73666437I don’t think I’ve gone out in a bad outfit or an unflattering hairstyle since 1996, the year Hurricane Charlie blew into my life. For a young, friendless—and probably a little corny—thing like I was way back on freshman orientation week, he was a godsend.

It didn’t seem like it at first, though, considering he sauntered up to me in the student union building one day then pointed a manicured finger at my head like we had history, advised me to immediately cease and desist from wearing my hair snatched back in a ponytail and introduced me to the five designer girls flanking him and his forward self. Turns out he had just met them, too, inadvertently recruiting what would become—for half of my first year in college—my little crew (nicknamed “Charlie’s Angels” by some of the more clever guys on campus). Not only was Charlie my inaugural GGF (gay guy friend), he became my personal stylist since he was a fashionisto and progenitor of all things fabulous and wardrobe-ishly correct. Call me a stereotypist if you want, but I’ve discovered that most of them either are or fancy themselves to be.

Nearly thirteen years after that saucy encounter, I have to laugh about letting some six foot tall gay dude roll up on me and give me a public tongue lashing for my quicky hairdo. (If that would’ve been a girl, though, there would be a whole other kind of story to tell, right?) But boy oh boy, has Charlie come in handy over the course of our mutual growth in divadom. Thanks to him, I met and fell in love with a few other guys: Giorgio Armani, Louis Vuitton and Marc Jacobs to name a few. Aside from offering an eye for fashion, an ear to listen and a shoulder to cry on, he’s exposed me to a host of other bonuses and benefits that come with having a gay guy friend—so many that I now adamantly feel like they are a must-have for every sister.

I know we’re collectively salty over the number of brothers playing for the other team, draining our pool of datable men down to May May, Pookie and them who hang on the block. And that’s a viable complaint. But no number of low cut shirts, booty-hugging jeans or thigh-high skirts are gonna bring these brothers back to Heteroville, so we might as well appreciate and celebrate them for what they are: a must-have companion for every single gal clamoring her way through the dating scene.

Here’s what comes as part of the GGF package:

Like all relationships, the GGF bond can’t be forged or forced, contrived or constructed. It just has to flow. Since there’s so many out there (as any single lady living in Atlanta, DC, Los Angeles or New York can attest), there are that many opportunities for the friendship to flow and flourish naturally and give you a reason to give plenty of snaps for the kids.

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