CONFESSIONS OF A NEW YORK FAG HAG
Katie Douhry
CONFESSIONS OF A NEW YORK FAG HAG
By Katie Douhy, a self-proclaimed “fag hag”
Dear Aspiring Fag Hags,
A friend once told me, fag hags should be protected by the endangered species act. And I couldn’t agree more. If you, too, want to keep the fag hag spirit alive in New York City, please take my two cents into serious consideration:
Bring your own poppers, carry your own K. No one likes a hag who begs.
Being a fag hag doesn’t come without its costs. Expect staggering credit card debt, Peaches (not the Bieber bop) on your sex playlist, and a camera roll full of cock.
Study your gay icons, from Azealia to Gaga to the Babadook. And for the love of God, see Countess Luanne live at least once—I suggest Sonja Morgan’s annual Halloween bash, if you can get on the list.
Be prepared to lose all desire for straight men. My body count has unsurprisingly skyrocketed as a direct correlation to my visits to the Rosemont.
But on that note, don’t fall in love at the Rosemont… Oops.
You and your gay best friend will compete, and ultimately double dip. Make sure to take his DoxyPep together for the full bonding experience.
Know how to control your twink. It’s critical to remind them, Sniffies in the park only after dark.
On a positive note, your memory will improve. I can match 500 names of men I’ve never met to their blurry nudes. You will be able to pick out any random twink on the train, dip into your mental catalogue, and recall the exact length and girth of said twink’s penis.
A fag hag’s gaydar should always be on high alert. From the New York Sports Grill at JFK (crazy story) to the Catacombs of Basement, you should know a queen when you see one.
Finally, above all, have tact.
