This Just In

Bigoted heteros have used the same two tired arguments for hundreds of years about why gay sex is wrong. One, God made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve. Two, the parts don't fit.

The latter is particularly stupid. I mean, if we were forced to have sex with whatever best fit us, I'd need a separate datebook for my hand. Guys don't care if their dicks fit in something or not. We're resourceful; we can shove. Plants, animals, minerals, you name it and some dude's done it. Nobody freaked out when that kid did a pie in some movie, and somebody else did a chicken his family was going to eat for dinner. I don't recall red-faced preachers on "Meet the Press" discussing whether those parts would fit.

Besides, it's not like male and female genitals fit any better. Think about it for a second. Back door, then front door. Yeah, I can't get my suitcase in this long, long hallway -- better move it to the broom closet instead. Tell us we'll misplace our stuff in there, fine. Tell us somebody wandering by might trip over it, sure. But don't try to tell us it won't fit.

Luckily, though, an article in a recent magazine may make this line ancient history. Men's Journal has always been a strange publication, with articles about meditation and personal growth followed by twenty pages of ads for penis enlargement. Recently, though, they scampered to the end of the weirdness limb by proudly announcing a "stunning" new development:

You've got an erogenous zone up in your ass, they say, and you damn well ought to use it. "The implications for the bedroom are enormous," they say. "Foreplay will never be the same."

Yeah, I'll say. All those whispered phrases we've heard coming from the back rows of movie theaters are going to be dramatically different now. Instead of "Damn it, how do I unhook this thing?" and "C'mon, just let me touch ‘em," now we'll hear stuff like "Just give that Red Vine a healthy shove!" and "Shit, I just lost my Three Musketeers!"

This news won't come as a surprise for gay men, or anybody who's dated a doctor, or, well, anybody who knows anything at all. Apparently the Journalists spent all their time exploring foreign lands and ignored their own backyards. But their surprise, and their smugness, is positively irritating. It reminds me of Columbus landing in America. "I've discovered a New World!" he exclaims, as Indians wander around wondering who the new guy is.

For the clueless, Men's Journal gives directions. You approach it slowly, feeling around for an "unripe peach," and then you "flick gently" at it.

That's not hot sex: that's what Raoul did the first time he saw a piñata.

Men's Journal refuses to talk about parts fitting, but it's pretty obvious to the reader that they do. The prostate is three inches in, and the average male sex organ is five inches long. If God designed everything for a reason, it's pretty clear he wants us to get stuffed.

Instead, the magazine meekly suggests that heteros spelunk the cave with a finger. For the first time in recent memory, we've got a mainstream publication telling chicks to trim their fingernails and take their rings off. Then lubricate really, really well, and slowly insert your finger into the man's --

Wait. Wait a second. Isn't this what my homophobic high-school classmates called . . . packing fudge? We've had to deal with this slur our entire lives, and now the hets are opening up candy stores? It's like finding Osama Bin Laden at Disneyland. "Death to the infidels!" he says, nibbling on a corndog. "But first I'm going to hug the giant mouse."

Sorry, dudes -- we're not cutting you any slack. We're getting an apology before we let you in the Prostate Club for Men, and until then we're disputing the comforting disclaimer that ends the article: "Under no circumstances are you to start worrying that enjoying this means you're gay." Maybe Men's Journal will let you off the hook, but I'm sure as hell not going to.

Get this straight, buddy. If your legs are up in the air and there's something sliding in and out of your bum, you're gay. You're gay as My Little Pony's rhinestone saddle. Take it from somebody who had a finger up his ass before you were born. And now you're trying to take it away, like Elvis stole soul from the black man. If anything goes up your ass, you're gay. In fact, you're about twelve minutes away from buying short-shorts and a turquoise tanktop, and begging my biker pal Rooster to plow you like the dirty little pig you are. Because one small scavenger hunt today means a shelf full of Gordon Merrick books and beauty school tomorrow. Break out the disco fans, Brenda, ‘cause there's a new queen in town!

Okay? Okay. Glad that's sorted.

Now if I could just find a fossil of Steve.