I don't do much gay stuff. I hate Madonna, hate the beach, hate skin-tight clothes and hate hair gel. In fact, I only do two things that are even remotely gay:

1. I have sex with men.

2. I subscribe to Interieurs magazine.

The latter is for the lamest of reasons. I saw an ad with photos of gorgeous apartments offering a year's subscription for $12. I figured maybe it'd help me my fix up my place, and I like getting fun stuff in the mail. I haven't really gotten a lot of surprises in my life since I started using condoms.

My first issue arrived within a week, and ten minutes later my telephone rang. "This is Mr. Norman from Interieurs," the man said. "Did you receive our magazine?"

I told him I did, but hadn't had time to leaf through it. No matter: he still wanted to hear what I thought. Was the cover photo provocative? Did the blurbs entice? Was the address label placed well on the page? I answered every question thinking it had to be the last but he continued quizzing me for nearly half an hour. My ear was numb when I finally hung up the phone, but I assured myself I'd done my part for market research.

A week later, though, "Mr. Arnold" called. Was I enjoying the magazine? he asked. Did I read the whole thing? What were my favorite parts? I honestly couldn't remember any of it, except for an ad where a shirtless hunk really, really enjoyed his new faucet. What else? Oh, I liked the pictures of Maya Rudolph's sundeck.

"That's Mr. Raymond's work," he said. "He'll be pleased to hear you enjoyed it." He told me Mr. Raymond did all the celebrity pieces, and after he asked me how I felt about Zach Galifianakis I told him I had to go.

A few days later Mr. Dean called. "I'm Managing Editor at Interieurs," he said. "I'd like to hear your thoughts on design." Sure, I was annoyed at being bothered again, but I was also flattered: the only other titled person who'd been interested in me was Mr. Bear Granddaddy of 2004. Once again, the questions were endless. Did I like Jonathan Adler? The color tangerine? Did I think Marimekko would ever come back? Twenty minutes later he was still peppering me about everything from shag carpeting to cuckoo clocks. I told him there was somebody at my door and he thanked me for my input.

No good deed goes unpunished, the saying goes, and it spiraled straight into the toilet from here. Pretty soon I was getting a phone call every day. "This is Mr. Wayne from Interieurs magazine," one caller said. "I just wanted to swing a story idea past you." "Do you have an email address?" Mr. Charles inquired. "We can't decide which photo to run." "This is Mr. Raymond from Interieurs magazine," a third caller said. "Did you really like my piece on Maya Rudolph's sundeck?

When the phone rang at eight one morning, that was the straw that broke this camel's back. I told Mr. Wayne I was extremely busy. I told Mr. Arnold that I didn't have time to talk. I told Mr. Raymond to tell all the other Misters not to call me again. And then when the phone rang once more, I told Mr. Walter to cancel my subscription.

He kept a stiff upper lip, until he started to cry.

Still, I didn't feel the least bit guilty. This was the first morning in two months where I wasn't woken by the phone, and it was absolutely blissful. I got out of bed late, stumbled to the bathroom, took a long, hot shower. When I got out, though, bare-ass naked, I noticed a face pressed up against the window.

I was surprised. He was surprised. And just before he disappeared into the shrubbery he shot me a look that said, you know, that carpet doesn't match those drapes.