Homo Honey

October 24, 2010


In my post “Fag Hags, Fruit Flies, Flame Dames and Homo Honeys” I introduced you to the social and emotional hierarchy that all straight women are classified by in the lives of any gay man. Subsequently, in “Baltimorons” and “Holiday Cards” I gave a few morsels of why my HH is basically the most amazing friend on the planet. But I think it’s time to fully convey HH’s amazing-ness to you and explain why anyone who isn’t friends with her should basically curl up in the fetal position and cry their eyes out.


When we were juniors in college, Pope John Paul II, or JP2 as he was affectionately called on campus, made a trip to The United States and had a stop in Baltimore. At the urging of our parents, HH and I joined the Pope Patrol along with our friend Dana. Pope Patrol was basically a group of college students from the Baltimore/DC area who walked around in obnoxious yellow t-shirts showing over-zealous Catholics where to find plastic rosaries for His Holiness to bless and point them in the direction of the nearest port-a-potty. It was pretty dumb, but it made my mom happy and I think it allowed me an excused absence from a whole day of classes.


The night after the Pope made his way around Baltimore in the Pope mobile, I was lying in my bed, unable to sleep. I don’t know if I was filled with The Holy Spirit or just tired of living a lie, but I decided to march on over to HH’s dorm room and come out to her.


We sat on either side of her bed, chain smoking when I said “HH, I think I’m in love with Dana.” She exhaled a plume of smoke and said “No, you’re not.” “How do you know?” I asked, knowing that she was going to say what I could not. “Please, you’re totally gay.” I cried a little. She held me, and then it was like nothing had happened. We resumed our normal activities of consuming apples and making fun of anyone in eye shot.


And she was there the night I popped my cherry. Well, not exactly there, but she was with me when I met the guy. She approved, gave me a condom, kissed me on the cheek and sent me on my way. The next morning I returned back and there she was, waiting for me outside, having chained smoked the entire night, not able to sleep. I’m not going to go into any more detail on this one as my mother is probably reading this and there are some things a son just doesn’t want his parents knowing.


After college HH moved to Philadelphia and I moved to Miami Beach to live with UJR. She talked me through my obsession with Hector (see “Man Whores and First Loves” for more information) and even helped convince me that I needed to dump my mooching boyfriend (see “Facebook and Ex Boyfriends” for more information), leave Miami and move up to New Jersey with her where she had found a great job and made some groovy friends. So, I did and it was amazing. Within two months of arriving there, I landed a great job and was having so much fun playing house with HH. But then, I lost my job. I came home that night, scared out of my mind that I was going to end up in some homeless shelter, rifling through trash cans for left over hamburgers. HH came home, I told her what happened and, instead of feeding into my anxiety, she took me out celebrate. She said that I didn’t need that stupid job and that something even better was going to come up. And it did. Three days later, I landed a permanent freelance design job and a pharmaceutical company that paid me almost twice what I was making before.


We lived together in NJ for almost five years and I can truly say that I have nothing but fond, fun memories. We has some ups and downs, but through everything we knew that we were a family and that, no matter what happened, our first priority was that we cared about one another. But, like all good things, our time together had to come to an end. Though we never said it out loud, I think we both knew that we needed time apart if either one of us was ever going to find a boyfriend. You see, when two people are as close as HH and I are, there just isn’t room for anyone else. Think of Will and Grace, but less pathetic and clingy. So, I moved to Atlanta and HH eventually moved back home to Philadelphia. Not too long after we parted, we each found someone (see “My Superhero Boyfriend and His One Weakness” for more information) who filled that void left because we were no longer in close proximity.


We see each other about every three or four months now and when we do it’s like picking up right where we left off. Within minutes of seeing each other, we’re finishing the other’s sentences, running to the refrigerator to split a diet coke and reminiscing about all the amazing things we’ve seen and done in our 17 year relationship.


My advice to HH: There’s really no advice since, like Mary Poppins, you’re practically perfect in every way.

My advice to all gay men: If you don’t have a HH, run out and find one. You’ll never be the same. But don’t try to steal mine…she has her gay husband.

My advice to everyone else: Although you may not have a HH, everyone has that special friend who knows more about you than anyone else. After reading this, call them up and reminisce. It’s always fun.


