All the Good Ones Are Gay: Why equality is keeping me from finding a man
I like to think of Daniel Radcliffe as my perfect man. He’s a talented actor not only on film, but has furthered himself in his craft by jumping feet first onto the Broadway stage after learning to sing and dance. At the ripe age of 21, we are under a year apart in age, and also approximately an inch apart in height. Though he was introduced to the world as ‘The Boy Who Lived’ and has made enough money to retire at his young age, he is truly a dedicated artist, striving to learn more, do more, accomplish more. His fame got the best of him for a while, but he has recently made the brave step of admitting his weakness to alcohol and vowing to give it up, opting instead for quieter nights in, reading a book by the fire or watching a movie on the ‘telly’. Watching him in the Harry Potter movies is like watching my future boyfriend and husband save the Wizarding world from doom. As I wander the streets of New York, I secretly hope that Mr. Radcliffe will stumble out of the nearby salon, hair perfectly disheveled after a $500 haircut, and I will drop my keys in front of him, my Gryffindor keychain gleaming in the hot summer sun. Daniel will reach for it, his loyalty to the lion crest pounding within his chest. Blinded by the hot New York sun (reflecting off of mine and Daniel’s pasty white skin), I too will reach for the glimmering set of keys. Our hands will meet. Together, as one, we will pick up the Gryffindor crest. We will look deep into each other’s eyes (note to the editor: be sure not to wear heels on this day) and our connection will be undeniable. We will have drank the Amortentia to quench our thirsts, not only for water on this scalding day, but for love.
But alas, Daniel Radcliffe is gay. And thus we come to my problem with equal rights:
I have been searching for a boyfriend for almost twenty-one years. The Midwest, though full of homemade pies and fatty fried foods on a stick, proved less than fruitful in the man department growing up. Thus, at the young age of 18, I made the move to New York City. Having seen such television shows and as ‘Friends’, ‘Sex and the City’, and ‘Seinfeld’, I smirked as I thought about the new boyfriend I would have every week. I was moving to New York City, the greatest city in the world. The universe would no doubt throw me a bone.
But here is something they don’t teach you in geography: all of the dudes in New York are gay. Every intelligent, attractive, eligible man in this city works in theatre, owns a Chihuahua named Princess, and can bake better cupcakes than Sprinkles and Magnolia combined. He has the perfect body, hair better than any woman would ever be blessed with, and a quaint but sophisticated one bedroom in the Village. He’ll bring you home to meet his mother, and then talk about the latest men he’s met at the gym as you drink cosmopolitans out of the ceramic martini glasses he made for his mother in middle school art class. You’ll have regular sleepovers, spooning in his silky smooth sheets, waking up to him cooking you eggs in the kitchen. Then, over mimosas and egg whites, he’ll suggest a trip to Barney’s for new shoes, and maybe a mani/pedi.
Besides that whole only sleeping with dudes thing, the New York Gay Man (hereinafter NYGM) is the perfect man for any single New York lady looking for some male companionship. Over the past years the NYGM has become the ultimate substitute for a boyfriend for desperate, single New York women. He’s the arm candy you need for that dreaded office party, the much needed encouragement on a bloated day, the excellent shopping partner for finding the perfect little black dress. What woman in New York needs a straight man when the NYGM is just a Broadway show away?
Enter gay marriage. I remember the day gay marriage was legalized in the state of New York. Unlike the tweets and status updates declaring happiness and victory at the news, the equality for gay men and women all across the state had me feeling defeated. As the Empire State Building shone its rainbow colors that night, the only part of me that shown was the tears running down my face in the moonlight of a city where I knew I would never find love. A young girl who once thought the NYGM would be forced to marry her, to love her, I was now, against my will, a woman faced with a harsh reality: gay marriage was legal in New York. No longer would the perfect NYGM be forced to stay in the closet and thus with me. No longer would I have a faux boyfriend. No longer would I have the NYGM to flirt with men I found attractive at the bar, I would have to do it myself. Equal rights are to blame for the fact that I will die old and alone, and the NYGM will find happiness and lead a fulfilling life. Daniel Radcliffe, I hope you’re happy. So much for the loyalty you owe me as a fellow Gryffindor.
Q: Hey, hey Haley, you know Daniel Radcliffe isn’t gay, right?
A: Ha, ha. Nice try, but I just based a whole blog post off of him being gay.
Q: Ha, yeah, no seriously, he’s not gay.
A: ……………..
Q: Wait…you seriously didn’t know?
A: NO. I mean, have you seen him sing and dance?
Q: Yeah, he was great! Didn’t you love that ‘Brotherhood’ song? He killed it!
A: OMG seriously! I didn’t know he could move like that!
Q: Me neither! I mean, he was great in HP, but seeing him on stage is completely different!
A: Right?! He just has this energy to him that—WAIT HOLD UP HE’S SERIOUSLY NOT GAY?
Q: Nope. Straight as an arrow.
A: So I just published a blog post on the internet based on the premise of Daniel Radcliffe being gay?
Q: Sure did.
A: I outed Daniel Radcliffe?
Q: In a way, yes.
A: Huh.
