Alan Ilagan

First off, a disclaimer: my gaydar sucks. It didn’t register George Michael until 1996 when he was singing Jesus to a Child (far from his gayest song). It still hasn’t triggered for Anderson Cooper.  And if it hadn’t been for his dick in my mouth (and vice versa), I’d never have known Andy was gay.

The few times it has gone off have not yet been proven conclusively. Harold Ford Jr. sets it off whenever I see or hear him on the television. The impeccably-dressed guy at work had it ringing, even after everyone confirmed the existence of a live-in girlfriend. And then there’s Ricky Martin.

The first time I saw him was at the Grammys (it was Madonna’s big Ray of Light year, and she opened the show and ended up winning four trophys). Mr. Martin was singing La Copa de la Vida (The Cup of Life) (conveniently embedded below) and at the 0:54 mark I thought, ‘GAY.’ It only crossed my mind for a second, but then it happened again at 1:50 and my mind just went, ‘GAY.’

That night was his first big public appearance  just before he stormed the world with Livin’ La Vida Loca, so most of us didn’t know him that well. (I for one certainly hadn’t followed the many members of Menudo.) As with many semi-attractive (he does nothing for me) single men, there was much speculation about his sexuality at the time. Since he wasn’t my type, I couldn’t have cared less. It wasn’t until recently, and the following photos, that my gaydar perked up again.

Now I suppose it’s possible that straight men do wear speedos, and outside of this country many do. But aside from Daniel Craig doing a James Bond ocean scene or David Beckham being, well, David Beckham, most famous straight guys just don’t rock the speedo (which, granted, is a shame for those of us who like to look.)

These were taken a few years ago (before he went and adopted or birthed a couple of children – are they biologically his? Don’t know, don’t care. I do know he’s already posed shirtless with them, which to me seems both gay and odd…)

The point is, he’s never publicly come out, so my gaydar remains infuriatingly inauthenticated, and Ricky Martin remains infuriatingly unknown.

How wrong is it that I’m using this outfit as inspiration for what I’m wearing to our wedding celebration? This photo of Madonna (and her gone-too-soon shock-wave of blond hair) was taken by Patrick Demarchelier in 1989, just prior to the full-fledged blossoming of my love for her (which actually took place in 1991). Don’t get me wrong, I loved the Like A Virgin album and True Blue, and played them both to death, but 1991 was when I became slightly fanatical in my devotion. It’s only fitting that she plays some small part in my wedding.

It always happens at this time of the year – a January thaw to mess with the mind and cause all sorts of heaving, both literal and emotional. As the fog rolls over the snow, it’s a brief respite before we plunge into frigid depths again – and perhaps that’s the reason for it (though that certainly isn’t the case this year, as we haven’t managed to rise above the freezing point until now). For whatever reason, this is traditionally the time when I’ll have a bout with insomnia. I think it’s finally passed so I feel safe to write about it.

Insomnia and inclement weather go hand-in-hand, and a January thaw brings out the emotional bear in me. It’s the slightest tinge of Spring in the air that sets my seasonal-light-deprived brain aching for more, stirring all sorts of things and awakening long-lost memories of adolescent ache and angst.

It was 1985 and Madonna’s ‘Crazy For You’ was battling Samantha Fox’s ‘Touch Me’ for the number one spot on the Fly 92 Top Ten at Ten countdown. Dedications of love accompanied the former; lust dominated the latter. I was erring on the side of love, not quite old enough to recognize lust.

Swaying room as the music starts,

Strangers making the most of the dark,

Two by two their bodies become one.

I had a love-hate friendship with a classmate (meaning I must have had a crush on him, even if I didn’t yet know what a crush was). Fortunately, this was my only straight-boy crush, though at the time I didn’t even know I was gay, much less that I was going through a crush – so I suppose it doesn’t matter either way.

I alternately wanted to destroy him and get closer to him. I don’t know how that became part of my pathology, I don’t know what broke along the way, but like the ice on the sidewalk en route to his house, it cracked and shattered then and there and I’ve never been the same since.

I see you through the smoky air

Can’t you feel the weight of my stare?

You’re so close but still so far away,

What I’m dying to say is that I’m crazy for you

Touch me once and you’ll know it’s true

I never wanted anyone like this

You’ll feel it in my kiss

I’m crazy for you.

