This weekend I visited a friend in San Francisco who happens to be gay. His bathroom is filled with gay magazines. WIth nothing else to read on the toilet I found myself catching up on back issues of Genre. If any man wants to know what it’s like to be a woman in society today, just read some of these magazines. In short time you’ll feel like you’ll never be hot enough, ripped enough, young enough, or rich enough to succeed at being male. I found the interview with Marc Jacobs particularly hilarious, capped by the photo of him naked and forlorn staring out from his Paris apartment’s tub. “I was so unhappy when I was fat. Now I’m thin and fit, rich, and hot and so much happier!” Suddenly I understood why women hate Cosmo. Normal women, anyway. I discovered that I don’t have nearly enough sexy underwear that highlights my cock and balls. I don’t spend enough time in the gym (sorry – a gay gym is never “gym”, always “James”), I’m not having nearly as much sex as everyone else, and it’s certainly not up to par, and if only I would get filthy rich in real estate, smear a gallon of pomade in my hair, and do situps until I puke I could be enjoying life on a gay cruise or party island. There must be something wrong with me. The magazine tells me so. Fitting that I should be reading it on the toilet, staring down at my package, passing the food that was clearly going to prohibit my entrance to gay Mecca. Well that, and the lack of cocksucking. You see, it’s not reading gay magazines that make you queer. It’s the cocksucking. And the only thing that should make you feel bad about being queer is being a lousy cocksucker. Congratulations Genre, you crush men’s egos almost as well as women’s lifestyle magazines. Somewhere I hope a big, fat, greasy bear is lubing up his fist to find your editors and show them what a real man feels like.