Send in the gays

As a birthday present my friend John offered to take me to see an off-Broadway show. He suggested "Naked Boys Singing!" which I had not seen, or "Altar Boyz," which I'd already seen with Luis and Hugo. He also said if there was something else I wanted to see I could choose that too. I chose "Naked Boys Singing!" It had all the promise and excitement of a gay hookup--tension, flirting, and of course, nekkidness. The boys in the show are hunky and handsome and endowed with great...tonsils...and a lot of spunk. At certain parts of the show they showered the audience with attention, and that's when I decided I needed a shower, but not with any of the guys in the cast. (Well, actually, yes, I did, but for purposes of my story...)

A few years ago, for my birthday, Luis and I and some friends went to see Bea Arthur's one-woman Broadway show. She was funny and charming, despite being barefoot, and reminisced about her career, including her role as Dorothy on The Golden Girls. What was not to love about this handsome woman who was idolized by thousands of adoring gay fans? Miss Arthur even acknowledged her gay fan base during the show. About halfway through the show, however, we realized something was missing. What was it? When the lights for intermission came up we looked around. Many bluehairs abounded, but not many homos. And we asked ourselves, where on earth are the gays?

A year later, über-gay goddess Cher was cruising around the world--again--on her 900th farewell tour--again. We went to see her at Madison Square Garden. On the way there, I half-joked about the prospect of seeing dozens of sweaty, shirtless, Chelsea boys gyrating in the middle of the floor and throwing their 2xist underwear at Bob Mackie's most famous fashion model. But our schwingmeter took a nose dive when unfunny bridge-and-tunnel comedian Dom Irrera not only opened for Cher, but told unsettlingly unfunny gay jokes. We were mystified. The house was packed, and Dom's shtick elicited roars of laughter throughout the arena. When the lights came up, we looked around and saw big hair and baseball caps for as far as Tammy Faye's eyes could see. This time we asked ourselves, where the hell are the gays?

Did we miss a copy of The Big Gay Newsletter ordering us to boycott Miss Arthur and Miss...Cher? Or did every gay in New York go see Bea Arthur and Cher perform on their respective opening nights, relegating us to the status of trolls still hoping for a hookup at last call at the bar? Were these divas both SO last millennium or post-ironic that we appeared tragically unhip, clinging to a camp past that had been erased from collective gay memory? Or were episodes of "Desperate Housewives" on those nights?

I never did figure out the answers to those questions. But I do know this. I had the distinct feeling of déjà vu tonight halfway through "Naked Boys Singing!"

Oh, don't get me wrong. The gay-infused lyrics were clever and witty, as one would expect from the gays. I lusted as much as the next gay guy for the brutally hot Trevor Southworth dancing au naturel as "The Naked Maid," which made me want to whip out my cell phone and swap out our Central American house cleaner on the spot. And bookishly hot and hairy Frank Galgano held my rapt attention; his paean is to Robert Mitchum.

The performers stood very close to the front of the stage, so close I had to crane my neck to watch their, you know, facial expressions. John and I sat in the very first row, in full view of ev-er-y-thing...and I mean everything. It was like watching one big 3-D crack house, so close you could almost touch them, except for that blasted fourth wall.

No one sat right next to me, and two seats over was a gaggle of husky women who were laughing their asses off throughout the show. In fact, everyone seemed to be roaring with laughter except me. I was amused, but largely distracted, trying very hard to follow the exquisite craftsmanship of the numbers--the musical numbers, that is. During the Naked Maid number Trevor Southworth flirted with one of the women next to me, shpritzing her with water and even spraying some Pledge in her direction. She giggled and twittered as if Clay Aiken were playing only to her. Bitch. Why didn't the fucker shpritz me with water? I thought. Why was he wasting his time flirting with a straight woman in a gay show?

Then Midwestern looker Gavin Esham burst into a number called "Perky Little Porn Star," which was fluffy and cute and explained how his mother back in Skokie disapproved of her Jewish son's career choice. (Bruce Vilanch obviously had a BIG hand in this. No pun intended.) At the end, naked Gavin pretended to pull some slips of paper out of his butt. "We have two bachelorettes in the audience," Gavin announced. "Is there a Suzanne here?" Suzanne stood up, partly embarrassed while her girlfriends squealed.

"When are you getting married?" Gavin asked.

"Um, October," said Suzanne.

"Had to think about that for a minute, didn't you?" he quipped. More tittering.

He called out the name of another bachelorette with an Indian name, who was getting married in two weeks, she said. The friend of another bachelorette, sitting right behind me in the second row, begged impromptu for her friend to be acknowledged.

Up to that moment my eyes had been riveted to the stage, watching, well, naked boys singing. Oh, they'd had me at "Tonight!" But I just had to turn around to get a look at the spontaneous bachelorette up close.

There she was, in her best Bay Ridge outfit, with just the right amount of glitter. I looked around the rest of the theater. Something was odd. Something was missing. Could it beeeeeeeeee--gay men?

Or any men. Well, OK, that's not entirely true. There was the older gentleman sitting in the shadows off to the side wearing a trench coat, and then another older gentleman with a shiny nose sitting a few rows behind him. And way in the back on the other side was an older male couple who looked like they didn't speak English--which, of course, was irrelevant given the visually apparent subject matter.

But we appeared to be the sad, lone gays in a room full of bridge-and-tunnel bachelorettes. And this time I asked myself, in a loud stage whisper inside my head, "Where the fuck are the gays?"

The full effect of this realization hit me during the ensemble number "Muscle Addiction," a four-on-the-floor tribute to blatant gay cruising at the gym. "You've gotta be a pumpy junkie boy if you wanna be a humpy hunky boy..." the boys sang, performing a number worthy of "Can't Stop The Music," as the women in the audience clapped along and hooted, eating up every last ounce of sweat. Toward the end of the song two of the guys who'd been cruising each other throughout the number finally hook up, naked, of course, and edge closer and closer to each other, as if they are about to kiss.

And just as it seems that the guys are going to lock lips (which sent shivers of delight down my spine), from behind me I hear, "Oh no." As if we are at a horror movie and the killer is about to strike again.

WHERE ARE THE GAYS? WHERE...ARE...THEY?

I wanted to feel sexy, but instead I felt more than a little dirty, suddenly wondering what that guy in the trench coat was doing back there. Did the non-English-speaking couple figure out the lyrics and leave? Was that the alcoholic I heard making lewd sounds? Toward the end of the show Brian Golub and company did a number called "The Entertainer." At first it seemed out of place compared to the rest of the show--after all, Brian was fully dressed--but toward the end it turned into a strip number. I sank further into my seat. Oh my God. I'm watching a gay Chippendales show with a bunch of heavily made up suburban women.

Even the sweet and erotic ode "Window to the Soul" was marred when the two hot guys who've been flashing each other from across the alleyway finally meet up. Just when they're about to embrace, I hear audible gasps from a few rows back. "He's not going to..."

Hello? Did... the... bachelorettes... NOT... know... about... the... whole... gay... thing? (Although depending on what seat you were sitting in I suppose the inverse is true: Did... the... gays... NOT... know... about... the... bachelorette... thing?)

So now I'll think twice next before I see a performer that purports to have a large gay following, or I'll at least check The Big Gay Newsletter for recalls. Sorry, Kylie. Sorry, Madonna. Sorry, Barbra. Sorry, Liza. I'm not going to share a room without a high camp presence. Watching a John Waters movie in a gayless theater is about as fun as watching Dr. Phil give marital advice.

After all, the naked boys did sing in their opening number, "Pat Robertson should live in fear. Stick it in your rear. We're here."

But WHERE?!