Last night, Sam and I fantasized about finding a solo, horned-up Brady Quinn in a locker room. It wasn’t the straight-QB-goes-gay-for-an-hour fantasy. The Mighty Quinn was into it… the boy had skills. I can’t speak for Sam, but for me it was as much about the caterpillar brows and the goofy-ass hair as it was about the tree-limb arms and the equipment you might expect on a boy that size.
Sam and I wish Brady Quinn were gay, and so does every gay man who’s ever seen a picture of him, and somewhere there’s a woman who’s thought of it, because evidently some straight girls get off on gay play. But I digress.
If he is, it’s his business, sure, and we won’t find out about it until after his first Super Bowl, but don’t get your hopes up boys and girls. As much as I hate to admit it, (and I really do), a few polo-clad, frat boy crotch grab photos don’t make him gay, and neither does his affinity for being a big, floppy-haired clown. Google “Brady Quinn gay” and get page after page of results citing speculation. The sports sites are the funniest because the readers and speculators are on fire. Titillated even.
It’s probably a good thing he isn’t, because we have a knack for manifesting stuff, and a gay, willing Brady might prompt a very interesting conversation. It’s that whole laminated list thing. No matter, because in our imaginations, anything’s possible.