They're smarter, sexier, and far more successful than you'll ever be. And they definitely don't speak with a lisp. Meet America's new ruling class—the Alpha Gays.

-By Mike Albo
-Photograph by James Westman

Last month, sailing off the southern tip of Capri, a group of men including a prominent Manhattan gallerist and a former pro soccer player made for quite the postcard. In fact, the scene was more like a glossy advertisement for an expensive chronographic timepiece: As the 42-foot Norwegian yacht tacked into the wind, the rugged master-of-the-universe types scrambled to adjust the jib. To the casual observer, they appeared to be active men of means on some kind of luxury bonding excursion. And they were. But they also happened to be homosexual.

You loathe his music, his TV show, his hair—but cut the Fall Out Boy some slack.

-By Aaron Gell

Photograph by Scott Schafer

For those inclined to hate Pete Wentz­—and there seem to be a lot of you out there­—a word of advice: Don't ever meet him. It's 11 P.M. when the Fall Out Boy bassist and lyricist­—as famous for his branding efforts, cosmetic proclivities, and tabloid-princess wife as for his music­—strides into a nearly empty restaurant in Barcelona, wearing one of his countless hoodies (this one from his clothing line, Clandestine Industries). "Dude," he says, offering his hand. He stands five feet seven, with a top-heavy bobble-head quality, and exudes so much boyish charm you're almost tempted to lick a palm and smooth his hair out of his eyes.

Collectivism has gotten more play than a Disney star lately. But while many Americans brand socialism as evil, the rest see no contradiction in wearing a Che Guevara tee to brunch. Where's the class struggle in that?

Spend an afternoon driving the man who played the monosyllabic Neo in The Matrix around Los Angeles in a rental car and you might come to an unexpected conclusion about the Hollywood enigma: He is a genius.

-By Jeff Gordinier
-Cover photograph by Steven Klein

He has heard of a sandwich. An excellent sandwich. "I've been looking," he says, "for a good sandwich in Los Angeles."

The Waits twins are building a club empire—and getting laid a lot along the way.

-By Michael Kaplan
-Photographs by Emily Shur

Dressed in a tailored suit, Jesse Waits sits atop the backrest of an alligator-skin banquette. It's the early hours of a Friday morning in August at Tryst, the hugely successful nightclub one floor below the blackjack tables at Wynn Las Vegas. Alongside him a couple of leggy women sip champagne while a cocktail waitress in a bustier fusses with bottles of booze and an armada of drinking vessels. To one side of the crowded dance floor, a group of NFL players manage a harem of female fans.

Blindly adopting every trend will turn you into a punch line, not a player.

-By Courtney Colavita
-Photograph by Bela Borsodi

When Sacha Baron Cohen crashed a runway show in Milan this Fall disguised as Brüno, his Austrian alter ego, the audience barely blinked. Dressed in an absurd Beyond Thunderdome pastiche of layered fabrics and dangling tassels, the comedian emerged onto the catwalk with an expertly executed strut. It was only after security stormed the stage and escorted him away that most spectators realized they'd been had.

Everyone loves a good comeback story, but as returns to glory are being outnumbered by wishy-washy changes of heart and cheap publicity stunts, a question arises: Isn't it time to retire this trend—for good?

Hot, tight-bodied older women have always fueled younger men's sexual fantasies. But now that every View-watching wildcat is lusting after boy-toy ass, it just might be time to call Animal Control.

Penn Badgley (the good boy), Chace Crawford (the cougar bait), and Ed Westwick (the arrogant rake) are ubiquitous on the Web and in the tabloids, and every hot young woman in America wants a piece of them. Maybe their preppy soap opera, Gossip Girl, will propel one or all of them to superstardom. Or maybe not.

-By Mark Harris
-Cover photo by Steven Klein

You are on the streets of Manhattan, shooting on location. A dozen paparazzi and a dozen teenage girls come at you, screaming. The paps give you a little room. The girls give you none. They text and Twitter and suddenly there are many more of them. They would surround you, topple you, if it weren't for security. They just want to touch you. Just for a second. Surely this must be what being famous feels like: being in your early twenties and good-looking, making money, and starring in the kind of TV show that makes fans want to consume you. People keep telling you something big is happening. The phrase window of opportunity is in the air. You could be the next George Clooney, joking with wry self-deprecation 20 years from now about your humble beginnings on a teen soap. Until you Google yourself one night and discover that someone has called you the new Spencer Pratt.

There's only one thing the boy wizard wants now that he's all grown up—to play a drag queen.

-By Chris Norris
-Photograph by Steven Klein

It's a brilliant June day in Manhattan's Bryant Park. Small white clouds dot the wide arc of midtown sky. Children's voices mingle with music from a gilded carousel. And, sitting on a green folding chair, as moms pass with strollers and idlers sip iced tea, the world's most famous English schoolboy is talking dirty.

"Stepping out the motherfucking carr, they in awe," says Daniel Radcliffe. "I'm looking like a starrr, bitch."