Dirty Dishes	Dirty Dishes Archive

Dawn loves a good cat fight. And Dawn loves gossiping about sex. So last month when Michelangelo Signorile (a darling of the straight press because he trashes gay male sexual culture) launched an attack suggesting that Andrew Sullivan (a darling of the straight press because he trashes gay male sexual culture) was sticking his willy (or wrapping his arsehole) where it shouldn't ought to be, Dawn was transfixed.

In short, Michelangelo alleged (in an article published in a Long Island rag and disseminated extensively on-line) that Andrew had an internet ad wherein he identified himself as HIV-positive and solicited condomless sex with other HIV-positive guys. This, Michelangelo tell us, was bad because Andrew is a big fat hypocrite-- he preaches conservative Catholic sexual ethics and lambastes "sex obsessed" gay men, but cruises the internet looking for cum-drenched, marijuana-enhanced pig sex.

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Andrew's reply? "How dare you!? That was a private matter and is none of your business! Really!"

Gay press pundits quickly took sides in the contretemps, and columns and commentary appeared everywhere.

But Dawn wants to know, what's all the fuss? A sexual moralizer turns out to be a hypocrite... this is news? Dawn files it under "dog bites man." From J. Edgar Hoover to Jimmy Swaggert, Dawn simply assumes that anyone wagging their finger at others weenies is a closet perv.

Though much of his ideology is distasteful, Dawn rather prefers Sullivan's case. Contending that an on-line ad, made available to billions thru the marvels of the wwweb, is a "private" communication, is, of course, absurd. But what does Sullivan's (putative) sex life have to do with the legitimacy of his political positions? Suggesting, or even proving, that his personal life doesn't mesh with his public pronouncements may validate the charge of hypocrisy-- but so what? Ones political arguments do not rise or fall depending on where or how or with whom one rubs ones genitals.

And Sullivan is often on target in his drubbings of the PC crowd. He rightly opposes hate crimes laws as an assault on equal protection and free speech. He articulately opposed the hideous, short-sighted crusade to silence Dr. Laura. And in the tragic matter of Jesse Dirkhising he, virtually alone amongst gay journalists, acknowledged that the 13-year-old may have had sexual desires (gasp! heresy!) that led him to become involved with his criminally negligent partners. Sullivan offers some relief from the Stalinist tenor of much gay PC propaganda and marketing.

Signorile, on the other hand, comes across as the class fink, the guy always chosen to take names in the teacher's absence: "Miss Johnson, Andy's touching himself!" And he has a long history of ratting. In the 90s he and other "prevention" activists coordinated attacks with Giuliani's cops on New York City's queer sex spaces. Dawn worries that Signorile is, like many finks, motivated more out of jealousy than he may realize. Perhaps he fears Sullivan is getting the sex that he himself craves (and sometimes, by his own admission, gets-- when he's drunk enough and the sailor's hot enough...).

But all that aside, Dawn wonders why more gay writers aren't addressing the serious question raised by a glaring omission in Sullivan's alleged ad text: nowhere does he mention his cock size. Could it be that Andrew Sullivan has a wee willy?