Beckham is the biggest metrosexual in Britain because he loves being looked at and because so many men and women love to look at him: He's the future, but also a way of adapting other, less advanced specimens to that future. More to the point, he sucks corporate cock with no gag reflex. A staple of newspapers, men's magazines, TV advertising and billboards, last year he earned around $8 million for sponsoring various male fashion accessories, such as Police sunglasses.
You see, "Becks" is almost as famous for wearing sarongs and pink nail polish and panties belonging to his wife, Victoria (aka Posh from the Spice Girls), having a different, tricky haircut every week and posing naked and oiled up on the cover of Esquire, as he is for his impressive ball skills. He may or may not be the best footballer in the world, but he's definitely an international-standard narcissist, what would once have just been called, in the Anglo world at least, "a sissy." Hence in that World Cup game against Brazil that kicked England out of the tournament, Becks was the only English player not to be upstaged aesthetically as well as athletically by the Latins.
In the interview with the Brit gay mag Attitude, this married father of two confirmed that he's straight, but as he admits, he's quite happy to be a gay icon; he likes to be admired, he says, and doesn't care whether the admiring is done by women or by men.
All of this is very modern and progressive, I'm sure, and Beckham's open-mindedness and "equal ops" narcissism has undoubtedly helped to change some -- how shall we say? -- unsophisticated attitudes in this very male, tough, still largely working-class sport. However, I feel it is my duty to inform you that Mr. Beckham, candid to the point of blatant exhibitionism as he is, is not being entirely honest with us about his sexuality.
Outing someone is not a thing to be contemplated lightly, but I feel it is my duty to let the world know that David Beckham, role model to hundreds of millions of impressionable boys around the world, heartthrob for equal numbers of young girls, is not heterosexual after all. No, ladies and gents, the captain of the England football squad is actually a screaming, shrieking, flaming, freaking metrosexual. (He'll thank me for doing this one day, if only because he didn't have to tell his mother himself.)
How do I know? Well, perhaps it takes one to know one, but to determine a metrosexual, all you have to do is look at them. In fact, if you're looking at them, they're almost certainly metrosexual. The typical metrosexual is a young man with money to spend, living in or within easy reach of a metropolis -- because that's where all the best shops, clubs, gyms and hairdressers are. He might be officially gay, straight or bisexual, but this is utterly immaterial because he has clearly taken himself as his own love object and pleasure as his sexual preference. Particular professions, such as modeling, waiting tables, media, pop music and, nowadays, sport, seem to attract them but, truth be told, like male vanity products and herpes, they're pretty much everywhere.
For some time now, old-fashioned (re)productive, repressed, unmoisturized heterosexuality has been given the pink slip by consumer capitalism. The stoic, self-denying, modest straight male didn't shop enough (his role was to earn money for his wife to spend), and so he had to be replaced by a new kind of man, one less certain of his identity and much more interested in his image -- that's to say, one who was much more interested in being looked at (because that's the only way you can be certain you actually exist). A man, in other words, who is an advertiser's walking wet dream.
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