"Sir? Your fly is open."

Whenever I hear these words, I feign embarrassment as I glance down at my crotch and confirm that, much to my apparent horror, my zipper is, indeed, down and, since I rarely wear underpants of any kind, the flesh of my groin, a few stray strands of my pubic hair, and, sometimes, a bit of my penis are on display for the world to see. If my rescuer is a man, I smile at him as I zip myself and say, "Thank you." If he smiles back or holds my gaze a fraction of a second longer than necessary, I add, with a broader smile, "I'm glad you were looking at my crotch." He will either become angry, curse at or threaten me, and stalk away (or, rarely, strike me) because of my "insolence" or he will grin at me in return and say something like "I wish I could be of further assistance."

I am usually hard by now or getting there, and I nod at my burgeoning erection or take the clump of my genitals in hand and reply, "Would you like to give me a hand with this-or a mouth or an ass?"

It's a crude approach, perhaps, but it works. I catch more casual dates with my penis-worm than a lot of fishermen catch fish with the lures that they employ. It's all a matter of knowing where to cast one's line.

I learned this technique as a result of my visit to an art gallery that was displaying "homoerotic art," which it defined as art that celebrates "gay love." Of course, there is no such thing as "love" when it comes to sex, homosexual or otherwise, for sex is about power, mot love. It is about dominance and submission, strength and weakness, command and acquiescence. Anyway, it was at this exhibition that I viewed a painting called "Trolling." It featured a good-looking young man standing on the corner of a busy street in San Francisco's famous Castro District, his fly open to exhibit his pubic hair and a glimpse of flesh at his crotch, where a bulge tented his trousers. His pose appeared naturally enough, although one suspected that it was a studied one: he stood, seemingly oblivious to his gaping fly as he read the morning newspaper as he waited for his bus. As young men passed on the street, they turned their heads to gaze upon his crotch. Although one might inform him of his predicament, it seemed likely, given the painting's title, that, eventually, this fisher of men would likely catch more than someone's eye with the bait he dangled so captivatingly.

Women are allowed to (or, at least, they are seldom prevented from) displaying their charms in public. Rarely does anyone, except, perhaps, the mother of a young child, complain to the authorities or a manager of a woman's display of buttocks, bosom, or "bikini line." Nipples poke against tight, thin blouses or T-shirts with impunity. On beaches, thongs appear on bathing beauties everywhere. Bikini bottoms and short shorts are so skimpy and tight that the cleft within the mound of the feminine sex is visible at a dozen paces or more in stores, on sidewalks, and upon street corners alike. Women who want to exhibit their breasts, buttocks, and genitals are free to do so any time and any place, tacitly or openly, depending upon the location and the tolerance of those who happen to be in attendance. Women enjoy beauty as much, or more, than men, and more than a few are not only not offended by such displays of feminine pulchritude but are also delighted to have the opportunity to make comparisons between other women's bodies and their own or simply to enjoy the sights. If a woman's zipper were down, virtually no men, and possibly only a few women, would notify her of the fact, whereas, even among gay men, males will inform their own that the "barn door is open."

The sites at which men are permitted (or may arrange) a rare and short-lived moment of similar display number few, indeed: dressing rooms, gay parades, locker rooms, nightclubs that cater to gays, nude beaches, nudist colonies, showers, rest rooms, and-well, that's it, I'm afraid. Leaving a department store's dressing room curtain parted, wearing chaps and nothing else as one marches in a gay parade, lollygagging in a semen-and-urine-scented locker room, dancing at a gay nightclub or watching gay dancers dance at such a spot, lying prone or supine on the golden sands of a nude beach, hiking naked down a nudist camp's nature trail, lingering in a steamy shower after a workout at the gym, or posing at a rest room urinal are about the only "acceptable" ways in which a guy can exhibit his cock and balls or ass. That may sound like a lot of venues for exhibition, but, in most cases, either the potential audience is miniscule, the site is isolated, or the occasion during which nudity is tolerated is rare. If you're a man, and you're displaying your charms in any situation other than these, you will probably be arrested on "indecent exposure" charges and jailed. If you are a woman, you will probably never hear from the police, whether you show yourself during in one of these or any other situations (other than, perhaps, in church).

At one time, even female nudity was considered unacceptable, and artists had to adopt such pretenses as depicting classical or religious themes such as "Leda and the Swan," "The Birth of Venus," or "Madonna and Child." Ironically, it was not only acceptable in ancient Greece to display male charms in all their glory, with penis erect or otherwise, it was also encouraged and celebrated. The word "gymnasium," after all, means "naked place," and referred, originally, to the place in which athletes wrestled naked before admiring spectators. It was only after the fall of the Roman Empire that male nudity became, somehow, scandalous. Today, despite a handful of nude male sculptures and paintings, early beefcake magazines like Physique, the work of gay photographers in the nineteen fifties and sixties, the post-feminist interest of women in male nudity, the gay rights movement, and even Eldrige Cleaver's attempt to excite new interest in the codpiece, there remains little opportunity for the display of male nudity relative to the occasions for revealing women's bodies.

The scarcity of male nudity has at least one (no doubt unintended) effect: it calls our attention to what there is to see, emphasizing it both visually and cognitively. When we are presented with a naked man or with his bare crotch or buttocks, we tend to take notice. Seeing a cock unexpectedly (and seeing the public display of a cock is always unexpected) is like seeing a snake:

A narrow fellow in the grass Occasionally rides; You may have met him, -did you not? His notice sudden is.

The grass divides as with a comb, A spotted shaft is seen; And then it closes at your feet And opens further on.

He likes a boggy acre, A floor too cool for corn. Yet when a child, and barefoot, I more than once, at morn,

Have passed, I thought, a whip-lash Unbraiding in the sun, - When, stooping to secure it, It wrinkled, and was gone.

Several of nature's people I know, and they know me; I feel for them a transport Of cordiality;

But never met this fellow, Attended or alone, Without a tighter breathing, And zero at the bone.

This heightened awareness of male sexuality that the occasional homoerotic work of art inspires should be cultivated and multiplied. Any gay guy who can write fiction should write homoerotic fiction; any gay guy who can draw or paint should draw or paint homoerotic sketches and oils; any gay guy who can sculpt should carve homoerotic statues; any gay guy who can sing or write songs should sing or write homoerotic love songs. Gay artists should celebrate gayness. By reading, appreciating art, or listening to music, we should remind ourselves of our history and our heritage and we should show others who we are and why we love ourselves. Maybe then straight men and women would also love us-or, at least, respect us enough to let us expose ourselves in public the way that women do. In this way, we can become fishers of men as surely as we can when we pretend to have forgotten to zip our flies, hiding those parts of ourselves that most truly define who and what we are.

Those who are not artistic can also attract attention to the male physique, especially if they are in shape. A chiseled chest, washboard abs, sculpted thighs and calves, rippling muscles, toned and shapely arms, powerful backs, and firm, tight buttocks are as much an inspiration concerning the beauty and power of male nudity as any work of art and are, in themselves, masterpieces.

The next time you see a man with his fly open, don't say a word (unless, of course, he's me).

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