When Harry Met Larry

When the movie "My Own Private Idaho" came out in 1992, I was just giddy with excitement, somehow having gotten the idea that it was going to be a sweeping epic tale of love among gay hustlers, a blend of "Gone with the Wind" and "Midnight Cowboy."

It starred Keanu Reeves, who had that cutest-boy-in-the-class smile that always ensured there wasn't a dry seat in the house, and the brooding, breathtaking River Phoenix, who always seemed to be looking to some far horizon, nursing a secret wound, even if he was on the cover of Teen Beat.

The idea of two such heavenly creatures in a love story with each other was the most potently sensual thing I could imagine.

I was wrong about "Idaho." It had some sweet moments but wasn't quite the big romance I'd hoped for, plus it was confusing, and I remember that when I got up to leave the theater, my butt was asleep. I'd have to wait over a decade for the epic gay romance that was more what I had in mind, which would turn out to be "Brokeback Mountain." I watched it as though I'd been taxidermied, hardly breathing for the intimacy, crying until my sleeves were black with eyeliner (I forgot the Kleenex), being annoyed that the shiny screen obscured the allegedly graphic sex (which I still haven't seen) and wondering, though not very seriously, if there was something wrong with me.

Thirteen years is a long time to think you're probably the only woman in the world who finds two men in bed together a very sexy thing. In all that time, I read only one story expressing similar sentiments, but as I recall, it focused more on gay porn, which I have no problem with. But I wanted more romance! passion! words!

There is the threadbare cliche of men being loony for lesbians, which has become a cultural joke on a par with their inability to ask for directions, but one never hears it asserted in the reverse. It felt like a lonely little kink.

Why seeing two men together strikes me as both so sexy and so sweet, I'm unsure. It could be sheer novelty, that there's no subtly threatening presence of another woman, the predictable yen for something I can't be a part of, or wanting to see more of what I don't have (if I want to see naked girl, fergodsake, I can stick my head down my dress).

Or it could be because male-male love scenes must focus on male sensuality; male-female love scenes always seem to focus on the woman. Our bodies are always lauded as being the more elegant of the genders, but I think it's just because we're missing the centerpiece, so the table looks a little neater.

Men's narrow hips and soulful eyes are just as sweet as our napes and tresses. Plus, I would argue that the male pelvic area -- that V-shaped space above the pubic region -- is the most beautiful thing in the world, and that includes cupcakes, butterfly migrations and beach homes with keys under the mat.

And sensuality isn't just physical -- it's something people radiate, a reflex of gratitude for some stimulation -- a moan, a sigh, a laugh. Men have more of this gorgeous responsiveness than they often allow us to see, so when it's focused on so closely, it's extremely powerful.

Then there's the simple answer: If you double up the sugar, the cookie tastes twice as good. This is known in academia as the Double Stuff Tautology.

Whatever the reason, I recently learned that I'm not the only woman who finds two guys together at least somewhat knee-buckling. Using "Brokeback" as an excuse, I brought it up in live conversation and via email with girlfriends and drew at least some agreement. Most of the girls I mentioned it to didn't seem to care what Heath and Jake were doing, though, as long as they got two hours of Heath and Jake.

So on one hand, I feel like I outed myself, but as what? A woman who likes men? When I think of it that way, it doesn't seem like a big deal -- but that's always how it is on the other side of a confession. Secrets are like splinters; once they're out, it's hard to imagine that something so small could cause all that trouble.