“The first time I saw Britney, the little slut was sprawled out on her back, begging for it on the cover of Rolling Stone,” said Joshua J, who will be throwing a Britney after-party at QBar this Sunday. “I was horrified and fascinated at the same time.”
In terms of mainstream visibility; Britney Spears is the ultimate twink, the ultimate leather daddy, and the ultimate pervert (NSFW). She may well be the ultimate gay icon.
In her wet dream within a dream, hyper-real in its bizarre extension of reckless adolescence, Britney is both a sexual aggressor and victim to her own uncontrollable urges. Her lyrics suggest a nice but naughty duality, straddling somewhere between Nickelodeon and soft-core porn. Her pulsating music is the quintessential gay club soundtrack, both in sound and in subject matter - going out to find a trick to take home without worrying about the morning after. “That’s speaking the language of most gay men,” Preston said.
In high school, I lied to my mother and told her I had purchased a Britney album as a gift to my best friend (who grew up to be a lesbian and enthralled by Britney for completely difference reasons). At the time, I wasn’t a part of the pop star’s girl demographic, so owning the album was even more of a shameful pleasure. I’d go into my room, lock the door, put on my headphones and blare Britney.
Impressionable, confused by my own uncontrollable urges, I wanted to be like her: desirous of everything and desired by everyone. I wanted to writhe up to a sweaty stranger, moan suggestively and ask, “baby, don’t you want to dance upon me?” with enough sexual prowess to know the answer would be a resounding, “yes.” That winter, at sixteen years old, I lost my virginity to Britney Spears.