Oh, how can I express how I feel about you? You are my ultimate hero. What Superman was to me 30 years ago, you have become for me now. If they made Tim Gunn Underoos, I'd have a drawerful.
I want to be you when I grow up. You are every single thing a proto-fabulous gayboy wants to be when he gets older: respected, well-dressed, commanding, sexy, and younger-looking than his actual age. What are your secrets, O Silver Fox? Will you teach this rapidly aging no-longer-a-boy before it's too late and I slide into the inevitable bronzer, botox and inappropriate spandex hell awaiting all of us?
I want your bearing. I want to stand and sit ramrod straight, with posture so perfect that it could slice atoms and puncture upholstery. I want to have the ability to stand with my hands on my hips and my head tilted back as if I were on the prow of a ship and, against all reason, make it look commanding and dignified instead of ridiculous.
I want to talk like you. I want to be able to measure my words carefully and diplomatically while broadcasting every single thing I'm thinking on my face. I want your vocabulary. I want to use "celadon" when others would say "Light green;" "pomegranate" when others would say "purple;" "caucus" when others would say "have a little talk;" and "chacun à son goût" when others would say "What the hell were the judges thinking?"
I want to have anything I wear just naturally look good on me, from a classic black suit and tie, to a sports coat and jeans, to a hardhat and neon yellow plastic vest. I want to age beautifully, with the bearing and commanding presence that experience brings, coupled with a genuine warmth and sense of fun that experience can bring if you're smart about it. And flawless skin.
Please Tim, let me be your sidekick. You can be the Obi-Wan to my Luke; the Fraulein Maria to my Liesl; the Bruce to my Dick. Think what we can do for each other! You can teach me the ancient arts of being fabulous and I can teach you to loosen up and let your inner bitch shine. Oh, the fun we'll have!
We'll hold hands and skip through the Cloisters, shouting out "Shatangi!" to passersby and collapsing into each other with laughter. We'll go to Banana Republic, take thousands of dollars worth of clothes into the dressing rooms and after twenty minutes, loudly exclaim "Wow! This rash is really spreading! How about you, Honey?"
When someone comes up to us on the street and asks 'What happened to Andrae?" for the 300th time that day, you'll calmly say "I killed him and dumped the body in the East River. They'll never be able to pin it on me." Then briskly walk away. We'll sneak into the Macy's P.A. booth so you can loudly declare "Designers, you have 15 minutes. Please shove anything you're holding down your pants and head for the nearest exit."
The city will be our oyster and all who see us reveling in our happiness will feel a brief moment of happiness themselves, quickly followed by the wistfulness that comes when they realize they could never be like us.
At night, we'll put on silk dressing gowns and light candles. You'll open the ancient books and teach me the arts. It'll all be very Memoirs of a Geisha except with better shoes. We'll discuss skincare, the importance of the arched eyebrow, the perfect haircut, how to destroy confidence with a sigh followed by a long silence, and other such weighty matters. I will follow my studies dutifully and never use my powers except to serve the common good and ensure fabulosity for all.
So listen, think about it. I'm cute and funny and I think I could make you happy, Baby. Just say the word. You know where to find me.
Oh, and uh ... don't tell my better half I said any of this.