If you have a shirtless photo taken in a mirror with a camera phone, and you're not gay, then... wait, you're totally gay, huh?

Chances are pretty good that half of your male gay friends between the ages of 18 and 30 have one (or 136) photo(s) of themselves flexing, without a shirt, taken in a mirror (oft-times in a bathroom or closet) with their camera phone. The shameless shirtless self photo shoot is as gay as glitter and, if you live in Denver, as gay as Thursday night.

I would argue that the gays have stolen this and made this their own, along with the rainbow, and Uptown. What I can do without, however, is straight men attempting this technique. It’s funny how this look only offends me when the person taking the photo is someone I could possibly consider having sex with (whether I’d have to be drunk off my ass or not).

Another time this look fails is when straight women share practically nude photos of themselves and gather them in albums labeled “Modeling.” Just because some creep talked you into dressing scandalously and greasing up for his photographic and pornographic pleasure, doesn’t mean you should post 45 nearly identical photos of yourself wearing lingerie, and licking a lollipop with a come hither stare. If these photos are in a magazine or advertisement, you’re a model. If your photos are in some guy’s spank bank, you’re just undressing for a pervert with a camera. There’s a thin line between self-promotion and self-exploitation.

If you’re wondering whether you should be sharing photos of you topless and in the mirror, I’ve made a simple little equation for you:

Gay = OK; Not Gay = No Way

I can’t describe what it is exactly that makes this photo procedure so wrong on a straight man. Featuring a straight man, these pictures seem silly, vain, hilarious; while when depicting a gay man, the photos are sexy, confident, flirtatious. Why is it that gay men can get away with this when straight men cannot? It could be because, in my eyes, the gays can do no wrong — they can pull off a mesh neon tank top, and they can pull off the rightfully-confident-look-at-my-sexy-body pic.

I’m unabashedly obsessed with gay men. My fantasy is to one day marry a homosexual male (insert dream sequence fuzz). We would have an impeccably decorated house, host amazing cocktail parties, spend our days shopping, have our own separate sex lives, and share all of the dirty details over martinis and Scrabble. I can see it now: My homo-husband and I are laying beside the fire in matching “OMG” monogrammed silk pajamas (his pink, mine blue), watching Mean Girls, playing the popular word game, and gossiping about our latest mistakes. I’d would play the word “fellatio” on a triple word score. “48 points, biotch!” “Whore!“ he’d respond. Then, spilling my drink, I fumble for the remote, “Girl, it was this big!” to which my husband would reply, “Aw, heeeeyyy!” and we’d cheers, leaving practically no drinks left in our glasses, and calling the dog over to lick the booze off our $1,500 dollar rug.

I can’t get enough of the half-nekkid photos that gay men promote themselves with. I find them horribly amusing, and seeing as I’m a total pervert, a free show. As I walk through life, I basically check out everyone: men, women, grandfathers, baby daddies, grocery store checkers, your mom, security guards, department store santas, preschool teachers, sluts, and so on. I’m like a construction worker, except I don’t wear hunter orange, have less of a gut, and do not have a penchant for the arrogant ability to shout out things that could make even a sexual predator cringe (instead I say these things under my breathe to anyone who is within ear-shot of a whisper.)