What doesn't make a man gay?

Almost all of the traffic that this blog gets from Google searches comes via one specific search: "what makes a man gay?" The traffic comes to me because of this post, and because it's a question that few blogs bother to consider. This is odd, when you think about it, because it's a question that every gay man asks himself as part of his search for identity.

Of course my blog isn't the only place that this Google search identifies. While checking my stats the other day, I clicked on this link to a Times review from 2007 of Desmond Morris' book 'The Naked Man'.

Desmond Morris is best known as the author of the seminal 1967 anthropological work 'The Naked Ape'. His theory, as outlined in the review, is that homosexuals are men who do not break away from the all-male bonding that boys seem to prefer for a roughly ten year stretch between toddlerhood and puberty. For some reason - possibly a misfiring of hormones - they stay stuck in a preference for the company of men, even as their interests turn sexual.

This is, of course, utter bunk.

I've met several little boys who couldn't be more proto-gay if they minced around wearing pink feather boas singing Liza Minnelli medleys... which they occasionally do. We've all met such boys. Their homosexuality isn't an upcoming failure to make the leap into an interest in girls. It's already part of who they are, something they started expressing from the very first moment they could express anything. Puberty does nothing other than ramp up the testosterone and supercharge their orientation with horniness and lust.

Reading this review makes me suspect that research into the causes of homosexuality is a young person's game. When looking for reasons and influences, it seems that every generation of researchers latches onto the scientific discipline du jour and clings to it, like a barnacle on a ship's hull, for the rest of their days. It's kind of alarming to witness otherwise impeccably-credentialed scientists supporting theories that are about as scientifically rigorous as phrenology and perpetual motion. It seems that young researchers are the only ones who have any chance of coming to the issue with open minds.

Desmond Morris was 80 years old when 'The Naked Man' was published. Candidly, he may be too old to be able or willing to consider fresh ideas or advancements in other fields. He's viewing the world though the mindset of his 1967 heyday, when homosexuality was still considered a psychiatric disorder. Weighed down by the baggage of more than half a century of misinformation and misinterpretation, he fails to grasp truths that are self-evident to any gay man.

Apart from being set in his ways, why does Morris support such a ridiculous theory? Part of the answer, I think, comes from the comment thread following the review. "Why are you even asking this question", demand several commenters. "Stop trying to put me in a box. I am who I am and I'm fabulous!" To which I can only reply, "Well good for you, honey, but if scientists listened to you and stopped trying to find out how the world worked, we'd still think the earth was flat and cower in terror during every thunderstorm."

There's no use in pretending that people don't want to know why some men are gay. It's probably for the best if gay men themselves look into it, tell scientists when their theories are off-kilter, and try to get to the bottom of the puzzle. Knowledge is always a good thing.

Another mirage

Around three thirty on Friday afternoon I had a phone call from the guy mentioned in my last post. Friday was the last day of his project with my department, and he had some final pieces of paperwork to give me. He wanted to make sure I was still going to be there at five o'clock. I was, as I had some extra work to do, but everyone else was leaving at four so I'd be there by myself.

I hadn't expected to hear from him again. I'd thought that he'd already given me all the documents I needed. Was this just an excuse to see me at a time when the office wasn't crowded with people?

After the blushing episode I was filled with trepidation. I concentrated on my work and did a lot of deep breathing. Every time I heard someone walking up the hall outside my office my heart started beating faster.

And finally, just before five, he was there. Looking good in a snug blue sweater. He gave me his paperwork and we chatted about the project. I managed to keep my side of the conversation rolling along. I leaned against my desk. He hooked his hand over the top of the doorframe and leaned against it in a relaxed way. I kept the papers and a pen in my hands, because I found that if I put them down my hands started to shake. I smiled, I chuckled, I made jokes, and most importantly, I didn't blush. I gave every impression of being a normal person, which under the circumstances was something of an achievement.

And then the conversation finished, we wished each other well, and he left. I listlessly banged away at some work for ten more minutes, then I went home.

