I have a hard enough time seeing my friends in eye-rollingly meager whisps of Lycra at the pool, so you can imagine my discomfort when stumbling upon photos of my friends doing sexy times on the Internet.

This very thing happened to me the other day when about 300 people e-mailed me links to a porn blog that featured still frames of a mutual “friend” (To be honest, I barely know this person, he showed up to my boyfriend’s birthday party one year and was perfectly nice, I’ve probably interacted with him three times since then.) pounding out the veal with his considerably less attractive “co-star.”

As with any disaster – be it one involving cars, acts of nature, or, in this case, an individual – it was impossible to look away, so I scanned through the images, experiencing a tingling sensation that was entirely unfamiliar, given the situation. No, it wasn’t arousal; it was faint admiration.

Indeed, how empowering it must be to allow photos of the most private aspects of your life and genitalia be posted on the Internet for the world to see. To live without a thing to hide – I’m not sure if I have or will ever experience that. I’m always covering up something: my emotions, my tenders. ESPECIALLY my tenders. No Lycra swim trunks for me.

You know, blogging really is sort of like doing porn. You’re putting yourself out there, exposing yourself (albeit figuratively) to the judgement of family, friends and strangers alike. Of course, blogging is far less lucrative and usually doesn’t involve getting your taint waxed.

On Saturday, I choose my outfit very carefully. It is S___’s 30th birthday and he’s hosting a party to celebrate and I need to wear something that’s tight enough to make myself feel sexy (and others uncomfortable) but loose enough to remove in a moment’s notice should I be asked to throw on a pair of heels and sequined “gown” for the inevitable booger drag show. The winning selection: a black T-shirt and jeans. Imagine that!

One hour and a quart of iced tea vodka into the party, I’m standing around, minding everyone else’s business, when the male apotheosis of GLAMOUR enters the room in a garment that, at the time, could only be described in breathless sighs and seething stares of jealousy. Since then, I’ve identified the proper term for this woven wonder: JORTS.

Yes, jorts. As in, jean shorts. I haven’t seen anyone wear jean shorts since, well, yesterday, when I saw a pack of Midwestern tourists on the Metro. But I haven’t seen a GAY person wear jean shorts since, well, Latino night at Apex last week BUT THAT’S NOT THE POINT.

I am not an elitist but jorts, no. Just, no. There’s another name for jorts and it’s “boner killer.”

(Interestingly, the ever-reliable Wikipedia reveals that July 25 is National Jorts Day. Also, jorts are “extremely prevalent in the state of New Jersey, which actually leads the nation in jort sales. [citation needed]“)

My self-esteem instantly cripples
At sight of your abs and their ripples
But still you’re a douche
Who’s hooked on the juice
With bacne and two puffy nipples

Have you heard of The New Gay? It’s a blog! And, um, it gets less than 200 hits a day! But it’s also a MOVEMENT – this, according to the 1,300-word (I counted!) article in The Washington Post this weekend.

You see, the MAJORITY (not really) of gay people in D.C. are sick and tired of listening to Britney Spears and making money and being white. So, enter The New Gay, which militantly promotes the OPPOSITE of all of those things! You know, things like THE SODA JERKS (made up) and BEING UNEMPLOYED and REJECTING THE IDEA OF RACIAL IDENTITY. You old people just wouldn’t get it.

Now, the article goes on to fully indulge the TNG crazies, who took the Post’s national platform as an opportunity to rebuke those who wear Hollister T-shirts. But there are some things that the article DIDN’T mention, which I’ve itemized for posterity’s sake below.

1. You know how the American Family Association defines itself based on the things it hates? Well, TNG is just like that! In fact, they both hate a lot of the same things – pretty much everyone and everything that has been associated with or attributed to gay culture in the past 25 years. (However, TNG is totally for gay marriage – as long as the couple didn’t meet at Town.)

2. The New Gays are all depressed vegetarians.

3. The New Gays use the sexualized atmosphere of gay clubs as a straw man for their own social anxiety disorder.

4. The New Gays categorically despise the things that some gay people categorically worship. This makes them better than you, see?

5. TNG has devised an “advertising strategy.” The strategy entails reaching out to “intelligent” companies with “co-ed appeal” and not selling any ads.

