in the back of my head, a kind of desperation and surprise that I’d never heard before. It makes my skin crawl and my stomach churn when I think about that phone call.

I am not okay.

I am still carrying the pictures we took together in that photo booth, wearing silly costume hats, the first day he officially became my boyfriend. It’s torn in half, the summation of a wine-infused moment of rage the day of that phone call. It’s still in my wallet. I see it sometimes when I look for my green card at Hale and Hearty on my lunch break. I’ll take it out soon, but not today.

It doesn’t matter how many gay husbands or girls that I talk to about it or how many times my brother and best friend tell me that I made the right decision and that this will all be okay in time, I am not okay yet. Sitting at my desk with the early morning sun peeling through the windows signaling a new day, a time of day I am so very familiar with–the time of day when my thoughts are weary and my heart aches most– I am not okay.

best friends, fall in love, say goodbye, come back soon (Part 3)

20 Friday Sep 2013

Posted by in Essays, This Thing Called Love

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PART 3
Sending our boy off to learn to be a warrior, and no love to show for it

The last few days of July melted (almost quite literally) into the blistering Chicago heat of August. At this point I was well aware of Green’s feelings towards me and to the extent they deepened. I was constantly trying convince myself that I felt the same and that it had to be some highly dark force controlling my feelings to remain flaccid, Something telling me that I felt this way for a reason. That all of this confusion would somehow make sense in the end. I felt like something was forcing me to remain on only appreciative of Green, never passionately in love with. As much as he denied it, protecting his own heart as best as he could, he still hoped that I would come around and realize what I’d been missing, and we would ride off into some (very manly) proverbial sunset into a future we’d face together.

I did realize what I’d been missing. I knew he deserved my love more than anyone in the world. He was so incredibly good to me, he was my best friend, and there were no secrets between us. He loved me for every irrational freak out, for every inappropriate joke, for every mistake and for every triumph.

As the summer came to a close, as summers always must, Green’s last day arrived. He’d been telling me for weeks that he had a special good-bye surprise for me that he had been planning something that I couldn’t know about. Since I knew he was well aware of how much I hate surprises (they make me have anxiety—I’m the kind of girl who wants to have a concrete list of birthday and Christmas presents beforehand) I was nervous as to what this “surprise” might be.

Around sunset he drove me down to our local beach, the one that looks over sleepy Lake Michigan, the breeze was coming off the water, bringing with it the icy chill that signifies the swiftly approaching fall.

As we climbed out of the old, rusty red truck and made our way to the sand I noticed lights at the end of the beach. Green had set up a special goodbye picnic. On the blanket were all of my favorite rolls from our special sushi spot, the one he had taken me to many times, gotten me drunk on Saki bombs and always picked up the bill. It had been the site of many “dates” that he thought a girl like me deserved to be taken on.

I was awestruck. It was beautiful and sweet and easily the kindest thing any best friend could have possibly done to say goodbye to a girl he loved who didn’t love him back. I couldn’t help wondering why I was even bothering with the loser I was dating who hadn’t even introduced me to his family after 8 months.

The picnic wasn’t all. He gave me a Build-a-Bear dressed in Marine blues—I could scarcely comprehend the most man’s-man guy I know walking into Build-A-Bear and saying he needed to make a bear for his girl. I imagine, Green being the kind of guy that he was, that he made an embarrassingly hilarious scene and I’m sorry I missed it. When I hugged the little bear to my chest it said from inside its furry heart, in Green’s voice, “I love you and miss you, G.” he said it was so that, whenever I got lonely back in New York, I could hold my bear, squeeze it, and know somebody really loved me.

I wish I could say I fell into his arms that night and told him everything he wanted to hear. I wish I could tell you that, in this moment, I knew I had found the kind of love that my heart ached for with all of its might. But I didn’t say any of those things.

We went back to my house and watched television, on the tattered couch in our family room, with my brothers and sisters. We all told him how much we would miss him and how he had become a member of our family. My father even told him that he was the type of son he wished he could have had and that even though he constantly worried about me when I out form under his watchful eye, he never worried when I was with Green. He said he knew that he loved me more than himself and that was the kind of guy he could trust his daughter with.

I didn’t tell Green I wanted him. I didn’t send my boy off to training for the Crucible leaving him knowing he had a good girl waiting for him. I just played with his buzzed hair and scratched his scalp as he laid it in my lap. I just gently kissed his cheeks and told him I wished he didn’t have to go away.

I felt numb, like I always had. Listless on this last and final night, holding a man who truly loved me with all of his heart in my arms. And sometimes, I would hold my bear close to me and squeeze so that I could hear, “I love and miss you, G” in the voice of the man who had always been my hero.

More to come