A GAY MAN DISCOVERS THAT THE GOINGS-ON AT A STRAIGHT MALE STAG PARTY ARE KINKIER THAN HE COULD HAVE IMAGINED.

		EDITOR'S NOTE: Urge is devoted to the passions and problems that flesh is heir to. Urge will feature provocative, frank and incisive reports on sex, romance, obsession and other preoccupations of the body and its related appendage, the mind. From celebrations of youthful indiscretions to reports on below-the-belt trends, Urge will cover the world of carnal delights and disasters like nothing else does. Get the Urge every other Thursday. B_Y__D_A_N_I_E_L__R_E_I_T_Z To a gay man, the allure of a stag party is obvious: the covert thrill of watching straight men humiliating their own, the stink of sexual frustration disguised as the musk of a great heterosexual American male ritual, the forced bacchanalian posing. I have never understood the contempt that so many straight men express at the idea of two men together; after all, the geography of one man's body is hardly alien to another man. To hate and fear gay sex seems the most primal kind of self-loathing.
		Having attended my first stag party for my partner's brother, I can now say that I have witnessed the manifestation of sexual tension straight men possess for each other in all its screwed-up glory, and the danger, dear reader, was more than a little titillating. It wasn't that I was particularly looking forward to what I imagined would be the ad-man equivalent of a frat party, but Phil was family. Duty called.
	N E X T P A G E - - - - - - - - - - - +	N P At the party for the cinematic Phil