Binghamton is home to many different types of people: the metros, the JAPs, the city-slickers, the Frisbee-playing upstate potheads and last, but most important, the gay-straight guy. Out of any of the groups of people I have met in college, I find this one to be the most intriguing.

All you girls must know who I’m talking about: that guy who talks with a little bit a lisp, compliments your shoes, has hundreds of girlfriends that write ‘I love you’ on his Facebook wall and always looks remarkably put together, sporting his crisp and clean pastel collared shirts. Just when you’re about to proclaim him as your best guy friend, he bursts out with a line like, ‘Yeah, my ex-girlfriend ‘ or ‘Yeah, Kate Hudson, I’d bang her.’

I have a few such friends. Rick was the first one I met. We had a lot of the same classes together freshman year and eventually became really good friends. I didn’t have many inhibitions with him because I thought he was gay and we wouldn’t have to deal with any sexual tension or awkwardness. He would always tell me things like, ‘Oh man, the guys you’ve been with sound like real assholes, you should really go out with me.’ I always thought he was kidding (you know, because he was ‘gay’ and all) until one night, he leaned in and planted a juicy one.

I was stunned. The guy who I thought was my gay best friend was actually trying to get into my pants. Oy ‘ men. And now that I think of it, some signs were there. He was always talking about boobs, girls with blonde hair and occasionally some organized sports teams, but his gayness was so overwhelming that I accidentally confused him for a slightly masculine homosexual.

I felt terrible; I had led on my gay best friend. Out of guilt I went on a few dates, where his new-found insecurity forced boobs to come up in every conversation. ‘Boobs, boobs, boobs, I love girls with big boobs ‘ blah, blah, blah.’ Eventually, I had to stop hanging out with him. He just got too over-compensating-ly misogynistic.

It was sad saying goodbye to my Will of ‘Will and Grace,’ but soon I met a blatantly homosexual guy who became a nice replacement. His name was Alex and he lived on my floor last year. He was as flaming as Joseph and his Amazing Technicolor Dream Coat. His lisp was undeniable, his hair flawlessly beautiful and full of product and his love for fashion, insurmountable. The first time I met him he told me my Converse sneakers were about to make a big comeback (which they did) and that he really wanted to borrow and burn my ‘Rent’ CD.

Soon thereafter, when he came back to return the CD, he told me he wanted to talk to me about something really important. What I thought would be my opinion on him considering a sex change operation was actually about problems with his ex-girlfriend. I was fooled again. Again, this slightly feminine, sexually confused breed of man, the gay-straight guy, really set my mind a-wondering.

‘ Micol Zweig is a junior English major.