Sex+Design Magazine

How Homo is Your Homie? A Guide to the Kinsey Scale

By Kevin DeSpain

It was 10 am on a Sunday morning and I was at the bar fucked up. I was higher than a kite catching a warm summer’s breeze. It was summer alright – except it was summer in San Francisco which meant it felt like winter and the breeze was anything but warm. If it’s 10am on a Sunday and you are still trying to keep the party going (when you should’ve pumped the brakes hours ago) there’s only one place you end up here…The End Up. The End Up has its historical place in the San Francisco club scene: good sound system, great Djs, a killer outdoor patio. Everyone has found themselves here at least once in their “party career.” But today was ugly. I’m not gonna say I’m the cutest in the crowd, but this crowd was hurting. We’re talking a hundred deep and everyone was hard on the eyes. When it comes to natural lighting, let’s just say San Francisco summer fog doesn’t pull any punches. It was bad. And it was gonna get a lot worse.

I ordered another round of Heniken and Fernet shots for me and my buddy Jose (the name has been changed to protect the guilty). The drugs were gone, the high was coming down, and the only person I knew was Jose. By now it was 11am and the song remained the same. I was still telling myself I was leaving in 30 minutes. Three hours later nothing had changed, not even the weather.

Jose and I took refuge in a dark corner of the club and entertained ourselves by checking out Jackie, the cutest chica in the place. Seated on a couch a few yards away, I’d keep catching Jackie staring. The minute I’d make eye contact, Jackie would whip her head back and look the other way. Baby was playing so hard to get she was flirting with whiplash. Three house tracks later, baby made her way to the bar. Jackie’s English was not so good, and since my Spanish is only “asi asi,” I let Jose do the talking. In the meantime, I did my best to keep the talk small. First, get Jackie the vodka Red Bull, then tell her how “cute she looks,” “Does she have any hot friends?” and “Does she like to party?”

Deep into conversation I remembered my promise to go home but fuck it – I was having fun. Especially when an older Asian guy tried to grab Jackie by the arm and tell her “I got some weed, let’s go to the car and smoke.” Jackie couldn’t help but smile with all these men hounding her. During it all, Jose kept whispering in my ear “we should both take her back to the house and fuck.” You see, Jose didn’t give a fuck that Jackie was a tranny. The fact is I didn’t either. But just because it walks like a duck and talks like a duck, does not mean I wanna fuck. Jackie was a dude, and seeing a plastic surgeon on occasion wasn’t gonna change that fact. Sure, Jackie had good bone structure and big brown bedroom eyes but I got tranny-dar from a mile away and that’s not how I get down.

The clock was ticking, the drugs were gone, and I needed a shower. The joke was getting old. It was time to go. I killed the last of my getting-lukewarm beer and bid farewell to my friend. I was sober enough to drive but they don’t make shades dark enough to block out the shit I was feeling. It was ugly, but I’ve seen worse. In less than an hour I’d have my head on the pillow, feeling relieved that the night/day was over. Alone in my bedroom, I’d promise myself I’d stop partying for a month. I’d make the same promise next weekend.

Promises, like hearts, are easy to break. I haven’t talked to Jose since we met Jackie. I’m sure when I do he’ll tell me what he told me the minute before I left the bar that Sunday, “I’m right behind you bro.” I don’t know if Jose took Jackie back to his house to watch TV or play cards. It didn’t matter, I knew the answer. I knew the answer before we even met Jackie. If a guy is always taking about threesomes and “crossing swords” and showing you that movie on his iphone (you know the movie, the one he took of a girl giving him head) it only means one thing. Jose has got some sugar in his tank.

How Jose gets down behind closed doors is his business but I would prefer that a dude be a little more up front about his sweetness. Or maybe Jose really is being straight up? Maybe it’s in the handshake? Maybe it’s that extra long look into my eyes? Are there signs that I’m missing? Like the way a guy ties his shoes? What if he’s wearing slip-ons? What about sandals? What if they’re Tevas (that one I do know, he ain’t gay, but he needs to be). Who’s to say Jose is being sweet anyway? Maybe I’m just confused? I tend to see things in absolutes: blacks and whites, goods and evils, fine and ugly. But maybe, like in life, things aren’t so clear. And maybe, just maybe, when it comes to sex and sexuality being a homo is not so black and white either. Maybe I should’ve asked Dr. Alfred Kinsey about dudes who like their rolls sweet. Way back in 1947, Dr Kinsey founded the Institute for Sex Research at Indiana University. He also created the Kinsey Scale.

THE KINSEY SCALE

0 – Exclusively heterosexual with no homosexual
1 – Predominantly heterosexual, only incidentally homosexual
2 – Predominantly heterosexual, but more than incidentally homosexual
3 – Equally heterosexual and homosexually
4 – Predominantly homosexual, but more than incidentally heterosexual
5 – Predominantly homosexual,  incidentally heterosexual
6 -  Exclusively homosexual

Maybe Dr Kinsey was onto something and there really are shades of gay. But now that I think about it, I could throw out a few examples of the Kinsey Scale right now. Keep in mind these are my examples, if you disagree or you got different examples, then write your own piece and don’t hijack my shit.