As I said, my feelings weren’t quite romantic – I was still too young to know that. I only knew that certain boys moved me more than anyone else, and it was only the boys who held me so enraptured. They seemed more vulnerable than the girls, more willing to wear their hearts on their sleeves, even if they got trounced on. I was more guarded, so there was something very appealing about that openness, even if it was something I would never display myself.

Trying hard to control my heart

I walk over to where you are

Eye to eye we meet no words at all

Slowly now we begin to move

Every breath I’m deeper into you

Soon we too are standing still in time

If you read my mind you’ll see I’m crazy for you.

The earliest thaw would bring the boys to our yard, well, our driveway really, as my brother had set up a basketball hoop that was low enough so that the tall kids could dunk it. I watched from afar, perched high above it all in the attic, peering down at the boys running and shooting and shouting, and longing to be able to access that easy camaraderie. It would never happen, not that way. I wasn’t tall, I had no interest in basketball, and the topics they discussed (mostly sports) were things in which I wasn’t the least bit versed. And so I watched, and wondered at what made me so different, all the while yearning and aching to connect to them in some way.

To this day, listening to Crazy For You brings me instantly back to those unreturned emotions, to the longing in my heart – even when I didn’t know what it was that I wanted. It’s a tricky thing, this heart – and I’ve never been able to completely figure it out. Just when I expect it to be frigid and unyielding, it opens up and offers a glimpse of what might be, of what might come – not unlike the briefest January thaw – and then, as suddenly as it came, it is gone again until the Spring.

It’s no secret that I love Madonna, and have for about 25 years. She had me at “You’ve got style, That’s what all the girls say.” Yet within that quarter century of obsession, fanaticism, admiration, and occasional ambivalence, I’ve only dreamt of her three times.
 
The first was around the release of Truth or Dare – or a little afterward, in 1991. In the dream she was wearing the Dolce & Gabbana bejeweled body-stocking/corset number that she wore to the New York premiere for the movie, and she had brunette hair and smoky eyes. I forget what I said to her, but she seemed friendly and responsive to it, so “it was a good dream.”
 
The second one I can’t quite remember, but I believe it came around the time of her Reinvention Tour. I think she invited me and Andy to hang out after a show or something.
 
This third one was last night, and it was much more detailed and memorable. I was hanging out with Matthew Rettenmund (of Boy Culture and The Encyclopedia Madonnica fame) and we were at his house. This was both strange and fitting: strange in that I’ve never met Matt in person, fitting in that he’s the Madonna expert and go-to guy, as well as a kindred fan and admirer.
 
Anyway, in the dream Madonna comes into the room we’re in, and just plops herself down in a chair. Her hair is again a deep brunette, and piled in a loosely-curled mop on her head. She mentions that she has a new watch but nowhere to put it, so Matt comes out with a watch holder like they have in jewelry stores. For some reason she signs it, “Matt gave me this!” with a pen, and he is giddy.
 
At that moment, I take out a tissue and blow my nose. “Did you just stick your fingers in your nose?” she asks.
 
“I used a tissue! I’m not a heathen!” I reply indignantly. She is amused and laughs a little. Sensing my chance, I ask her the only question I can think of at the moment (and I know it’s lame, but it’s all I really want to know about right then): “So what’s the new record going to sound like?”
 
“I don’t know,” she says.
 
“Liar!” I say with a smile. She gives a little laugh.
 
“Seriously, I have no idea.”
 
And then, abruptly and too soon, the dream is over.

These are the latest images form Madonna’s Dolce & Gabbana campaign, as shot by Steven Klein. While I think they’re superior to the first batch, I’m still hung up (in a not-so-great way) on the wig. What happened to the days of styling your own natural hair? (Granted, natural hair and Madonna haven’t always gotten together, but I miss her actual tresses.) I mean, I think the least you can do for a few million dollars is sit around for a few hours of hair and make-up.

That said, I do think these are wonderful, and it’s nice to see Klein creating something more traditionally beautiful than off-putting and edgy.

(I won’t even begin the witch commentary that will undoubtedly ensue with the above shot, but if anyone can defy gravity, I’d bet on Madonna.)