Arm yourself well with this quick guide to some of the many different flavours of straight men. It is barbecue season, after all.
So many straight guys, so little time. Aside from the odd pint with our dads, awkward smalltalk over the dinner table with our gal pals’ husbands and perhaps an occasional confused chit chat over Grindr with someone looking to experiment, it can be unusual for a gay man to find himself immersed in the company of his straight counterparts that often.
It’s all about knowing what you’re looking for, of course, so arm yourself well with this quick guide to some of the many different flavours of straight men available. You never know when you might need it – it is barbecue season, after all.
So many straight guys, so little time. Aside from the odd pint with our dads, awkward smalltalk over the dinner table with our gal pals’ husbands and perhaps an occasional confused chit chat over Grindr with someone looking to experiment, it can be unusual for a gay man to find himself immersed in the company of his straight counterparts that often.
It’s all about knowing what you’re looking for, of course, so arm yourself well with this quick guide to some of the many different flavours of straight men available. You never know when you might need it – it is barbecue season, after all.
1. The metrosexual
It’s hard to believe now, but we once lived in an LBM world – Life Before Moisturiser. Thank heavens, then, for the birth of the metrosexual, who realised shopping wasn’t just something his mum did on a Saturday, and empowered himself, with the aid of an astonishing credit limit on his MasterCard, to get lost in the irresistible charms of capitalism. And he’s still around today, keeping Kiehl’s in business, squeezing himself into his Gucci jeans, wearing his T-shirts slashed to the navel and having his eyebrows threaded.
He’s got his manbag, which he just calls a bag now, as it’s 2016, and he’s got his broga class in half an hour. He takes his lead from his gay brothers when it comes to grooming, but not when it comes to bumming – although he quite likes the attention. As straight men turned to metrosexuality, gay men reacted in the only way they could: we grew beards, got tattoos and said to hell with the carbs and started drinking beer.
5. The trysexual
“Sure, you’re a gay man, but have you ever really stopped to look at what that means? How beautiful and powerful your homosexuality is?” Oh, great, you're trapped at a party talking to a trysexual, that flirty guy who likes to corner every gay person they’ve ever met and tell them how fascinating he finds them. But don’t get any ideas. He’s not a permanent resident in the gay community; he’s a mere tourist, and he’s gone self-catering.
He might like the bars and the clubs and be envious of our so-called hookup culture, but when it comes to anything physical, you need to keep those hands where he can see them. “I totally identify more with gay guys,” he’ll say. “All that laddish stuff isn’t for me. I have loads of gay mates.” Spare a thought then, for his queer coterie, wasting their lives dreaming of the day he’ll drink enough spritzers and just give in.
7. The DILF
Parenthood seems to have more style kudos than a Tom Ford two-piece in 2016. One by one, all your pals pair off and before you know it, there’s a Facebook post of an ultrasound and your bosom buddies are devoted daddies. Guys with kids certainly know how to work up a thirst, whether it’s from chasing their toddlers around back gardens all day or their unquenchable desire to be reminded that they’ve “still got it”. You see them in the parks, with their immaculately pressed chinos, jumpers tied around their shoulders, tortoise-shell specs perched on the end of their nose, family-holidays tans and muscles they claim are from scooping up their children all day.
He’ll sidle up to you at whichever gathering you’re enduring together, tell you how great his wife and kids are, and then confess he envies you your childless existence, free of responsibilities. You’ve got plenty of responsibilities, you tell him: your mobile phone contract and subscription to Spotify to name just two. Eventually, after this third can, and with his wife eyeballing you from across the room with a face like Kate Middleton at a dubstep night, he’ll lower his specs and ask, “So would you say I’m a DILF then?”
8. The spouse
It’s hard to believe now, but we once lived in an LBM world – Life Before Moisturiser. Thank heavens, then, for the birth of the metrosexual, who realised shopping wasn’t just something his mum did on a Saturday, and empowered himself, with the aid of an astonishing credit limit on his MasterCard, to get lost in the irresistible charms of capitalism. And he’s still around today, keeping Kiehl’s in business, squeezing himself into his Gucci jeans, wearing his T-shirts slashed to the navel and having his eyebrows threaded.
He’s got his manbag, which he just calls a bag now, as it’s 2016, and he’s got his broga class in half an hour. He takes his lead from his gay brothers when it comes to grooming, but not when it comes to bumming – although he quite likes the attention. As straight men turned to metrosexuality, gay men reacted in the only way they could: we grew beards, got tattoos and said to hell with the carbs and started drinking beer.
