Let me introduce myself. I'm Stephanie, and I'm a fag hag. But let me make a few things clear before your mind conjures up the image of that outspoken MAC makeup artist who so perfectly embodies the stereotype of the textbook fruit fly. I'm not a pudgy hanger-on, and my self-esteem is nowhere near lacking. I don't cling to gay men because otherwise, I'd never get within three feet of a penis. I'm definitely not the kind of girl who thinks that she alone can turn any Britney-squealing, homosexual man into a burly football fanatic. I don't brandish my gay friends like accessories, nor do I harbor any "Sex and the City" fantasies of being a cosmopolitan surrounded by sophisticated sodomites. Somehow, I just always found myself surrounded by gay guys and never thought much of it until everybody started asking me why.
I'll tell you what my title does entail. Being a fag hag means that at the end of the night, I will be driving myself home because the guy who professes his undying loyalty to me while delicately waving the first cosmotini of the night will drop my ass for some twink with a Spanish name and a tight T-shirt after another fruity concoction.
I'm the girl who parents hang their last hope on as they ask how my last date with their son went and when we plan on moving in together. When these same parents find a copy of "Guys Gone Wild" in their son's top drawer, I hang my head and admit to having a thing for gay porn, despite the fact that I didn't even know "Guys Gone Wild" existed. That's not to say my sacrifices are not reciprocated. I reap plenty of fruits from my friendships, and even more friendships from my fruits - that was an inexcusable pun, and I sincerely apologize.
I never ask for fashion advice. That would be not only a gag-inducing cliché but also a waste of time. No gay guy wants to talk about what you're wearing any more than you want to talk about what he's wearing.
I know that when he says, "Come to my room, I want to show you something," it means I'll probably be analyzing a text from the aforementioned Spanish boy and not sitting in rigid silence while some guy tries to get me to "lay down, you look sooo uncomfortable." I love gay men because they're, well, men. And I love men. If a guy goes behind your back, your gay friend is the first to get protective by spitting on him while screeching, "Take your man tits to your little whore, you whore!"
They change tires and fix computers. As men, they still have that uncanny knack for being heartlessly honest, like when they tear your bangs off your forehead and say, "Wow, you really are breaking out! Are you stressed or on your period?" When you don't feel like being a minx, you have a makeshift boyfriend - as long as the guy hitting on you doesn't notice his cinched, pin-striped vest and Dolce & Gabbana necklace. Your actual boyfriend doesn't get jealous of the fact that you have virtually no female friends. In front of my gay friends, I can let my hair hang in the toilet water while I puke in my stale, night-before clothes looking like a bruised and broken hooker - this coming from the girl who refuses to go to Publix in sweatpants just in case she runs into a sex partner past, present, future or imagined. I never would have thought I'd learn the most about sex from the people I'll never have sex with.
