fag hag is out. lesbro is in.

Well, there’s that awful term  “fag hag.” So what is the term for a metrosexual straight guy that hangs out incessantly with his lipstick lesbian friend, during which time they admire and occasionally bitch about women and have passionate discussions about art and fashion? 

Basically, Jane and I were pondering what we should call Ford.

We spent most of yesterday evening while we were cleaning the house calling ideas from room to room. I was swiffering the kitchen and screamed, “Dykelike?” And Jane yelled from the vacuum in the front room, “No, sounds too much like dick lick! How about lesbian bro? LESBRO!” We cackled, but knew it was a fit.

Thus, my lesbro was christened. Ford isn’t what you’d call feminine, per say, in the culture’s weird narrow version of that word. He’s 6’2″, and he’s a total gym rat so he’s got the David Beckham bod thing going on (apparently that’s hot? to me it just looks very…structural…I can admire it like the Chrysler building), glacial blue eyes, dark brown hair with sideburns grown just a little bit long, but impeccably trimmed. He shows up most of the time in a bright polo and dress pants. Thankfully he’s never popped the collar. And one thing I will say– he smells divine.

He came over yesterday afternoon after Alana did NOT call. He brought over this loose rose petal green tea for us to make in the kickass clear glass tea pot Jane got me for graduation. Then we lolled on my bed and watched the episode of Sex and the City where SJP tries to get Aidan to go out with her but he just wants to sit on his bed and eat KFC and watch sports.

<Mutual wailing>

Ford: Ewww.

Darcy: How do they proceed with their relationship after that? Seriously Ford, how does she actually have sex with that guy after she has seen a bucket of chicken resting on his stomach?

Ford: I have NO idea. God she looks so good in those strappy gold shoes, wait go back.

<I rewind on the DVD player>

<we pause>

Darcy: So hot.

<He mumbles in agreement with a mouth full of kettle corn and feeds me the last piece in the bowl, our eyes still glued>

Then, as is our custom, he brought in some shirts from his car that he “wanted me to look at.” Which means he changes in the bathroom and parades out for me and Jane to give either the ‘thumb’s up’ or ‘thumb’s down.’ Boy has money for clothes, I tell you. Boy’s parents do at least. We gave him the thumb’s up on this darling black dress shirt with visible grey stitching…it was just the right amount of 70’s.

You’d think Jane would be all over this guy. But, as she’ll tell you herself, she’s more into that asshole you see with a dirty busted baseball cap at a bar, sitting with a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Her idea of courtship is an upwards nod in her direction.

We just don’t get it. My lesbro and I.