2. The menswear crew
Fear that trip-trap of immaculately polished penny loafers on the pavement; run to the kitchen for scissors to cut the Primark label out of your T-shirt. The menswears are coming. Your sartorial overlords, who would think nothing of wearing a suit to a barbecue – no socks, of course – don’t believe in overdressing. Every day is an opportunity to show their style. So long as there’s the remote chance a woman will appraise them and tell them they look “dapper”, they’re happy. All they need is a couple of snaps of their outfit, including a close-up of their latest pocket square, uploading it to Instagram, tagging it menswear, and then going on their merry way to find something else to stand beside looking smart.
Funnily enough, unless they’re parading a recent haircut – which will be tagged newhair or hairgame and will look exactly the same as it did before – most of his photos will be from the neck down. His sartorial precision, his aggressively curated sense of style is usually, I’m afraid, a distraction technique from the sad fact he has a face like a shoe. Oh, and don’t ever ask him what aftershave he’s wearing – “it’s a FRAGRANCE”. Anyway, it’s always by Creed.
Fear that trip-trap of immaculately polished penny loafers on the pavement; run to the kitchen for scissors to cut the Primark label out of your T-shirt. The menswears are coming. Your sartorial overlords, who would think nothing of wearing a suit to a barbecue – no socks, of course – don’t believe in overdressing. Every day is an opportunity to show their style. So long as there’s the remote chance a woman will appraise them and tell them they look “dapper”, they’re happy. All they need is a couple of snaps of their outfit, including a close-up of their latest pocket square, uploading it to Instagram, tagging it menswear, and then going on their merry way to find something else to stand beside looking smart.
Funnily enough, unless they’re parading a recent haircut – which will be tagged newhair or hairgame and will look exactly the same as it did before – most of his photos will be from the neck down. His sartorial precision, his aggressively curated sense of style is usually, I’m afraid, a distraction technique from the sad fact he has a face like a shoe. Oh, and don’t ever ask him what aftershave he’s wearing – “it’s a FRAGRANCE”. Anyway, it’s always by Creed.
3. The lad
Lager companies need someone to advertise to, and the lad is only happy to oblige. Being a lad is a safe haven from all the big, serious issues out there – like emotional involvement and critical thinking. Forget conversation if you find yourself face-to-face with a lad. They can talk you to death about any sport you like, and will cry when their football team loses, but place them at the bedside of a dying relative and you won’t see the tearful “I love you” you’re looking for.
Instead you’ll get an awkward shrug and a pat of the hand, before they amble off to watch that channel on Sky Sports that doesn’t have any actual sport on it, just two men talking about it while numbers scroll along the bottom of the screen. Dating a lad can be quite fun, perhaps, if you’re after something mindless, where the quality of the sex will be affected by how well 11 men you’ve never met perform elsewhere on the day, but prepare for socks under the bed, crispy, unwashed sheets and an old beer can on the nightstand.
Instead you’ll get an awkward shrug and a pat of the hand, before they amble off to watch that channel on Sky Sports that doesn’t have any actual sport on it, just two men talking about it while numbers scroll along the bottom of the screen. Dating a lad can be quite fun, perhaps, if you’re after something mindless, where the quality of the sex will be affected by how well 11 men you’ve never met perform elsewhere on the day, but prepare for socks under the bed, crispy, unwashed sheets and an old beer can on the nightstand.
4. The spornosexual
Behold the spornosexual: pumped-up, abs-a-go-go, superhero-bodied machine. They’ve biceps like beach balls, but would be useless in a boxing match and won’t help you move house. They’re buffer than porn stars but almost definitely have less sex than you. They boast the body confidence of an Olympic athlete but they never run farther than the end of a treadmill.
Leg days, detox diets and doing pull-ups on any handlebar they see – very disconcerting when they go full-on assault course on the local bus – has given them a body to die for. If only they knew what to do with it. Instead he’s a Ferrari that never leaves the driveway. The one thing the spornosexual’s body is good for is looking at – and he likes to make sure you do. The only thing he stops working out for is to take a selfie of his progress.
Leg days, detox diets and doing pull-ups on any handlebar they see – very disconcerting when they go full-on assault course on the local bus – has given them a body to die for. If only they knew what to do with it. Instead he’s a Ferrari that never leaves the driveway. The one thing the spornosexual’s body is good for is looking at – and he likes to make sure you do. The only thing he stops working out for is to take a selfie of his progress.
5. The trysexual
“Sure, you’re a gay man, but have you ever really stopped to look at what that means? How beautiful and powerful your homosexuality is?” Oh, great, you're trapped at a party talking to a trysexual, that flirty guy who likes to corner every gay person they’ve ever met and tell them how fascinating he finds them. But don’t get any ideas. He’s not a permanent resident in the gay community; he’s a mere tourist, and he’s gone self-catering.
He might like the bars and the clubs and be envious of our so-called hookup culture, but when it comes to anything physical, you need to keep those hands where he can see them. “I totally identify more with gay guys,” he’ll say. “All that laddish stuff isn’t for me. I have loads of gay mates.” Spare a thought then, for his queer coterie, wasting their lives dreaming of the day he’ll drink enough spritzers and just give in.
