My sister always told me, "pain is temporary, glory is forever and chicks dig scars." If this is true, fortune is shining on this young lad for, as some twist of fate, I discover new scars after every night I cannot remember. But more than digging scars, I have discovered that chicks dig something else, as well. The more diligent readers might recall that in the first Come To Papa!! article, I discussed which "game" would yield the greatest effectiveness in finding "Miss Right-Now." My friends, I have found the answer: gay-game.

In the history of game, I would assume that gay-game, or "g-deuce" as it is known in more advanced circles, is relatively new. As gayness is now chic, dare-I-say hip, it is only natural that certain up-standing citizens will use this to their advantage in more….traditional…environments. And compared with getting scars, throwing gay-game is less painful (well, except for that one time).

You see, there are several approaches to understanding this. First there are simply certain girls that find themselves utterly drawn to that slightly more effete male, be it the one with better taste in clothing or whose dancing style is replete with skill and finesse. The added bonus, when speaking of g-deuce as applied to these women, is that the man has an easy out. You are not being an asshole, you simply don’t go for girls — except for this once.

The real insidious nature of the beast is far more exciting, however. What gay-game provides is an opportunity. This is an opportunity that most men are rarely afforded, and for good reason. G-deuce paves the road for trust. The beauty of gay-game is that you appear to be harmless, a trusted friend, a confidante if you will. The threat is unseen, you are simply that more stylish guy with the quick tongue who enjoys advising on the subject of interior design. You give advice on relationships, you are the shoulder to cry on, and yet you are still allowed to be moody.

Seniors will remember Andrew Brightenberg ’01 who graced these campus with his deceivingly not-so-gay presence as a transfer-exchange our freshman year. Yes, that man was years ahead of his time. Those of us on-campus referred to him simply as gay-Andrew, but in actuality, he was the epitomonic manifestation of g-deuce in action. My hat goes off to him.

The reason I come to you, my readers, with this information is that recently it was brought to my attention that I am 55% gay. These results from thespark.com are unequivocal. "But Benny!" you cry, "55% gay isn’t really that high, worry not!" Au contraire my dear readers, according to the site, only 7% of the populous are more gay than I. Granted, this failed to come as a complete surprise; when I told my father at age 15 that I was going on a date, his response was, "With a girl?!" Yes, and when, during freshman year, I told the present editor of Arts & Features that I was dating someone who moved out to the LA area, she asked his name. Why the misconceptions? I blame Brie cheese. That and all my Judy Garland records.

Now I could use the results from this test to broaden my horizons to freshmen boys as well (an 18 year old, is an 18 year old, is an 18 year old) but I doubt this would actually yield greater ass-potential. My suitemate is actually convinced that he might have to turn straight if he is to have any hopes of (someone else) getting (him) off before graduation. No, this is now a sign to use my God-given talents to appeal to the girls who are looking for the boy with that saucy swagger and those catchy comebacks. But after a few drinks, hell, you never know (actually some do, but luckily they don’t speak English).