On a purely selfish, perhaps even slightly prurient basis, I was willing enough to watch Bravo’s Boy Meets Boy last night, with its sixteen attractive young allegedly queer men cavorting in shorts and tank tops around a Palm Beach swimming pool. From an intellectual and (dare I say it? dare I believe it?) moralistic standpoint, though, I’m disgusted by the concept of the show–not the gay dating component, obviously, but the cruel twist unknown by the protagonist, in which some unknown number of his suitors are straight and out to win against him rather than with him. He probably should have expected some kind of dirty tricks, given this is the age of Joe Millionaire, but I still feel–at least a little–for the seemingly almost-too-innocent-to-be-believed James.
Interestingly, while I originally expected the show might make me feel bad about myself in comparison to the gym-toned, dazzling-smiled, stylishly coiffed and nattily dressed young twinks on the show, in reality I didn’t find myself even wanting to be among them–much less be like them–or coming up short in comparison. OK, I know I wasn’t nearly as pretty as these guys when I was in my 20s and early 30s. But I’m also certain I wasn’t nearly as vapid or bubble-headed, either.
It was nice to be able to watch the show with that level of personal detachment, for a change.