I'd done my best. I'd given him an opportunity, and he'd decided not to take it. If you're wondering, "Why the hell didn't you just ask him out?", well, there are two answers. One, it's not my style to be so forward. And two, technically I'm one of his supervisors (a kind of adjunct to his boss), and I'm pretty sure that asking an underling out on a date is frowned upon, perhaps even an outright offense. If he initiates, on the other hand, it's probably okay. Which is a moot point, since he didn't.

I'm satisfied that I did the best I could. As I drove home that evening I didn't have any of those "Damn, that's what I should have said!" moments. But it seems my subconscious wasn't as satisfied. All through the weekend it seemed that everywhere I looked there was a happy gay couple - in the checkout line at the deli, having breakfast at the coffee shop, browsing the shelves at Blockbuster. At several moments across Saturday and Sunday I realised that I was 90% of the way to bursting into tears. Who are these people? For what secret source did they find these significant others? Why haven't I been told about it?

I suppose my point is that it's easy to tolerate loneliness when you don't have your nose rubbed in the possibility of making a connection. But when everyone around you seems to have achieved what you want without all that much effort, it just hurts.

Thwarted by my own hormones and blood vessels.

There's a guy who has had reason to come into my department at work about four or five times in the last couple of months. Other than setting my gaydar off every time he came in, he didn't make much of an impression on me. About my age, average looks... I treated him with the same professional amiability that I treat everyone.

Then a couple of days ago he dropped by the office to give me some paperwork, and instead of a suit he was wearing casual clothes. The top three buttons of his light cotton shirt were undone, and as he handed me the documents I got a momentary glimpse of the curve of his pecs, the light dusting of hair on his chest... and it was if someone had flicked the sexual attraction switch in my brain and set off an alarm.

I was trying to answer his question on some point of bureaucracy but all I could hear was CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! I struggled to look him in the eye, much less give a smooth and professional answer to his question.

The next day he dropped by to give me another piece of paper I needed, and it was terrible. As soon as he walked into my office I felt myself starting to blush. I'm pretty sure that my ears were turning so red that they could have been used as traffic lights. As a result it was all I could do to say the right words like "good morning" and "thank you", rather than turning on the old GTR charm and delicately probing to see if my gaydar was reading true. Maybe it's my imagination, but he seemed quite happy to get out of there, no doubt wondering why this GTR guy was blushing furiously while discussing quarterly reviews.

If this were television he'd come back later, even after I'd made a fool of myself, and quietly ask me if I wanted to go out and get a drink sometime.

But unfortunately this isn't television. This is life, and it's a bitch.

Suddenly I'm feelin' it.

Number of days since I went on a date: 346

Number of days since I kissed a guy: 346

Number of days since I had sex: 392

All of these things were so long ago that I don't actually remember the exact times. It's a good thing I wrote them down in my blog.

You what would be an even better thing? If the numbers were a lot smaller.

Batman reveals his true colours

Not so much The Dark Knight as The Pink Queen.

Robin's trying to spin it as "red", but who am I going to believe; him or my own eyes? He's not fooling anyone.

One can only assume that Batman is heading out to save the Gotham Pride Parade from arch-nemesis Heteroman and his evil gang of Breeders.

Yes, I am trying to reassure myself.

Normally when I see a picture of a hot guy on the internet my attraction is tempered with a keen sense of the ridiculous. "Why is that man only wearing the top half of a football uniform?" I find myself wondering, for example. "Did he get distracted halfway through changing? Did the team run out of pants? What gives?"

But occasionally a guy is so stunning that even I'm lost for snark.

He's abundantly blessed in all three aspects of gay attraction. One, he has an absolutely beautiful face. Two, he has a spectacular body. And three, he has a strikingly massive... er... silhouette.

What must it be like, to look this perfect? What must it be like to effortlessly attract the sorts of lovers that normal people like you and me could only dream about?

I imagine that there are downsides. For a start, there'd be absolutely no drive to improve your personality. Adoration would simply flock after you. You'd never need to think, "I should be less judgemental" or "I'm going to try to be more generous", because people would yearn to be with you no matter what you did. Then when your looks finally abandoned you, what would you have left?

It must be terribly corrosive to the soul to be so hot.

I may be pathetic, but at least I have good taste.

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