I read it for the articles...

After my October 2009 issue of GQ was found peeking out of my Mayle Dioux bag on the train today, with actress Olivia Wilde's lithe frame sprawled across the publication's cover with nothing covering her teeny-tiny bits and pieces but a teeny-weeny, jewel-encrusted two-piece, eyes were upon me. What was I doing with that?! What was I doing with a nudie-rag, a gentleman's quarterly, a men's-mag?, the stares seemed to suggest. I mean, to be quite honest, is there some kind of primordial truth that keeps me from reading a men's magazine? Even if that magazine is GQ? Is that odd to see a stylish woman, be she straight, gay or otherwise, entirely engaged by the scribblings on men's fashion? Or hear her giggling to herself while reading a profile on one of her favorite musical artists, GirlTalk? Can she not catch up on the new happenings in pop culture, or be informed on global politics without someone peeking over shoulder, policing her reading material? 

   I mean, yes, I know that woman is naked on page 180, and usually my feminist-ing self would find such imagery exploitative of the woman-in-question's hoo-hah, but dammit I love GQ. I just do. I hate to say it, but I've given up on ol' Vogue. We don't talk like we used to, y'know. We've grown distant: I've matured, while she's remained static and the same. I want to communicate more openly, freely, honestly, while she's set on staying tight-lipped and unresponsive. So was it really such a surprise when my September-issue this year went un-opened? She knew I only bought it out of habit. How else to explain my near-tattered copy of GQ that was in and out of my purse each time I road the subway, had lunch, or was reading in bed before I slept at night?

    I had found a new companion. One who was friendly, accessible, and still chic. We became intimate over drinks and laughs; we shared a cigarette outside of a crowded metaphorical party, while exchanging dialogue about this cool new band I needed to cop the c.d. of, that cool football player who was more brains than brawn, and this cool movie we planned on seeing together. Now I apologize if this metaphor is being prolonged, but I think you follow: GQ spoke to me, a woman, like I was smart, informed, and witty. Which I am. So why not read material that responds to those needs?, I thought. 

     GQ's EIC, Jim Nelson, is also a breath of fresh air. Quite simply, he's unafraid. He celebrates all men of note, no matter their race or age or field. It is not a P.R. tizzy when Kanye, LeBron, Pharrell, Obama, or Michael Jackson make the cover of this mag because these gentlemen are of color, but because the photo and the accompanying spread and article will most-likely be fantastic. I have always found it dumb-founding to applaud Vogue for deigning to celebrate a woman of color on its cover. I will not congratulate your bigotry, Ms. Wintour. I will not seem thankful for you throwing mere scraps at my perfectly-manicured, designer-oufitted feet. You profile Michelle Obama because she's prolific and a hero--not because it will hopefully write away your magazine's racially homogeonous past. As my mother used to say, "You don't get rewarded for things you're supposed to do."  

     But what is even more bothersome is that men of all colors seem to be able to honor one another in such a form and medium without hesitation, while women quickly scramble to pat a blessed few atop our heads (Michelle, Beyonce, Halle Berry, Jennifer Hudson, Jennifer Lopez). It's demeaning, because Vogue-rs believe, as a woman of color, I'm just that easy, I'm just that silly not to recognize that fatal truth. And maybe that's ultimately why Vogue's brother is getting all my attention these days: they take my intelligence quite seriously. 

      There is of course eye-candy for me, considering GQ is so ambigiously queer and outfits its male subjects in such an enticing way that they not only play with sartorial lines, but those of sexuality. Actor, John Cho's spread in September's issue calls to mind this very truth. He, in fitted double-breasted power suits, situated in the Michigan offices of GM, was so hyper-masculine, he was hyper-feminine. The attention to detail, cut, swag...I admit, it was sexy. In fact, I might just add that to a not-so-clearly defined criterion of "what I'm looking for in a man": a GQ reader.

    But despite all this, the magazine is simply so well-written, it's frightening. It's loose, it's carefree, even. But still is able to articulate and express itself in such a succinct, clear, and sharp way that I often re-read sentences to take cues for my own writing.

    And ultimately, that's what I'm doing anyway...just being inspired. So, yes, I can admit, without hesitation, that I do read men's magazines with the half-naked chick on the cover for the articles--and the articles alone.