So the other night Colette and I met our friend Dean for drinks after work. There are a few things you should know about Dean before I get into the meat of this story. First, Dean loves attention like an old dude loves pie, so he’s going to squeal with delight when he reads this. Second, Dean was the best man at our wedding. Just tossing that in for flavor, like pepper on biscuits and gravy. Third, Dean is gay. Normally the gay thing would be irrelevant to a story involving Dean – and trust me, there are many stories involving Dean – but in this case it is. Hang tight; it will all make sense.

So we met Dean for drinks at a bar where he hangs out with friends on a semi-regular basis. I got there before he or Colette did, and the bar was mostly empty. I gave Dean a call to make sure he was still coming. Dean has many fine qualities; the ability to consistently show up where he said he would is not always among them.

Sure enough, when I reached him, he was at another bar. I half-heartedly berated him for being not at the bar in which I was standing, then asked when he was coming. He said he’d be there in a half hour, and that I should just introduce myself to his friends.

“Dude,” I said, “I’m not going to walk up to total strangers and just introduce myself. Besides, I don’t know which people are your friends.”

“Just announce to the bar that you know me, and you’re looking for the Ya-Ya’s,” Dean replied. He meant this in all seriousness.

I didn’t bother asking him to explain why he and his friends call themselves the “Ya-Ya’s.” I could have, but really, cracking open cans of worms isn’t my thing. “Just finish your drink over there and get over here,” I said.

Dean agreed to my demands and hung up.

Colette arrived a few minutes later, and as we had a drink and waited for Dean, I noticed that more people were starting to fill the bar. They were all men, and though they arrived individually, they all ended up sitting in a somewhat boisterous group. I was pretty sure they were the alleged Ya-Ya’s, but I didn’t want to look like a jackass by introducing myself to the wrong group, so we just waited for Dean.

Turned out I was right. When Dean got there he introduced us, and we moved closer to where the group was sitting. Including Dean, there were six guys in the group, and they were all gay. I knew this because they were all gushing about how cute one of the bartenders was, and the bartender in question had a beard.

I also knew this because they all loved Colette.

I don’t know what it is about Colette that makes gay men act like frat boys at a Playmate hot tub party, but it happens every time. I have yet to meet a gay man who did not fall over himself talking about her. Don’t get me wrong; she is, in my humble opinion, a knockout. But the way gay men fawn over her, you’d think that she was the love child of Angelina Jolie, Kate Beckinsale, Megan Fox, and Zeus.

“Look at you!” one of them said.

“I love your lips!” another said.

“Look at your beautiful skin!” another said.

“You’re like Aphrodite!” another said. He said it in sort of this Elvis-y growl, not unlike the way a truck driver would compliment a delicious t-bone.

They even complimented me for, well, for being fortunate enough to be married to her, let’s say.

It made me really start to appreciate why many women enjoy hanging out with gay men. Women don’t get deluged with compliments like that in any other situation. Think about it. If they’re hanging out with other women, they’ll get compliments, but not glowing, gushing ones. Women don’t get too carried away with compliments toward other women. Eventually a teeny bit of competitiveness shows up, even between the best of friends, and then there’s a subtle dig about whether or not you’re going to eat those fries or something like that.

And if a woman is hanging around with a bunch of straight guys and they start openly talking the way these guys were, someone would end up getting Maced. Twice.

I’ve always been a little confused by this phenomenon. I mean, there’s nothing surprising about a man complimenting a woman on her looks, regardless of his orientation, but gay men always talk about Colette as if they suddenly want to change religions, so to speak.

The other thing I found interesting was that as far as I was concerned, they could have been talking about the weather, or about how hot Rick Ankiel is. (Which, in fact, they also were. Apparently you’re hot, Rick. Like, super hot. Even if you are hitting a paltry .215.) If anything, I think I was sort of complimented. It’s not every woman who makes a gaggle of gay men get as excited as Richard Simmons in a room full of fat people, right? So hopefully that says I’m not a total slob.

I tell you what, though. If she tells me she wants to see Cher in concert anytime soon, I might have to put my foot down.

Bob Rybarczyk (brybarczyk@sbcglobal.net ) writes stuff. He turned down a spot in the All-Star Game after learning that there would be no nachos in the dugout. Look for his debut novel, “Acoustic Kitty,” at area Borders stores and online at Amazon.