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State your hypothesis in the form of a prediction that can be verified by the results of the experiment.
If Pat Benatar's theory is correct if love is, in fact, a battlefield then girls are the mighty coalition forces and dudes are a rag-tag band of conscripts, each armed with a rusty rifle and a white flag. At least that's how I've always thought about it. Some friends of mine are naturally adept at cracking the signs and signifiers that comprise girl-code. Many of them possess even less charm, wit and spunk than I do, God bless 'em. They can make smart, pretty, funny girls laugh at their jokes and touch them suggestively before pulling them into a cab. I'm inevitably left behind, scratching my big dumb head before going home to rub my dumber, smaller one . . . while crying.
Even after intensive tutoring from a dating coach, I'm as effective as a cow with a fountain pen when it comes to dropping lines with the ladies. But maybe it's the ladies who are the problem. What if I were to interact with a group that ostensibly thought and acted like me? Namely, other gentlemen. I'm guessing that, like hetero guys, gay men like to at least talk straight. And, as men, they also think about sex every seven seconds on average. In a setting where I could shrug off the whole Mars/Venus residency issue, would my advances be more enthusiastically received? Sure, I've locked lips with an XY in the name of science before, but that was a setup. This time, I wanted to go undercover, set a trap and see who wandered in. It'd be like fishing for lobsters . . . only I wanted to catch gay men, not lobsters. (Point of clarification: although I haven't ruled out man-love as a personal option, I'm predominantly attracted to women.)
Please list all the materials required for this experiment (including, if applicable, how they were obtained).
Drink tickets
Chapstick
Bright orange sleeveless T-shirt.
In this portion of your report, you must describe step-by-step what you did in your lab. It should be specific enough that someone who has not seen the lab can follow the directions and recreate the same lab.
Job One was to find the best venue for my big night out. I polled a few of my gay friends, who proclaimed my dressed-down look "too gross" for the competitive clubs in Chelsea, the West Village and the appropriately named Meatpacking District. "Your thing is definitely more . . . East Village," said Eric, as he gave me the ol' up 'n' down. (My "thing" can best be described as "rebel without a razor or a nice pair of slacks." What can I say? I like to keep it real.) He suggested a few appropriate dives: the Phoenix, the Cock (which Eric admitted was totally scuzzy, despite its classy moniker) and, lastly, the Hole. Apparently, the Hole is the place to be on Thursday nights, not only for men seeking men but also for the discerning drunkard on a budget. The cover charge is ten bucks; once inside, everything you can get down your throat is free. There's an open bar too.
Let's back up for a second. In the past, I've been accused of being a tad fey. First, I have an outrageous British accent, which my colonial friends tend to associate with an innate lust for cock. Second, because I hail from Mother Europe, I tend to wear snugger-fitting pants, I can't help dancing like Molly Ringwald, and I get pedicures (but only in the summer months). Plus, after seeing Chicago, I raved about Catherine Zeta-Jones and came across all "jazz hands" for about a week. But giving my burly man-friends an occasional whiff of pinkitude is one thing — convincing a room of 200 hardened marys is quite another.
Aiming for a "casual queen" effect, I put together an outfit: Chuck Taylors, a pair of crotch-hugging jeans, a tight orange sleeveless tee and a green Army hat cocked at a jaunty angle. A cursory glance in the mirror confirmed two things: a) I looked pretty 'mo* indeed; and b) I had worn this exact outfit several times last summer, when I wasn't trying to convince people that I was gay as a cucumber. I guess context is everything. When my friend Brian said, as he often did, "Grant, that fucking army hat looks soooo gay," I'd always assumed he meant it in the '80s sense. You know, as in bad. Turns out he meant I was sporting a look that would make Marc Almond blush.
I decided to bring my gal pal Jenny along to the bar. Brian wasn't going to miss this for the world, and he brought his camera along to document the night's events. I even got Eric on board to give me pointers on how getting dudes all hot and bothered is done.
* 'mo abbrev. From homosexual.
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