Dear Starlets,

First off, congratulations. Whether through your talent, your shrewdness or your ability to give head, you've made it. You are too thin, you wear outrageously expensive clothes, you have everyone looking at you, and you can get laid by a different hot guy every night of the week. What else can we do as gay men but salute and envy you? Bravo, darlings, Bra. Vo.

But kittens, we're concerned. Clearly, there's something lacking in your circle of advisors. It puzzled us. Obviously, you have an army of managers, publicists, stylists and hangers-on whose very existence hinges on how good they can make you look. Where are they going wrong? With growing distress, we watch you "accidentally" expose your nipples on red carpets, allow yourself to be photographed with limp, stringy hair, leave the house without a bra, your breasts arguing over which direction to point, get out of limos with your legs spread so far apart you'd think it was fleet week and worst of all, WORST OF ALL, sugars: YOU ARE NOT WEARING MAKEUP AROUND THE CLOCK. You are a STARLET, girl. Your job is to be fabulous and make teenage girls and middle-aged gay men from coast to coast envy you and imagine what it's like to be you. YOU ARE LETTING THEM DOWN, you classless whores.

Sorry. We're just a little upset here.

No, sweeties. It's clear what you need. A gay. Oh, we're sure you have quite a few around you applying your makeup and styling your hair and picking out your clothes, but that's not the kind of gay we're talking about. That's the Professional Homosexual and frankly, their motives will always be suspect. They're not thinking of you, angels, they're thinking of your money. Oh sure, they'll lay the best designer clothes and jewelry at your feet, they'll airbrush your face to perfection, but will they make a 3 am run for some Taco Bell, laxatives and a morning-after pill? We don't think so.

What you need is A GAY. A Fairy Godfather. Someone to gently slap your wrist when you're reaching for the cocaine to stir into your morning coffee. Someone who will come over at 2 am, sit with you on your couch, brush the vomit and cigarette butts out of your hair and tell you that paparazzi are nothing more than skankmonkeys and besides, no one fabulous reads the Star anyway. Someone to say, "No darling, you don't look fat in that. You look like a whore. Let's put your nipples away for a while and pick out something less shiny, mkay?"

or

"Remember honey, 'Heels together!' 'There's no place like home!' Just think of Dorothy every time you get out of a limo and no one will even think of having an opinion on your wax job anymore. Have you ever heard anyone with an opinion about Judy Garland's Brazilian? I didn't think so."

or

"He's a billionaire, kitten. Let him cop a feel on the first date but don't even think of anything more than a handjob before the fifth one. Trust me, I learned this the hard way. Keep some tissues in your purse."

or sometimes just a simple "Concealer, darling. It'll never let you down. Did Lana Turner ever leave the house with a big honking cold sore? No, she didn't, did she?"

Now before you get suspicious, we're not offering our services. We love you but we probably couldn't be alone with you for more than 5 minutes without bitch-slapping you for overwhelming vapidity. No darlings, we are merely offering you the Big Gay Uncle advice you so clearly need.

Be warned, however. There are limits to what your Gay can do for you. You'll always have the best blowjob tips, but you can't expect him to help you with your eating disorder because most gay men will look at your daily diet of tic-tacs and lemon water and sigh approvingly "I don't know how she does it." No, better for you if that department is left to a nice sturdy lesbian nutritionist. Don't worry, you can't swing a pussy without hitting one. Your Gay will find one for you. Besides, your Gay can't help you fish out your diaphragm. He just can't, sweetie. Don't ask him. You'll only upset him.

Love,
The GayBoys