Back in the day, a female comic nailed it. She said, “I want a boyfriend who’s sweet, sensitive, and good looking… but those guys already have boyfriends.” And honestly? Facts. You finally find a guy who ticks every damn box, and then—bam—he’s kissing someone way hotter than you… and it’s another man. Meanwhile, your girlfriends are side-eyeing you like, girl, how do you still have zero gaydar?
I’m not alone, apparently. A report from June of this year revealed that 47% of gay porn viewers—drum roll, please—are women. Guilty! What can I say? Sometimes you just want to watch two men who actually know what they’re doing.
There’s a point to this trivia. Gina Zo’s latest track, ‘I Like Men Who Like Men’, is basically the ultimate soundtrack to that exact feeling. It’s flirty and just self-aware enough to sting a little. Gina laughs at her own pattern, but she’s also celebrating the wild, glitter-soaked magic of queer love and nightlife.
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“I have a habit of liking men who would never like me… they are hot, sexy, and well… gay. Being a bisexual artist has made me really want to continue to dedicate myself to bringing joy and passion to the queer community,” Gina says. “This song has the purpose of not only recognizing a silly trope of mine, but also my god, these men in WeHo are hot!”
Gina Zo is an LA-based rock-pop powerhouse with a knack for turning messy truths into anthems. Originally from the Philly suburbs she first caught national attention on The Voice where Gwen Stefani pushed her to strip back the walls and get real. She came out in 2023 with ‘Faking It,’ claiming her bisexuality and cementing herself as a voice for the queer community. Whether fronting her band Velvet Rouge or dropping solo tracks like ‘Dirty Habits’, Gina brings heat and heart to everything she does, fighting for space where women and queer artists take center stage.
‘I Like Men Who Like Men’ slides in on an alt-pop groove with a rock edge, the kind of hook that borrows from pop punk’s bratty bite. The guitars crunch under the synths, giving the track both sparkle and grit—glam enough for WeHo, dirty enough for your headphones the morning after.
The new track spills open the way gossip does between girlfriends. “Wait G, how did that date go? Eventful. Spill.” It feels like you’re already on speakerphone, wine in hand, ready for the dirt. And then she admits the thing we’ve all felt: I like men who like men / it’s a habit I’ve been / picking up since I landed in LA. That sting hits different when you’ve dressed up, kissed him back, shaken your hips, only to realize he’s never going to want you the way you want him.
She keeps circling back to it—when I see a guy I get high thinking about how he’d be mine. That rush is physical, damn near chemical. You’re staring at gorgeous skin, perfect eyes, and your body is already betraying you. You want to smash, to wake up tangled, to make him your next mistake. Except the hook slams down harder: I like men who like men, I’m like here we go again. It’s half confession, half punishment—how the fuck did I end up here again?
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The middle stretch is pure West Hollywood nightlife—we all go to the gym, listen to Charli/Britney and dance, talk shit about all our friends. If you’ve ever blacked out at The Abbey, you know the exact scene. You’re drinking, flirting, maybe body count climbing, but you’re not even in the running. You’re never the prospect, just the girl hoping for crumbs of attention from a man more focused on the guy standing behind you. She admits it with a wink—can you blame me for wanting a yas man? And that’s the dangerous part. The chemistry burns anyway.
By the time she hits showed up to a date recently with a low-cut top and those skin tight jeans, I can feel the sting in my stomach. I’ve been that girl—pouring myself into clothes that scream fuck me, only to sit across from a guy who doesn’t even notice. He’s talking about Schiaparelli couture while my tits are practically knocking over the cocktails. He’s got great hair, perfect teeth, exactly the kind of man you’d kill to wake up next to. And yet when he’s in bed, he doesn’t think of the girl that found the man of her dreams. He’s thinking about the man who just left the gym.
The hook keeps pounding, all glitter and ache. Oh no, not again, he likes men. It’s funny, but it cuts. Every chorus is that cycle of attraction and crash, getting high on the fantasy and choking on the fall.
By the end, when she repeats here we go again, the tone shifts into exhaustion, horniness, and resignation. The groove pushes you onto the floor, pulls you into the street, and drags you into whatever bed will take you. It leaves you stumbling out at 2 a.m., makeup smeared, drunk on gin and bad decisions, texting the wrong man, leaving the right one on read, still chasing the thrill of a kiss you’ll never really get. Gina turns that pain into a party track you can fuck to, cry to, and laugh through.
