I am NOT hating, but this nigg looks gay AF in this damn spread SMH…I know you have likeness over what is published SON, so COM’ON why look so damn GAY?!?! I get that your 1st name is AUBREY but it doesn’t mean you have to be so FEMININE!!! ok I am done clowning this nigg…LMAO
GQ reports — The backyard of Drake’s mansion is indistinguishable from the set of one of those late-night Lifetime soft-core romance flicks. Waterfalls gush all around, surging over enormous boulders. Bronze animals—lions, elephants, giraffes!—checker the lawn, glimmering in the last light of the San Fernando Valley sun. A giant fire, fit for a king from Middle-earth, burns in an outdoor fireplace, and a flat-screen TV plays Sixteen Candles.
In the foreground of this lady-fantasy tableau sits Drake, who has the six-one body of a well-built man but the dodgy eye contact of a teenager. (At first, anyway.) He awaits me on a couch with more chintz pillows than I can count, wearing baggy jeans and Jordans, his simple gray T-shirt accentuated by two long diamond-rope necklaces, lest I forget that he is 25 sittin’ on 25 mil. At the ready are a bottle of chilled white wine and a pitcher of ice, for tonight we shall drink wine spritzers, his favorite beverage and also mine.
“If you went down the waterslide,” he says, taking my hand, helping me over the stones that cross his blue lagoon, pointing to a chute running down a steep two-story cliff above the pool, which, by the way, is filled with statues of nude women, “how amazing would that be for your article?”
Dreams have come true for Drake, and tonight he looks to be in a sharing mood. He’s going to ignore my pen and my tape recorder and my list of questions and open up his soft, emotive heart as if we were on the most amazing first date ever.
Less than four years ago, he was just Aubrey Drake Graham, a high school dropout and former child actor writing rhymes in the basement of his mom’s house in Toronto, stopping only to trip out on text messages from girls or find out where that night’s party might be. Drake’s parents split up when he was 5, and he lived in a bifurcated world, between everyday life with his mom—affluent, white, and Jewish Canadian—and the special visits and occasional summers with his father, who’s black, from Memphis, and a bit of a ne’erdo-well. When I ask him about his dad, his voice tightens, and he looks away. “Me and my dad are friends. We’re cool. I’ll never be disappointed again, because I don’t expect anything anymore from him. I just let him exist, and that’s how we get along. We laugh. We have drinks together. But I spent too many nights looking by the window, seeing if the car was going to pull up. And the car never came.”
Still, he identifies with his father and his ability to hustle, to get what he wants while having a good time. “I’ve never been reckless—it’s always calculated,” Drake says. “I’m mischievous, but I’m calculated.” So as a 15-year-old, with a successful acting career in motion, he quietly plotted his second act: hip-hop superstar. He borrowed money from his uncle and recorded Room for Improvement, his first mixtape, full of bass and braggadocio. And just like that, Lil Wayne was on the phone, calling to say he liked what he heard. Twelve number one singles, a few mixtapes, and a pair of studio albums later, it’s hard to listen to the radio and not hear Drake’s voice, telling you he’s too strung out on compliments, overdosed on confidence.