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Writer Ryan McKee likes to play up his machismo in his well-read and controversial Phat Phree column, "iDate Your Friends." However, anybody with half a battery in their gaydar knows this flamer munches more brown cock than Tony Soprano munches cannoli. Rather than deny his claims publicly like gay Clay Aiken, I decided to show Perez that I'm not gay by going on a date with him. He would see how much I don't enjoy myself in his homosexual bear embrace and he would retract his previous claims. The Date When I pick up Perez, he's screaming at "some bitch" over the phone about "the exact weight Portney Spears has ballooned to." "Do you know who I am?" he screams into his iPhone with the rainbow sticker on the back. Apparently the woman doesn't know because the vein in his forehead throbs bigger than a cock in a gay porn . . . er, I mean, a regular porn . . . of course I wouldn't know how big a gay cock throbs . . . I just imagine that, you know, it's pretty big . . . not that I really imagine it or whatever. "Oh, it's on now, bitch!" he screams. "I'm gonna out you. I'm gonna OUT the fuck outta you!" He hangs up, gulps down his remaining Mai Tai, and his queer eye for the straight guy wanders over to me. "Well, well, well, if it isn't the sissy boy who's come to proves he's some kind of man," he smirks like Gomer Pyle in Full Metal Jacket before he turns the rifle on himself. "Yes, I mean, no, I mean, I'm no sissy boy," I stammer. "Would a sissy boy take you for Pink's Hot Dogs? What says barbecue, baseball, and macho more than a hot dog? And Pink's are the best. There is no way he can spin that gay. At Pink's, we get our hot dogs (Perez puts mayo on his, very European) and sit down. Perez immediately begins deep-throating his hot dog. He gets the whole foot-long in his mouth and doesn't gag. He pulls it back out. All of the mayo is gone except a little in the corner of his mouth. "Oh my gaaaaawwwwdd! There's Chad Michael Murray and oh, eww, gross. Whose that total skank he's with?" "Uh, I don' even know who that is." "What?! Don't you watch 'One Tree Hill'? Man, I swore he's totally Gay, Gay, Gay." He starts taking photos of them with his iPhone. Then he starts posting a blog about it online.
Perez puts his finger to my lips and whispers, "Shh, shh, Honey. Daddy's working right now. It is cute that you think I care what you have to say though." After the hot dog diabolical, I decide anything to do with cars will be manly. Real men love cars. James Dean died in a car. My first thought is to work on my car in front of him, maybe get all greasy, change the oil or something. But then I remembered I don't know how to do any of that stuff. About the only thing I know how to do to my car is wash it. So off we go to a self-service car wash. "Why are we stopping here?" asks Perez. "My car needs washing. That's a manly thing to do together," I say and step out of the car. He rolls his eyes and lisps, "You are such a weird queer." "I'm not a weird queer!" I scream at him through the window. Then I turn and look to my left. A little black girl with pigtails is standing right there. When my eyes meet hers, she runs away, yelling: "Daddy, daddy, two queers are fighting!" "Nice one, queer," Perez sneers. "I'm not!" I say and stomp my foot. "Hey! You two fags are scaring my little girl!" says a voice from behind me. I turn around and see Hollywood's number one homophobe, Isiah Washington from Grey's Anatomy. "Oh, hey man, no worries, I'm totally not gay," I say. "Yes, he is!" Perez yells from the car. "Whatever, man! Just cut it out before I have to beat both your asses!" he says. Seizing the opportunity to prove I'm straight, I throw a right hook at Washington. But he catches in his hand like the Terminator. Wow! Even black people from privileged upbringings can fight.
He slaps me like Richard Simmons throwing a hissy about the wrong kind of frozen yogurt. I slap him back. He pulls me close. Wait, what's he doing? His supple lips only centimeters from my face. He kisses me. I resist at first, then a feeling of security washes over me like a baby wrapped in a warm blanket. Suddenly Perez is spraying us with the car wash hose. Well, now our clothes are wet, so we have to take them off . . . I kind of black out at that point, because the next thing I know, I'm handcuffed and the cops are pulling me from the Perez and Isiah sandwich. They throw me into the back of the squad car naked. The paparazzi are there. And I see dozens of flashbulbs going off. This will not bode well for my image. Nor Isiah Washington's daughter's psyche. She was watching the whole time. 
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