Say you’re this straight guy. You’re an artsy, liberal-minded type, employed in some capacity by the music industry. You live in Brooklyn. You have a beard. You get laid with relative regularity. You think you are very, very cool. On a summer Sunday night, you’re on a rooftop bar in Williamsburg, and you’re three gin and tonics deep. You’ve met up with a friend of yours from work and some of her friends. You are…

The first man I met at the 67th Cannes Film Festival was a fifty-something producer who insisted upon fetching me champagne I hadn’t asked for. Night was falling and La Croisette, Cannes’ swankiest stretch of beachfront restaurants and boutiques and five-star hotels, sparkled like a celebrity’s loaned diamond necklace beneath us. I was there for the release of a film. Industry C-Listers jostled around a purple-lit stripe of pool bisecting the roof…