Boys – want to go to a gay bar? Oh – you’re straight? No problem – all the better, actually! See, the gay bar is where you want to be, if you’re looking for some easy pickings.

Now before we go any further, you’ll need to swear to secrecy on this. What you are about to read is insider trading so hush-hush that even Carl Icahn isn’t hip to it. Many Bothans died to bring us this information.

Firstly, you’ll need to get over any residual fear you’ve got toward the gay boys. Not only are they not a threat to you and your way of Second Life, but they’re really an asset to you. You see, dear reader (citation needed), Fag Nation, all on its own, has created a small but highly lucrative cottage industry of easy-to-pick-up straight girls – and all you have to do is put up with a few hours of techno.

The art you are about to learn is called tailgayting. (tailgayting; n.; an art of seduction based not on seduction but rather proximity, confirmation of heterosexuality, and ownership of a car)

When going out, the gay boys call up the straight girls, also known as fag-hags, or simply as hags. The hags serve as a fagilicious support system to the enlightened gay boy. They’re the backup; they’re the point guards. Like sex-bots from the future, they function as encouraging mother-figure, chaperone, personal cheerleader, drinking buddy (and boy, can a hag drink), truth-teller/fuckability specialist, and generator of fabulousness. But that’s not all. See, they’re smart, those gay boys – they’re a lot smarter than us hetero dumbasses. They long ago figured out the secret to always making sure that the night ends on a high note – the fag, with hag in tow, knows that he will never leave the bar alone. If he doesn’t find another boy to go home with – he’s still got the girl.

Which is a lot more than we can say for ourselves.

The possibility of downside (or downsizing) is solely carried on the 4-inch heels of the hags. Because if their fags do hook up – and ultimately they will; every gay bar has its hour of de-pumpkinization whereupon the doors are thrown open, and a chorus line of Gay.com hunkazoids come voguing in – and when they do, the hags will be, like Dina McGreevey plopped into a deranged Tim LaHaye opus, Left Behind. (Except that there will be no alimony.) You see, as a support system, there is an explicit agreement that the hag will be cast aside if a sexually corresponding hook-up presents itself (also known as a ‘trick’).

Which is where you, the straight boy with a metro / maybe-gay-in-a-few-more-years haircut, come in. You are the last resort. You are low-hanging fruit. Get used to it. This is the one instance in life where it will actually help you get laid. Stick it out through a night of ‘no thanks, I’m not gay – I’m just here for the leftovers’, and just wait for the deals to go down. The hags will get fucked-up, drunk down, coked out, and left behind.

And by the way, in case you were wondering – you probably won’t get hit on by the fags at all – straight-dar is a far more potent and precise science than gaydar. So if they do hit on you, it’s just to fuck with you a little, maybe test your resolve. Because they know why you’re there. They respect the order of the food chain – and you are its lowest constituent, the bottom breeder.

By 1:00AM the gay bar will be a fabulous exodus of fag-n’-tags, leaving a dark room full of hard-drinking, stranded hags sobering up to their weekly realization of unrequited love. They’re a bit hurt, they’re alone, and desperately in need of validation (i.e., sex), or a likewise-suitable consolation prize. And that’s where you come in, to console the strains of ‘I’m in love with my gay man but can never have him.’ And if you’re gallantly hetero enough (i.e., getting her a last few drinks before closing time), you’ll hear these magical words: ‘yeah; I’ll so consolation-fuck your low-hanging ass tonight.’

Because as broken-hearted as they may be, the hags are a pragmatic lot: they’re stranded, and hence they need rides. And gay boys, be they tops, bottoms, or edgers, always prefer to do the driving.

And so do straight boys.

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1. Ye Fun Olde Sexual Trends: Fetch Me a Switch