Breeder's Digest

Although blacking out in a heap on the living room floor has its merits, nothing feels better than crawling into bed for a good night’s sleep at the end of a long, hard day at the office or bathhouse. Unlike you straight people, however, who do everything as efficiently and ruthlessly as possible (and frequently, while wearing sweatpants), gay men have turned the basic physiological act of sleeping into an elaborate and baroque process, complete with all the bells, whistles, and high-pitched screeching noises you’ve come to know and expect from us.

In an attempt to demystify the process for once and for all, scientists at the Breeder’s Digest Institute of Gay Sleep Technology have recently classified the four stages of gay sleep:

1. Tossing and Turning
During this initial stage of sleep, the gay man settles into his nocturnal environment, languishing in alternating currents of comfort and misery. This stage is accompanied by a series of world-weary groans, dainty coughing fits, and deep sighing. As he reflects on the events of his day, the gay is likely to make his greatest verbal triumphs, crafting all the perfectly-timed, witty retorts he should have said in the moment. By the end of this stage, he has determined to compose, first thing in the morning, a restrained yet incisive letter to a father figure, ex-lover, or Ann Landers. But don’t worry, Dear Breeder: most gays can barely hold a pen, much less remember bedtime promises.

“I played Betty White in my own autobiographical mini-series!”

2. Astral Journeys
Having finally achieved a state of natural unconsciousness, the gay man’s soul breaks free from its earthly shackles and hovers near the ceiling of his bedroom or men’s shelter. From this vantage point, the gay man is truly able to admire—from within his soul—the beauty and rapture of his very existence. The gay soul whispers things like, “You really came out of your shell today, kiddo,” “You’ve got the chiseled physique of a male reality show contestant,” and, “Shh-shh, sister-soul star-child,” to its physical counterpart.

Stage 2.5: The Choreographed Ghost Ballet.

3. R.E.M. Sleep
During this most restful period of gay slumber, the sleeper is met by the ghost of still-alive singer, Michael Stipe who, having crawled in through an open window, forces the gay to account for all the music he listened to in college. “Really?” Michael Stipe has often asked, “Was Lisa Loeb ever all that good?” “No,” I explain again and again. “It was the mid-to-late 90’s! I was so confused!” Michael Stipe shakes his head in disgust, opens his mouth as if to say something, then sits on the edge of my bed and weeps. Only after coaxing him outside with the promise of soy protein and bus fare, does he actually leave. At least, I think that was Michael Stipe. . .

He sure did suck dick like Michael Stipe. . .

4. Dream State
At last, the gay has unlocked the door to his own subconscious, and is flooded with a steady stream of images, sounds, and scents—all of which hold important clues to the inner workings of the gay mind. Common themes for gay dreams include: public nudity/private dressing rooms; making love to an early-career Ted Danson; writing genre fiction; ladies’ fashion for men; improbably oversized genitalia; The Cosby Show, seasons 1-3; Classical themes; mastery of the sports metaphor; animal husbandry; dystopian societies in world literature; riding a unicorn; riding Lady Gaga through a field of unicorns; full equality in the eyes of our families, and the federal government.

“No, you can’t read my ponyface.”

As you’re sleeping soundly tonight, Dear Breeder, dreaming about real or fantasy football, try to remember the plight of the homosexual sleeper. Next time you’re going on and on about your toddler’s dance recital, don’t take it so personally when I stretch my arms wide, yawn loudly, and stumble from the room in search of the perfect place to nap. I’m not bored, just exhausted. After all, I haven’t slept properly since my own gayness first began keeping me up all night. Wait, what was that you said about your wife’s cousin’s mobile home park?

Zzz. . .