Thank Goddess for the National Enquirer. Thank Goddess for the pappies. Thank Goddess for every masseur who's been asked for a Grease special, thank Goddess for every bellhop who's personal Earth has been invaded by the Battlefield. And if you don't know what the hell I'm talking about, check my archives and brush up on your queer smut.
So.
In case you haven't seen it - here's the photo that's spraying sequins and feathers everywhere. I'll let you enjoy it for a while before I continue.
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Thing is - you know what kills me about all this? What kills me is that there are some people who didn't know? In spite of the Scientological haven, in spite of two decades of whispers, LOUD whispers, in spite of photos like this one that I'm re-attaching here, in spite of all that, there are those who insist that the GayGay Pilot is as heterosexually virile as the Gay Midget Dwarf.
Uh huh.
I don't know about you but no straight man I know pulls this kind of move. And that's a direct quote from the husband, your classic ball-scratching, locker room smelling, porn-watching pig, who took one look at the pic and said, 'No man leans like that unless he feels his c*ck rising.'
Then again - there are always the disbelievers - and it *could* all just be character prep for his upcoming role in Hairspray…right?
Of course.
But in these times, I just can't seem to forget the masseur. Nothin' like a good old hand lube special to chase the straight away.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