6. TNG hosts a lot of its events at Solly’s on U Street. A cab driver recently crashed into the front window of Solly’s, injuring seven. Coincidence?

7. TNG will sometimes post the playlists of its upcoming dance parties so that you know in advance not to go.

8. The New Gays just really, really hate Hollister T-shirts, OK?

9. Not all of the New Gays are worryingly skinny. Some are secretly fat.

10. The New Gays eat babies.

When I wake up in the morning, I tell myself that it’s going to be a great day. I don’t tell myself that it’s going to be the most stressful fucking day ever and then share it with the world on Facebook, Twitter, and my Google Chat status message. Who the hell does that? Too many fucking people, that’s who, and you’re all about to get the banhammer from Toblerone!

On a side note, does anyone else routinely confuse the status update field on Facebook with the search field? No? BECAUSE I DO THAT ALL THE TIME. “Toby is [Name of Person I Shouldn't Be Stalking].” Yeah, nice status update, asshole! USER INTERFACE FAIL.

I wonder what went through his head as he navigated his Blogspot settings and deleted me from his blogroll.

Gosh, I remember being 19 years old and getting into retarded “blog wars” with people and refusing to link to my perceived enemies ever again. Deleting someone from my blogroll – well, that was the ultimate “fuck you.” To be honest, my reasons for doing this were usually immature, misdirected, and based on an irrational desire to have control over someone. I never deleted someone from my blogroll because I stopped reading his blog. I would delete him because I wanted him to feel as unlikable and disposable and forgettable as I felt about myself.

Of course, it’s possible that he simply does not read my blog anymore, which is fine. But I still plan on reading his, so he stays on my list for now.

I’m calling bullshit on this.

He says he isn’t going to write a “typical last-post-ever entry, where I would say ‘my heart’s not in it anymore,’ ‘I’ve run out of things to say,’ ‘I’d rather end on a high’” – but this is exactly what he does. And in the process, he concedes that – despite the thick layer of self-deprecation that tempered nearly every post – blogging has definitely gone to his head.

I like to think there is some solid reading material that stands alone outside the blogging world.

I realize that London Preppy is a brand, a brand that holds some power in the gay blogging world.

I like my three quarters of a million hits, thank you very much.

Hmm, OK. Well, have fun writing your book. It’s a shame because I feel partly invested in your life and even though you’ve been quietly leading up to this with all of your “Read these other blogs!” recommendations, they all suck.

In other news, stupid Liz got the ban hammer from Rusty! Lulz!

Even though they give me a nasty case of the B.D.D., I love Lewis Payton’s photographs. I mean, what’s not to like about pictures of devastatingly unattainable men?
Luckily for me, Andy Towle had a chance to interview Lewis about his new collection of limited edition prints. Here’s an excerpt:

Is it difficult to keep your focus surrounded by so many beautiful men, especially when they are naked?

I get this question more than any other. Honestly, it’s dead easy. I am so focused during a shoot that nothing intrudes on that. Once I’m editing, that’s another story. I will look through proofs and be like ‘Whoa, that’s smoking hot!’

So you never get turned on during a shoot?

There’s moments sometimes where you are aware of a sexual tension in the air, but I work that into the picture instead of acting on it. As soon as you step over that line, the images reflect that. I am much more interested in capturing emotional intimacy and sensuality than overt sexuality.

Rejected Questions from Andy’s Interview with Lewis Payton:

“So, you don’t even get a little hard?”

“Have you ever played with your asshole during a shoot?”

“Do I turn you on?”

In honor of it being 6/6/06 and all, I present to you a very special edition of Vivid Blurry. Behold:
TOP THREE CELEBRITIES WHO CAN GO TO HELL

3. Andie MacDowell.

2. Billy Ocean.

1. Rick Astley.

Last night, Cyber Agatha, Rusty and I watched “What the Bleep Do We Know!?”, a movie about the goings-on in our heads that’s 50 percent documentary, 50 percent story, and 100 percent pretention. (Hey, in a world where quantum uncertainty is de rigeur, the rules of percentage need not apply!)
I liked the movie, but things became a little too Jesus-y at the end, thanks to the old “If we can’t prove something exists, then it must!” argument. All that god talk fell on deaf ears – that is to say, the ears of Agatha and myself, not those of the film’s leading actress Marlee Matlin.