The Urban Dictionary, which I’ve been dutifully browsing as ‘research’ for this post, has several definitions of the term ‘Fag Hag’. My favourite goes like this:
Also known as Fruit Fly and Queer Dear. This is a woman who prefers the company of gay men because she recognises their effervescence, incisive wit, and sheer brilliance regarding the human condition.
That’s totes not why I prefer the company of gay men (if anything I am the effervescent, witty, brilliant one – as I’m sure my many gay friends will reluctantly admit; if only to humour me).
The company of gay men, I hate to break it to you, is very much the same as the company of straight men – with one massive advantage. Gay men will not try to have sex with you, ever, even when they are really pissed and you’re showing so much cleavage that it’s effectively porn.
And they always remember to compliment your beauty, because, although they don’t want to have sex with women they do sometimes fantasise about them emerging from gorilla suits adorned in sparkling flapper dresses and dancing with a group of dwarves*.
Also, Gay Pride Los Angeles 2011: men (alright, a man, singular, but still) left the parade to have their picture taken with me because I looked ‘fierce’!
Since this event I’ve concluded that the gay community can do no wrong.
I like men. I like them a lot – and not just because of their descended genitals, Adam’s apples and other biological anomalies.
No, I love the socially conditioned differences too.
Their confidence, their conviction that they are always right (even when they’re not), their capacity to have a conversation that is not about relationship woes or triumphs, their ability to be genuinely pleased for you when you achieve something amazing, without harbouring a teeny bit of resentment, their innate selfishness and vanity.
It’s all good as far as I’m concerned (except when they decide they want to fuck you and the feeling’s not mutual and they turn into creeps). Of course, women have a place in my heart too, but sometimes a bit of masculinity is a necessary tonic to help one refresh one’s love for the sisterhood.
How I do love getting tarted up in leopard print – talons painted red and sharpened to a point, like claws. Sipping whisky-on-the-rocks and smoking Marlborough lights in the platonic company of a chiselled young hot thing, as though I’m a Hollywood starlet from yesteryear. It is the definition of fabulous.
And yet, deep down, I know that the Hollywood starlet suffered for her fabulous. She was sleazed all over by creeps, and often died in tragic circumstances. Or was forced to drink or swallow pills until her beauty was ravaged, which at least had the advantage of making the creeps crawl away. Although often, by that point, she had convinced herself she was in love with the creep and so was destined to live out her days in sadness or insanity.
I have no intention whatsoever of suffering for my fabulous. Which is why I recommend fag hagging if you’re really determined to enjoy being single – rather than treating it as an exercise in short-term promiscuity before settling into a life of domestic drudgery.
When you leave the house in the company of a gay man you’ll either be headed for a gay bar, where the sleazes won’t want you – or else everybody will assume you’re a couple. Which is great because, unless you happen upon a cad with the requisite charm and sex appeal, you can forget about copulation, avoid all the sleazes and get so drunk in the company of your gay man that you throw up in a shoe.
Life doesn’t get much better than that.
* At least, this is what I understand from the disturbing erotic footage I saw playing on large screens on the walls of a fairly hard-core gay club I was fortunate enough to visit some years ago. There were also blow jobs and a huge fluorescent light that depicted a penis becoming erect and spunking all over the walls. I’d recommend it; if only I could remember where it was.