Throughout the life of any gay man we are emotionally bonded to straight women. They’re the ones on the playground in grade school who play hop scotch with us, despite the fact that we’ve been diagnosed with gay germs by all the other children in our class. They’re with us during our awkward phase in junior high when we’re all ears, teeth, glasses and braces, reassuring us that we’ll make it through these tough times and come out a better person in the end. They act as our beards in high school and, for some reason, seem to be fine surviving on the occasional hand holding and hours of phone conversations dissecting all the fashion faux pauxs made by our couture-challenged peers. They hold our hands in college when we come out to them, telling us that everything will be okay and that all gay really means is that you’re happy. They help us pick up the pieces when we get your heart stamped on for the first time, reassuring us that our ex will end up fat, bald and terminally single. And finally, they’re at our side for our commitment ceremony, happy in the fact that they can take a small piece of credit for the smile on our face and the contentment in our heart. Although we fall emotionally in love with many women throughout our gay lifetimes, they all fit into one of four categories: The Fag Hag, The Fruit Fly, The Flame Dame and The Homo Honey.

There is a strict hierarchy that is followed when filing your straight girlfriends into one of these four categories. It’s a caste system with certain rules that must be followed and guidelines that are set in stone. Just as gay men, our girls are not made a certain way, they are born into their lot in our gay lives and such, once you’re in a designation, there’s no way out. Each sect has their positives and negatives, their ups and downs and their own challenges and rewards.

First, we have the ubiquitous Fag Hag. She seems to be the most recognizable of our emotional girlfriends. Fiercely loyal, she will fight to the death defending her gay boyfriends, but unfortunately for her, she does so not to further the cause of global gay rights, but because she is madly in love with us. For some reason, The Fag Hag equates emotional love with physical love and spends her life loving boys/men that simply can’t love her back. She falls into a pattern early on in life that repeats itself infinitely, until she’s run off every gay boyfriend she has and ends up settling down in her one bedroom apartment with only her fifteen cats and stacks of romantic comedy dvds to keep her company.

Although she’s a good friend and trusted ally, the Fag Hag sits at the bottom of the totem pole of straight girl friends because, no matter how hard she tries, she can’t accept the fact that we just don’t love her. Although we don’t want to, we always end up breaking her heart because we cannot reciprocate her feelings. For all the gay boys reading this, you know who you are, the next time you’re in a delicate situation with a Fag Hag, have her listen to Jay Brannan’s “Beautifully” from his sophomore album “In Living Cover.” It’s basically a love song from a gay man to his fag hag telling her that, even though he loves her he’s not in love with her. It’s beautiful.

If life was a concert venue and only gay men were the audience, the Fag Hag would be Courtney Love. Although there’s something there that’s talented and interesting, her allure isn’t enough to cover up the fact that, in the words of Christian Siriano, she’s just a “hot tranny mess.”

The next face up the totem pole belongs to The Fruit Fly. I’ve met so many girls who claim to be fruit flies, believing that they are the cute, bubbly answer to The Fag Hag. This is not true. The Fruit Flies does have her positives. Generally, she is easy on the eyes and is, most of the time, the most talked about girl at the water cooler at work. she leans toward the trendier side of life, getting away with wearing Ugg boots in the summer and still drinking Apple martinis. She shops with us, tells us we’re fabulous and gets us into all the clubs ahead of the line.

The Fruit Fly flocks to us gay men when she is bored or fed up with our hetero counterparts. Consistently desireable, she tires of straight guys endless dribble about pro football and limited knowledge of anything outside the realm of beer, pool tables and the occasional lesbian fantasy. Confident in her looks, she is able to take a sabatical from the doofy straight guys she dates and take a walk on the gay side of life.
We welcome her with open arms and live vicariously through her, coveting all the hot jocks she’s dated, used and discarded. She introduces us to all the straight guys that, in any other situation, would totally kick our asses. She talks to us about how hard is it being pretty and why being a gay man is so much easier than being a straight girl. We have fun with her, but then one day, she is gone; vanished from our gaydar and is only heard from again through Christmas cards and the occasional drunk text.