6. The soul
That gentle strumming of a guitar, a faint smell of weed, the pile of letters warning of returned direct debits and unauthorised overdrafts, and a mountain of washing up – welcome to the humble abode of the soul. A singer-songwriter waiting for his Jake Bugg moment, just as soon as he manages to grow a fringe heavy enough, the soul is obsessed by the idea of keeping it real.
He clings to the notion that Camden is still edgy, conveniently forgetting how he likes to pop into its H&M for his black and white T-shirts on the way to grabbing a Wagamama. He scours the pubs looking for open mic nights and although he’s never paid a bill in his life, he has an impressive whisky collection – “helps me reach into the rawness of my soul so I can write” – and every single pair of socks he owns was borrowed from someone else. He probably has sex with a rollie in his mouth. And don’t look at his fingernails – you’ll need therapy.
That gentle strumming of a guitar, a faint smell of weed, the pile of letters warning of returned direct debits and unauthorised overdrafts, and a mountain of washing up – welcome to the humble abode of the soul. A singer-songwriter waiting for his Jake Bugg moment, just as soon as he manages to grow a fringe heavy enough, the soul is obsessed by the idea of keeping it real.
He clings to the notion that Camden is still edgy, conveniently forgetting how he likes to pop into its H&M for his black and white T-shirts on the way to grabbing a Wagamama. He scours the pubs looking for open mic nights and although he’s never paid a bill in his life, he has an impressive whisky collection – “helps me reach into the rawness of my soul so I can write” – and every single pair of socks he owns was borrowed from someone else. He probably has sex with a rollie in his mouth. And don’t look at his fingernails – you’ll need therapy.
7. The DILF
Parenthood seems to have more style kudos than a Tom Ford two-piece in 2016. One by one, all your pals pair off and before you know it, there’s a Facebook post of an ultrasound and your bosom buddies are devoted daddies. Guys with kids certainly know how to work up a thirst, whether it’s from chasing their toddlers around back gardens all day or their unquenchable desire to be reminded that they’ve “still got it”. You see them in the parks, with their immaculately pressed chinos, jumpers tied around their shoulders, tortoise-shell specs perched on the end of their nose, family-holidays tans and muscles they claim are from scooping up their children all day.
He’ll sidle up to you at whichever gathering you’re enduring together, tell you how great his wife and kids are, and then confess he envies you your childless existence, free of responsibilities. You’ve got plenty of responsibilities, you tell him: your mobile phone contract and subscription to Spotify to name just two. Eventually, after this third can, and with his wife eyeballing you from across the room with a face like Kate Middleton at a dubstep night, he’ll lower his specs and ask, “So would you say I’m a DILF then?”
8. The spouse
“Oh, are you married? You should’ve mentioned it!” – something you will never need to say to this guy. It doesn’t matter whether you’re showing an interest in him or not, he has an overwhelming nervous tic that compels him to let you know he’s off the market. He’ll waggle his wedding finger at you, mention his poor bloody wife at every given opportunity and tell you “everything changes when there are two of you”. It’s best to just smile and nod, rather than tell him he’ll probably be divorced within three years. Why spoil the surprise?
9. The posho
Red of trouser, yellow of shirt and never more than three millimetres away from a scratchy sports jacket, meet the posho. He’s been to a “good school”, ironically calls his parents “Ma and Pa” and has been engaged to three different Felicitys. He will tell you he “knew a gay chap once”, but this will turn out to be someone who fell over during a game of lacrosse and asked for a plaster for his knee.
They always have money but it’s impossible to tell what they spend it on, because they never buy a round, have ruddy complexions that barely know the touch of an exfoliating scrub and their parents pay their rent. Everything is “extraordinary”, even bacon. Already at 27, they’re counting down the days until they retire, tinker with their classic cars all day and smoke cigars while someone, anyone, makes them a decent Sunday roast. He’s cheerful, amiable, enthusiastic and therefore probably secretly an evil genius.
Red of trouser, yellow of shirt and never more than three millimetres away from a scratchy sports jacket, meet the posho. He’s been to a “good school”, ironically calls his parents “Ma and Pa” and has been engaged to three different Felicitys. He will tell you he “knew a gay chap once”, but this will turn out to be someone who fell over during a game of lacrosse and asked for a plaster for his knee.
They always have money but it’s impossible to tell what they spend it on, because they never buy a round, have ruddy complexions that barely know the touch of an exfoliating scrub and their parents pay their rent. Everything is “extraordinary”, even bacon. Already at 27, they’re counting down the days until they retire, tinker with their classic cars all day and smoke cigars while someone, anyone, makes them a decent Sunday roast. He’s cheerful, amiable, enthusiastic and therefore probably secretly an evil genius.
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