Example A: You mention to a buddy that you are writing an article on the Kinsey Scale for sexanddesign.com, and after explaining what the Kinsey Scale is your buddy blurts out the fact that he is a “bonafide zero” which means he is 100% exclusively heterosexual with never, not once, any sugar.

Rating on the Kinsey Scale: 2
Just by default, dude gets a 2. Why? Just because I’m writing an article on the Kinsey Scale doesn’t mean I’m looking for you to volunteer how straight you are. I wasn’t asking, I thought I already knew. We’re watching some football on a Sunday afternoon and the next thing you know we’re arguing who’s the straightest. “I’m straighter than you dude.” “Bullshit, I’m the straightest dude you ever met.” Two dudes arguing how straight they are is the gayest shit I’ve ever heard.

Example B: A heterosexual male who likes to get a mani and a pedi.

Rating on the Kinsey Scale: Not Applicable
Metrosexual was term created by some jealous homosexuals who were mad that straight guys got hip. If a man likes to get his nails done it has nothing to do with sexuality. It’s called grooming – get over it.  So I gotta walk down the street with a unibrow and a bush under my nutsack to prove I’m exclusively heterosexual? Get the fuck outta here, next….

Example C: A heterosexual male who wears tighter jeans than his girlfriend.

Rating on the Kinsey Scale: 5
I don’t care if you’re the Hugh Hefner of hipsters, the tight pegged jeans says one thing… cameltoe.

Example D: A heterosexual male writes an article on the Kinsey Scale, causing him to ponder the meaning of sexuality, making him question his and every other straight males identity.

Rating on the Kinsey Scale: Don’t worry about, that’s my business.
I’m writing for Sex+Design. They have a huge female following. Nothing turns a women off more than a homophobe. And nothing turns a women on more, than a man whose comfortable with his sexuality. You do the math (I’m not getting rich off this so I might as well get laid.)

Dr Kinsey and his team interviewed 12,000 men between 1938 and 1947. And out of those 12,000 men interviewed, 37% of those men labeled themselves as bisexual.  Now I know why my gay friends are always hitting on me – 37% of you straight dudes out there got sugar in your tank. Those must be the same dudes that my gay friends are always talking about when they say they like to “hook-up with straight boys.” I like to tell my gay friends that if they’re hooking up with “straight boys” then they aren’t that straight. You folks read that right, I got a few gay friends. A bonafide 100% exclusively heterosexual male can have a few token homo friends. I don’t know close you can be with ‘em, but it’s possible.

Kicking it with a some gay dudes is always an educational experience – they are usually well-groomed and are always on point when it comes to the fashion and style.  Gay men can also tell great stories with lots of extra attitude. And they can be real catty, kinda like women. The only problem with a straight guy hanging out with homos is that all conversations, introductions, hellos and goodbyes always come back to one thing…. them trying to get some. You could be talking to your gay friend about some random shit like “how the early morning bad weather might be an ominous sign for today’s statewide elections” and no matter how you spin it, it always comes back to him telling me “how sexy I look in my t-shirt.”  I could tell my gay friend how my cat just got run over by a dump truck and no matter how bad he tells me he feels, I know in the back of his head he’s thinking “how sexy I look in my t-shirt.” I feel so objectified, like a piece of meat. Sometimes I wonder if women can relate to these feelings I have? I’m sure they do. Now that I think of it, it might be a good conversation starter next time I hit the bars.

No disrespect to the legacy of Dr Kinsey but fuck the numbers. You want a true factor if a dude likes his cereal sweet? Put him on a desert island with nothing but a palm tree and a couple hairy coconuts to keep him company. Let a man sit on that desert island for a year. Then ask him about black and white.

THE DESERT ISLAND SCALE
A year later…

Days turned into weeks, weeks into months. It all became a blur. I was stuck on a desert island with no internet access, which meant no porn, which meant boredom set in. I had already played out the last of my remaining options…. I had humped a sand dune. I got freaky with a jellyfish twice (got stung once.) I saw a turtle get naked. I hit on a school of fish and got dissed. Blue balls set in. I prayed to Mother Nature for a sign, for a glimmer of hope, for a piece of ass. I prayed to the great goddess of the earth to send me down one of her sun-kissed angels dressed in a loin cloth with perky bronzed titties that would point me towards civilization. I prayed to Mother Nature for my Pacific Islander Pocahontas. Instead, the bitch sent me a tranny.

Jackie washed up on the shore. Wrapped in seaweed with wet sand running out her ass. Jackie was a hot salty mess. But she was my hot salty mess. After a year on a desert island that duck can walk like cat and bark like a dog for all I care because a man’s got needs, and sometimes you gotta work with what you got. You don’t need a scale named Kinsey to tell you that. The absence of pussy does not make the dick get harder, but it sure gets lonely. Especially at night when you got all those stars to count.  We all want to be loved, and if love is now rocking implants on a dude that was once named Jack, then fuck it, I’m gonna spoon.

In the meantime, before the rescue ship finds my ass, how me and Jackie get down under palm trees is our business. So until everything in the world becomes right and good by dropping a hot young co-ed from the clouds, you’ll find me and Jackie laid out on the beach getting a tan without the lines. Because in the end, you don’t gotta be straight to know there ain’t nothing wrong with loving the dick…. especially if it’s yours.

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