The problem with The Fruit Fly is that she is a user. She uses her powers of persuasion over us until she gets horny, then it’s back into the arms, and bed, of some dudely straight guy whose vocabulary does not extend past anything with more than two syllables. At first, we are devastated by her absence, but realize over time that her friendship was only ever about her. We wish her well, knowing that after she shoots out a couple of puppies, her moronic husband will most likely cast her aside for a younger model, much the same way she casted us aside.

In the concert of life, she would definitely be the Madonna of the group. You’ll stand in line for days to buy a ticket, even though you know she’s a bitch and you’ll regret the $900 you spent on your ticket five minutes after the concert ends.

And then we come to the often misunderstood Flame Dame. The Flame Dame is a straight women that is obsessed with everything gay. From John Waters films to mid-century furniture, she speaks the language as if she had been born carrying a rainbow flag. For this reason, many disregard Flame Dame as a closeted lesbian. Though this may be the case in some instances, nine times out of ten she is simply a gay man trapped in a straight women’s body.

The Flame Dame is the first straight women that we can really be gay men around. Fag Hags won’t accept it and Fruit Flies really don’t care, but the Flame Dame wants to know everything. No subject is taboo. From online dating to felching, she consumes gay culture like a sponge. Omnipositive, she convinces us that the straight boy we have a crush on secretly wants to sleep with us and that, despite what we might think, being gay is a blessing that will manifest itself as we get older. But, as quick as she becomes a permanent fixture in our lives, Flame Dame wears out her welcome.

We tire of her “all gay all the time” attitude and her insistence of homosexual undertones in everything from The Smurfs to Nascar racing. We stop accepting her phone calls and dream that one day she’ll give birth to a gay son.

Flame Dame would be the Bette Midler of show business. You’re always excited to see the show, but five minutes after it starts you’re totally over it.

Now, if you’re stars are aligned properly and your moon is in its correct rising house, you may be lucky enough to meet the coveted Homo Honey. Unlike her sisters, Homo Honey is a straight women that gay men pursue. She is everything right about being female. She is beautiful inside and out and the only straight person that can utter the word “fagot” without apologizing to Joe Solmonese. She treats homosexuality the same as any other genetic trait and only judges people who judge her first. Always calm, she draws us to her bosom with her casual outlook on life and her non-stop humor. She’s the first person we call with good news and the shoulder we cry on when it’s bad. A trusted confidant; you know you can tell Homo Honey anything and it will only stay between the two of you.

Also, unlike her less fortunate sisters, there is no negative to having Homo Honey in your life. The only thing that may happen is that she finds a husband and you slide from the number one slot to number two. If this happens, do not panic. Even though it seems like your life may be over, it’s going to be okay. First of all, Homo Honey will never, ever marry a homophobe. Her husband will assuredly be gay-friendly. Also, even though, on paper you may not be her top pick anymore, she’ll need someone to talk to when she gets her period and can’t deal with her husband’s emotional inadequacies. Also, when she has children you can be the fun gay uncle that buys them the coolest clothes and gets them drunk for the first time.

On the stage of life, Homo Honey would most certainly be Cher because, no matter how many times she goes on tour, you always buy a ticket. And you always have a good time.

My advice to Fag Hags:

Even though I love all of you to death, you need to stop the cycle. If you don’t, you’ll never get laid. If you never get laid you’ll become inconsolably bitter. And although we gays love a bitter straight girlfriend, we have our limits.

My advice to Fruit Flies:

Just because you’re a slut with your straight boyfriends, doesn’t mean to need to be the same with your fancy boyfriends. When you find a gay boyfriend, invest in his needs as well. You never know, when your husband/boyfriend dumps you (and he will one day) you’ll need someone to console you.

My advice to Flame Dames:

Give it up. God made you a straight woman. Deal with it.

My advice to Homo Honeys:

Keep up the good work. I thank the gay Gods for mine. You know who you are.

My advice to gay boyfriends/husbands:

Appreciate your straight girlfriends, be they Fag Hag, Fruit Fly, Flame Dame or Homo Honey. They each fill a specific need in our progression as gay men.

My advice to straight guys:

Respect your girlfriends, sisters, mothers, etc… For every one of you, there’s a potential gay boyfriend waiting in the wings who will, I assure you, treat them better than you ever could. Recognize.