Zeets:  Gay guys means lots of hot single girls.  The one is always found with the other.  Bring your best game.
Me:  What about my date?  I’m not going to number close right in front of her.
Zeets:  Listen, if she’s a nonconformist then she’s probably OK with an open dating arrangement.  Anyhow, you’ve gotten numbers before while on dates, you pig.
Me:  I’ll be discreet.
Zeet:  Oh, and wear straight clothes, not your usual metrosexual crap.  You don’t want to fend off advances from gays all night.  If you stand out as a straight guy the girls will flock to you.  Ya gotta keep two things in mind.  If a girl is surrounded by well-groomed but completely indifferent gay men she’ll crave attention from a straight guy to validate herself.  And, two, if you’re a straight guy who’s comfortable around gays, the girls will be intrigued by you.  Intrigue equals horniness.

I rummaged through my closet for non-metrosexual clothes.

Off-center design = fashion maverick.

This was the straightest shirt I could find.  I must’ve donated all my grunge-period flannels to the Salvation Army.  Girls think I am Italian because of this jacket.  Italians get laid so leaving that impression is OK with me.

I knew something was amiss when I walked up to the building entrance and saw groups of five and ten guys piling in together, some holding hands.  Inside there were at least 300 gay men.  That’s not a typo.  300 fabulous Spartans.  It wasn’t hard to tell they were gay even when they weren’t kissing and lightly touching each other’s pecs mid-conversation.  My butt cheeks clenched defensively.

I counted three girls in the entire crowd.  I saw no noticeably straight guys.  So this party was “mixed” in the sense that some of the gays were bears and some were swishy.  Quite a few looked like they dedicated their waking hours to the gym and salon.

Luckily, my date was cute and wearing a plunging neckline, so I spent most of the time with my eyes locked on her cleavage reaffirming my heterosexuality.  And also to avoid accidentally seeing anything that would give me post-traumatic stress disorder.  Once shirts began flying off I told her it was time to go.

Outside, she started laughing.

Me:  What’s so funny?
Her:  They all thought you were gay.
Me:  Yeah, well, maybe that’s because you took me to a GAY PARTY.
Her:  It wasn’t just that.  It was your shoes.
Me:  These shoes are comfortable.  That makes them straight shoes.
Her:  And your hair.  It has that perfectly disheveled bedhead look.
Me:  But it’s naturally disheveled.  No comb or products used.  Again, straight.
Her:  And the way you grabbed my ass and hung on for dear life.
Me:  Better to be safe than subtle.

Things I learned from this experience:

Zeets’ theory failed.  No girls flirted with me.  Conclusion: lesbians.

A presumption of gayness occurs when the crowd reaches the tipping point of 50% gay.  Acting super straight by frowning constantly, substituting conversation with grunting, musing about Scarlett Johansson’s killer BJ lips, and keeping my hands in my pockets did not save me from being mistaken for gay.  Also, see: clothes.

A few gay guys at a party can be good.  They bring girls and a whimsical vibe.  300 is bad.  If you are a halfway decent looking guy you will feel like you’re being eyefucked.  Similar to how a hot chick must feel when she walks into a roomful of men.  Or a thin guy at a NAAFA mixer.

The blatant flattery from gays will temporarily boost your ego.  It’s not nearly the same as flattery from cute girls, but it’s not half bad either.  They’re very creative in their compliments.  “Well aren’t you a tall drink of yum!”  “Somebody hit you hard with the hottie stick.”  As they’re walking behind me: “Who wouldn’t want to follow that in!”  Afer ten minutes of this direct game, though, it gets annoying.

I’ll never trust a girl again when she says she’s taking me to a party with “some gays”.  She can go alone.  The nookie is never that good.

PS:  I watched 16 hours of football on Sunday.