Sex and the Orchard City

My manfriend, Robert, and three of his buddies have been calling themselves by Sex and the City names for years. Robert is "Carrie." Then there's a Miranda, a Charlotte and a Samantha. I know. It's the gayest thing ever.

Since I have never watched even one entire episode of the show, I never could remember who was who. Apparently, I'm called Mr. Big when I'm not around, but until he dragged me to see the movie tonight, I had no idea of this was a good thing or a bad thing.

When I noticed today that no less than seven of my Facebook friends (two women, five gays) had announced on their updates their excitement to see Sex and the City tonight, I began to realize this was going to be a big deal. I considered not telling Robert that we should pre-purchase our tickets, secretly hoping we'd be unable to see it, so we could then settle for some activity a little more becoming of a man, like perhaps a tea party in matching pink sun dresses.

But I remembered that I dragged him to see Indiana Jones last week, so I did the right thing and pre-purchased the tickets. He had been a good sport, and neither of us was thrilled with Indiana Jones. It's more of a reunion special than a sequel. Too much time has passed. I was reminded of many a crappy Gilligan's Island TV movie. OK, it's no Harlem Globetrotters on Gilligan's Island with its cameo appearance by a nearly dead Jim Backus, but during the action sequences, all I could think was, "That's not Harrison Ford. And neither is that. No way. I don't believe it."

By contrast, the timing of Sex and the City, the movie, is perfect. They waited long enough for fans to miss them, but not so long that a Samantha sex scene would be as distasteful as watching a present-day hook-up between The Professor and Mary Ann. Or Indiana Jones and Marion Ravenswood.

Three of my female co-workers sneaked out early to catch an early show. Some theaters, reportedly, were going to be handing out Cosmopolitans. A long line of women, a few befuddled husbands, and a handful of gay guys snaked around the corner at our local Campbell movie theater as we arrived. The mood was electric, or maybe that was the sparks of estrogen flying in every direction.

A chubby bald guy walked by the theater, accompanied by his wife. He asked me what movie we were all waiting for. "The one she wants to drag you to, but you'll hear nothing of it," I responded. He grabbed his wife's arm and quickly scuttled away as if to say, "Thanks for the warning, bud."

Inside the theater, the excitement continued to build. Several groups of women were posing for group pictures. We sat two rows from the top, beside two chatty women pushing 60 years old. They appeared happy to see two men coming to the chick flick of the millennium, but seemed to think we may be lost. In my case, they were right.

Yes, I'm a gay man, but really, for me it begins and ends with my actual sexual orientation. Everything else that a typical gay man is supposed to do is completely learned, and somewhat forced, behavior for me. Many a metrosexual can out-gay this gay. Robert is the shopper, the label queen, the fastidious neatnik. He and the other boyfriends before him have taught me to moisturize, to hang up my clothes, to care how my hair looks. Being gay, I have adapted over time to the gay culture that surrounds me, developing an appreciation for musical theater, fruity cocktails and the custom of calling other grown men "girlfriend." But left to my own devices, I'd just be a simple guy from the country, leaving smelly sweat socks at the foot of the bed, chewing my fingernails and spitting them into an empty can of Bud.

I won't spoil the movie for anyone, but I have a suggestion for any guy who gets unwillingly dragged out to see it. Bring a Thermos full of tequila and take a shot every time the ladies scream with glee when Samantha arrives from California. You'll be sauced by the third reel.

Robert ate this stuff up. He laughed and cried at all the right places. He's a movie producer's wet dream. I think he cried at Deuce Bigalow. I couldn't quite let myself go like that. The problem guys have with "chick flicks" is that all the car chases are replaced with discussions of emotions and insecurities that we tend to believe are better left not felt, much less discussed. Commitment, cold feet, infidelity, trust, intimacy, ego, body image--this movie is a veritable potpourri of issues that lead most men to make a mad dash for the remote.

Upon arriving home, I felt a tremendous urge to kick my feet up on the couch, find a NASCAR race on the tube, slurp down a couple of beers and pee on the toilet seat. Meanwhile, Robert's organizing his shoe collection and looking for our sushi-making kit.