The Virtues and Pitfalls of the Fag Stag*

Every gay and his baby mama has a hag and that's been the case for AGES. Monty Clift and Liz Taylor. Will Truman and Grace Adler. Antonio Banderas and Melanie Griffith. SJP and Matthew Broderick. I mean, history's full of them. I, myself, have one for each outfit and mood.

But the white tiger of inappropriate queer-straight friendships is the fag and his stag. It's always strange yet refreshing--and mildly arousing--to find a hetero male not only comfortable enough with his sexuality to have a gay friend, but also one willing to strap one to his man-tit and carry him around in public like a newborn babe.

And, inversely, it's odd to find a 'mo willing to be seen about town with someone who doesn't know that his grotesque mandals aren't to be worn with every JC Penny outfit he has. Like all relationships, though, the fag and stag need to make compromises. Gladly, the strongest and most important connection I have with my non-sexual life partner can be bought in bagged form for 40 bucks an eighth.

Nevertheless, problems, no matter the level of limp-wristed dedication, arise. Imagine you, Dear Reader, are a mo--a real stretch, I know. You're at a bar/club/party with male friend. You, a young, good-looking and desperately available slut-in-waiting, stand in the wings talking with said friend. Gays walk by and you notice that instead of you, they're checking out your stag!

That's right, the guy who hasn't showered in two days and doesn't wash his hands after going to the bathroom. Or even worse, they might mistake your attention to him as signs of a more serious relationship. But that might just come off as an insult depending on the standards you've set for yourself.

I don't have that problem since my standards have been substantially lowered over the past six years so I'll take anything I can get.

Then there comes a time in every queer's life when the world becomes too dark and heavy, the meth dries up and you have to look into the mirror and realize that, hey, you're not like Liza Minelli in 1972. You're more like Liza now.

With most hags, you can come jogging lightly with a carton of ice cream and a tote bag of issues and tissues. But emotional support and the straight male have never been comfortable bedfellows, so what does one do? Well, that all depends.

If the stag and fag have been hanging out often enough, they should start rubbing off on one another. The gay might pick up some "masculine" hobby like widdling or decoupage and the straight might get in contact with that long-dormant feminine side. Tit for closeted tat.

On the other hand, a breeder's emotional distance can come in very handy when all your gay and female friends seem to be menstruating despite the presence of a(n innate) vagina. Also, there's just something interesting--exotic, if you will-- about a person who sees burping as a competitive sport.

My favorite part of the fag and stag dynamic are the inspired moments of whackiness, in which the differences between dickrider and cuntwalker are momentarily erased. Like when your stag tries to hook you up with someone. How precious is that? Or like when he picks out his first coordinated outfit. Tears come to my eyes just thinking about it. Suddenly you two are Bronson Pinchot and that other guy, running along hilltops and working with sassy black women at an imaginary newspaper.

Now, don't get me wrong. I heart my hags, but there's something to be said for male bonding and video games. As a result of my stag experience, I feel more in touch with my long-cracked out masculine side and have become much less prejudiced to those who prefer the vage. Lesbians not withstanding. If "Queer Eye" has taught us anything, it is that we can all get along as long as someone changes everything about themselves. And isn't that what America is all about?

Plus, if you're a straight, think of how much pussy you could score with a gay at your sides?

*This stereotype has been brought to you by the letter "R."