The last gay novel I read, or book of essays rather, was a discussion about why faggots loathe and discriminate against one another. That book was shit and I'm back to analyzing gay culture. Jorts and tanks and plenty of water based lube! My daily visit to Mr Porter searching for the perfect pair of slippers swayed me in a direction that I was unprepared to handle.
Que Max Wallis who is a young British poet, is gay (and so darn cute) and wants to sell you a reasonably priced Raf Simmons sweatshirt for your spring wardrobe. All we men really want to do is stare into an abyss and ponder our existential life looking trendy and shit.