Looking, but Not Seeing

Lance Bass is gay? You’re kidding. Does this mean he’s not going to be an astronaut? Because I really, really wanted him to go to outer space. Joan Collins has a paid-in-full ticket to go on the Virgin 2010 flight, but she’s kind of old, and though I love her, I think Lance Bass is probably more suited for the rigors of space travel. Joan’s eyelashes seem as if they might ignite upon re-entry.

I don’t care if Lance Bass is gay. It’s just that I’m always the last to know these things. As a young girl, I managed to harbor crushes on both Paul Lynde and the lead singer of Judas Priest. I’m into guys with a wild sense of humor who aren’t afraid to laugh at themselves. And who doesn’t prefer her rock stars swathed in studded black leather?

When I was a teen, my “gaydar” antennae could only pick up the strongest of signals. In the early eighties, I thought that maybe Boy George might be gay, but I wasn’t totally sure. Wearing muumuus and eyeliner could just be his look. Maybe under that stringy weave he was simply a Hawaiian with a Maybelline fetish.

As the eighties progressed, I was better able to discern the sexual orientation of celebrities by carefully examining the photo captions in People magazine. Any matinee idol who was a “confirmed bachelor” or starlet who had a “gal pal” could be batting for the other team, as it were. I had to keep up on these things because I didn’t want my romantic hopes to be dashed again, like they were with Paul Lynde.

Think of it this way: You don’t nurture the crush on the married Beatle. You go for the eligible one—the one you actually have a shot at a date with—in Pretend Town. (By the way, can you imagine, if on the Beatles’ historic Ed Sullivan appearance, under John Lennon’s camera shot the caption read, “Don’t bother girls—HE’S GAY!”)

When I was a young adult, k.d. lang’s refreshing lack of ambiguity drew these sorts of things into sharper focus. (It only took me a moment to discard the possibility that k.d. might be e.e. cummings’ soul mate.) Melissa Etheridge never tried to hide which chromosome she craved. The album titled Yes I Am, and the accompanying videos which featured luscious women as the objects of her desire, were obvious enough, even for me. But some fans missed the signals. I remember reading in an interview with Etheridge in Rolling Stone magazine that she had to keep dodging calls from country western star Billy Ray Cyrus—he of the “Achy Breaky Heart” and the magnificent man mullet. Apparently, Billy Ray just didn’t get it. He kept asking her out. She finally said that she had to tell him point-blank. The interview never got into specifics on what his reaction was. Judging from his public persona, I imagine it could have gone like this:

(Melissa picks up the phone.) “Hello? Oh. Hi, Billy Ray. Uh, no, I really can’t go out to dinner with you. I’ve got a girlfriend and we’re going out that night. What? No, I don’t want to bring her along. I know the more the merrier, but see, uh … My girlfriend and I are going out to dinner that night. On a date. Just the two of us. No men. No, you don’t understand. It’s not so we can have a heart-to-heart girl talk. I’m gay. She’s gay. I date women. Not men. You are a man, Billy. I don’t date men. No, that is not kinky! Cut it out, will you! I AM NOT JUST SAYING THAT SO YOU’LL GET TURNED ON! DON’T CALL HERE ANYMORE!” (Hangs up.)

Hands down, the woman with the worst gaydar in the world is, of course, Liza Minnelli. She’s the Wrongway Peachfuzz of sexual orientation. Her husband Peter Allen was a protégé of her mom and a Broadway dancer, for heaven’s sake. This may come to you as awful news—(or a relief, depending on your inclinations) but her fourth husband-for-a-minute—the eyebrow-plucking, Lalique Crystal-collecting producer David Gest—insists he’s not “that way,” as the worldwide homosexual community breathes a giant sigh of relief.