Journey through space to the Planet Fabulous, where the Ruler of the Universe will see you shortly.

Friday, September 26, 2008


So, darling reader, there I was out at for dinner somewhere fabulous when the bizarre subject of 'A-Gays' came up. My Dinner Companion (he wishes to remain nameless, bless. I think because we were in a such a nice place and he had such a nasty shirt) and I talked this over: I see them as those semi-mythical things you hear about in whispers and rumours, like pictures of Bigfoot, Nessy, Joan Collins without her wig on, and Whitney Huston's actual comeback. And the reason why we were discussing this over our starter of rosé wine? Well you see, I was called an A-Gay a week ago, and I was dumbstruck. Me? How so? I always thought that the A-Gay was an unobtainable title, and one thing about me is I'm very obtainable.

I initially thought it may just be one big misunderstanding. It turns out my life is riddled with those: in fact, the primary reason I'm a Gentleman Who Can't Catch is because of a chance moment when I was six years old with my mother's outgoing activist friend, Liz. She'd often be off climbing power pylons to hang poorly-spelled signs over the top and whatnot, and she'd just come back from burning her bra outside the Co-Op to protest about their "bourgeois stocking of Mr Kipling's Fancies" when she was accosted by the local policeman. "Stick it to the man!" she yelled at me while she was being dragged away by the bolero jacket and I thought 'what a splendid idea!' And let me tell you, I haven't stopped since.

My Dinner Companion folded his arms - for which I was eternally grateful as it was a really nasty shirt - as we discussed it. I always thought that the title was earned, where you get a nice house, a brilliant boyfriend, great career... Well, yes, I have those. Indeed, I even discovered I often have a large gay following. But I usually duck into an alleyway and loose him.

Well, if I'm being honest, sometimes I loose him! Hahaha! Oh, me.

Anyway! Back to the question in hand. My Dinner Companion is more what I'd often consider an A-Gay to be, but he poo-pooed the idea. He claimed an A-Gay is someone who's professionally gay. Although not in a renty manner - oh! - not that I have nothing against our Gentlemen of Negotiable Affections at all. I hold them in high esteem as they do wonderful community service, and one or two I've come across can - and have - cracked a Walnut Whip with their rectal muscles. Such talent! Indeed, My Dinner Companion referred to one gentleman caller who had such skill with his back parts that he said the two sets of muscles inside could squeeze and rotate both clockwise and anti-clockwise at the same time. It sounds ridiculous, but he demonstrated on the pepper grinder with both hands and I almost dropped my wine glass. Almost. As far as we could tell, his arse should have belonged to Cirque du Solei.

No, what he meant about 'professionally gay' is one of those very beautiful men who have enough cash not to work. Instead, they breakfast at Balans in Soho, lunch at Balans in Kensington, take in dinner somewhere fabulous (usually what my mother calls an 'ecstatic tablet' and a gin-and-tonic) before being seen at all the nice VIP areas all night. The A-Gay often has no talent of their own, other than to be gay. Indeed, if you were looking this up in the Big Book Of Cher would show you 'fig.1: David Furnish Back In The Day' and 'Fig.2: That Kenny Guy George Micheal Is Married To'. Dammit, now I'll never make it! It's nature and nurture!

Despondent, I actually had a look at the dessert menu at that point (the shame!) before My Dinner Companion carefully draped his ugly-fabric'd arm over mine and said it was "all right" and I was strong enough to deal with it without the carbs. Bless him. And as he brought me 'round with many an after-dinner liqueur, we consolidated our B-Gay grade; and if I'm honest, by the end of it, I found the idea of this A-team a little like too much effort. And you know by now, dear reader, I don't really do effort. And I only save my gay powers for good. And by 'good', I mean 'the bedroom'. And by 'the bedroom' I mean 'being hollowed out so hard that, if he were alive today, Michelangelo would want to paint the ceiling in there'.

So what's the moral for this story? Be happy with who you are? Possibly. Though I'm going to take from it 'never burn your bra, and never ever go out to dinner in a shirt that looks like a beige Rorschach test'.


Kezza said...

I was kind of hoping there be a tip or two about how to become an A-gay... anything to lift me from my current J-gay status, however pictuing your lower colon with a Michelangelo moral on it certainly did something to relieve my anxiety, and my sincerest condolances in regards to dining with a companion with a poor choice of shirt. How horribly mortifying for you.

Sublimefemme said...

I would certainly consider a glittering personality such as yourself to be an A-gay, without qualifications.

Whatever happened to the much-heralded "power gay"/"power lesbian" and its somewhat more domesticated version, the "power couple?" Despite working on things other than their tans, aren't they also A-Gays?

Frank said...

I'm like Z-gay, maybe W-gay on my good days.

Rick Andreoli said...

I don't think it's money or body or social status or any of those things unto themselves: I believe you become a fabulous A-Gay when other people envy your life.

A-Gays never call themselves A-gays. Other people do that for them, and usually there's a bitchiness attached to it. So if you're considered an A-Gay-- Bravo! Someone's got to do the job and it might as well be someone fabulous.

CyberPete said...

Oh, beige. Bless.

I don't think there are enough letters to show how low grade a gay I am.

Nifty talent with the pepper grinder. He should take that on the road.

Lee said...

I think he'd lose the road, Pete. And bless you all for commenting. :D