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Stroking my inner boyfriend | page 1, 2
But the hilarity doesn't end there. By Page 16, Gooch is being pummeled with praise at a party. He meets another guest who tells him how great looking he is, what a good writer, such a nice guy, how he sees his picture in gossip columns. Gooch relates this to us so that we know the wide-reaching effects of his charm, talent and fame, but he does it in such a way that it's meant to look anecdotal. Next he's told snidely by his admirer that without a boyfriend, "it's all worth nothing." This little passage, like the opening gem, is a cagey bit of narcissism masquerading as reportage. We're supposed to take this as a lesson that even Gooch with all his good fortune can suffer the insensitivities of a world that devalues singledom. By the time you get to Page 19, Gooch has repaired to his fabulous SoHo apartment (later we're told just how wonderful it is). He looks at the general mess of dirty laundry and scattered newspapers, and wonders: What would he do if he were expecting a romantic evening with someone? "So I decided to experiment. I ... made the bed. Lit my yellow Museum of Modern Art vase-sized candle. Turned the light down to an amber glow. Prepared a cup of warm milk sprinkled with nutmeg and cinnamon. Put on a CD of Franz Liszt's late piano pieces. Eventually I drifted off into a cloud of sleep ..." At this point, you could stop reading; a happy ending has been found, with Gooch lying in his own buff arms, as it was always meant to be. But no; what then follows is a series of "awareness exercises" designed for the average gay man to get in touch with the beautiful, intelligent, sensual stud within -- just as Gooch has. These exercises include listing the pluses and minuses of having a boyfriend, listing the qualities of your outer "package" as well as your inner qualities (Gooch decides his outer package includes his package, his SoHo apartment and his fabulous writing career), and taking yourself out on a date. The book concludes with a quote from the 13th century Persian poet Rumi: "Lovers don't finally meet somewhere/They're in each other all along." That Gooch is both handsome and shameless doesn't make him a liar. There are just enough homey truths in his book to comfort any number of world-weary individuals looking to be told that the secret of happiness is in embracing yourself. You're OK, really -- it's just that you're underappreciated, mostly by yourself, and that once you learn to love yourself, the right guy will come along to love you, too. Maybe. Gooch is smart to qualify his "findings" with this one word, and this is, of course, the caveat. The sad truth is that no matter how many goddamn cups of warm milk you might pour yourself, or no matter how many times you listen to the Brandenburg concertos before drifting off to sleep, there are no guarantees that true love and an end to loneliness will follow. Behind his sensual face and his chicken-soup-for-the-soul approach, Gooch ends up coming off as a cold-hearted cynic. He exploits the emotional dissatisfactions of other gay men, the vast majority of whom don't enjoy the privileges of being an ex-model or a glamorous writer. What could be easier, and more condescending, than telling people that if you're just good to yourself, then good things will follow? That's his message, in 171 sugar-coated pages: The only person you have in the end is yourself. Twenty-one dollars, please. No doubt the book is being sold with Gooch's chiseled mug on the cover to lure unsuspecting souls into purchasing it, and apparently this works: At Amazon.com, some of the readers' observations on the book were based on its cover alone. "Brad Gooch is cute ... an attractive spokesperson for the gay community and that is important." And from someone calling himself loveholy: "A great read!!!! And if I dare to say this ... this guy is Gorgeous!! He exudes such spirituality and those warm eyes ..." Just imagine the sales if he had posed nude for the cover. After reading Gooch's guide to self-love, I realize I'm a lousy boyfriend within -- all I want to do is have sex with myself, roll over and sleep, and the worst part is: I don't mind. I guess I'm just treating myself like the cheap date I know I am.
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