Ladies and gentlebros, hold onto your fucking buttplugs because Guy Trebay has finally made fashion NOT GAY. Which is perfect for guys like myself—pretty much just your totally average chillbro who is WAY STRAIGHT. Don't get me wrong, I got bros that are gay—my bromosexuals, my bromos—that I totally would punch a D-bag for if they stepped to them or said some totally off-base shit. I'm here for you, bros. Now, when I'm not in the gym getting swoll, pounding brewdogs or definitely banging mad chicks, I buy trill clothes—clothes for bros.

But nah, I don't love clothes in that psycho Patrick Bateman way and no, Gordon Gekko ain't my style icon. I mean, sure, those alpha bros stack paper and Michael Douglas deserves croosh props for consistently nailing a bomb chick like Cathy ZJ, but come on bro, you're gonna step to me in fat ties and shoulder pads? Yo, who are you bro, Michael Strahan? But on the real, yeah, I love to get sprezzy. Sure, B in the D (that's "back in the day" for all you nerds out there who can't speak English), I might've had a pair of Kenneth Cole square-toes and a going out shirt. So what? You gonna do something about it, bro?

I saw the light. I found out what raw denim was. I bought entire pages out of the J. Crew catalog like they were bottles at Pink Elephant. I got a haircut and some pomade and a Ludlow suit. Ya boy even threw together an inspiration board of Prince Gosling and Lord Disick. Nowadays, I roll up to Barneys and the dudes on the fourth floor dap me up. Yeah, I like fashion, but let me remind you that I am 100000% way not gay.

I felt wild blessed when the homie Guy Trebay dropped some serious knowledge in the NYT. Dude just gets it. He knows the struggle. "Designer fashion is no longer just for gay men and Europeans," he says. Preach, brah! I used to hate the feeling I'd get when I would walk into Aloha Rag, try on some Margiela, look at myself in the mirror and think, "Am I supposed to, like, want to bang a dude in this jacket?" Even when I was at Opening Ceremony, secretly buying some Ervell on the low and putting it into an empty Gap bag, all the employees would be like, "Oh, what part of Europe are you from?" Fuck that shit. Not anymore. Think your desire to look like a fucking champ stems from some Freudian shit about being hella deep down into dudes? Hell fucking no, bro.

Don't get it twisted, my affinity for "beard-farming" and my sick ass "Adam Kimmel jumpsuit" doesn't mean you can find me hanging "on the corner of Queer and Gay Streets." So don't come at me bro, calling me a metrosexual. I'll have no choice but to kick your fucking ass, bro.