Those of a certain pedigree have a tendency to stick together, and A-gays are no different. Some, like one couple in New York City, a lawyer and a chef, aren’t just avid operagoers, they’re benefactors. Charity committees beg them to cohost their benefits and sit on their boards-and they have portfolios of philanthropic interests that aren’t just gay- or AIDS-related. Artists and photographers approach them with new works. And they can pull off having much-younger boyfriends without looking creepy. Often athletic, they’re never steroid queens. They drive to Krav Maga class in Lexus hybrids and read four newspapers a day, including the Wall Street Journal, because they’re bosses and entrepreneurs, not employees. Their Savile Row suits are impeccable (A-gays tend to go custom rather than buying off the rack), and they furnish their homes with collectible pieces by designers like Claude Lalanne. They don’t want to be part of any kind of closeted group or velvet mafia. Instead of cruising in gay clubs, they jet to Gstaad or the TED conference, and party at Sundance with Zooey Deschanel. They don’t own yappy miniature dogs or time-shares in Fort Lauderdale they own Labradors and four-bedroom summer homes in Sag Harbor. Moneyed, successful, educated, and comfortable in their own skin, they’re fast becoming the new archetype of cosmopolitan masculinity.
