balding angrily

The fact is, Straighty, we, The Gay Menace, are watching you lasciviously, and I think a lot of you like it. I started thinking about this after I put up my Patrick Wilson Post of Adoration.

I worked at J. Crew in the men’s sportswear area when I was 25 or thereabouts. In 1997, The Crew had an area dedicated to sportswear. They still sell ties, sport coats, slacks, and dress shirts, but at that time it was more of a focus. Business casual in the office was still slightly dressy; a man was still expected to wear a sport coat and tie every once in a while. The Crew catered to that.

I sold the shit out of that stuff. I loved J. Crew clothes because it fit my sensibilities; it was casual/cool/fun with a Hampton vibe. It was dressy, but with big pink polka dots on a yellow background. I also loved serving clueless straight guys that put their fashion in my hands; I was responsible for these guys looking good, and I took that responsibility to heart. Maybe you think that’s trivial, but I didn’t. It’s no wonder Queer Eye was such a hit given the amount of helpless, searching men I saw wander into my section.

I’ll say this up front. I never saw a guy with his pants down, or accidentally stumbled into the dressing room with an arm full of clothes as he was changing. I never felt up a guy’s package like Joey’s bad tailor in the episode of Friends. I never unnecessarily checked a guy’s inseam. I would never be so brazen.

However.

My J. Crew job was my second job; I was in an architecture office in my full-time job. I had the biggest crush on one straight guy at this office. He was built like a Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em robot but with rounder edges. His smile was genuine and frequent. He engaged everyone in the firm with blue, happy eyes and a firm handshake.

I got, as part of my J. Crew job, a few coupons for friends and family to come in and enjoy my employee discount. I gave one of these coupons to this broad fella, and I was at his side within a second of his entering the store to lead him to the clothes I wanted to see him in and the changing room that I badly wanted to share with him. I gave him a short-sleeved sweater that I knew would be two sizes too small on him but would show off his pecs.

He put it on, and came out to ask my opinion. I told him, as my hand hovered less than an inch from his chest, “It’s kind of tight through here. It depends on what your style is. Some guys like this real-tight look.” We went back and forth about the tightness of the sweater for a while longer than necessary.

He finally asked, “Well, what do you think?”

It took every ounce of effort not to send him into the world looking like Right Said Fred in that sweater. Instead I said, “I’d try the larger size.”

This guy knew that I was gay, and he probably also knew that I had a crush on him. Since most people say that they can read my face like a book, it’s safe to say that he saw my look of lust as my hand almost stroked his chest. However, he kept up his generous smile and kept lit the light in his eyes throughout, and I can truthfully say that it was him and not me who dragged out the process of deciding on that sweater. I can also say that he spent a heck of a lot of money that night, all while I mentally devoured him, albeit in a friendly way.

And he was one out of many, many, many straight men that bought a lot of clothes from me, spending a lot of money, while I was being a friendly predator. To be fair, there were many men I served that I knew to keep professional with, but my big sales came from men to whom I said, “You look REALLY good in that. I’m almost jealous of your wife.” They may have blushed, but it didn’t stop them from whipping out their credit cards. Or from spending a couple of hours with me tugging on their trousers and scanning their bodies like produce. I should also say that these weren’t metrosexuals. (”Metrosexual” sounds so 2002. Have we come up with different nomenclature?) These were average joes that merely needed help putting a look together.

Before you get worried in the locker room now that you know our - or maybe just my - secret that we really do watch you behind sunglasses while you play football in the park shirtless, you should also know that we are fickle. We forget about you the moment we look away - or in my case - the moment you walked past the glass doors into the mall.