You're Not the Type of Fag Who Can't Make a Decision...

...but you do tend to waffle back and forth on your way toward anything conclusive. Your Ex liked to call you "contrary," and you liked to call him "asshole," especially since you knew he was right. After all, you're a Libra and you like to endlessly weigh all sides of any argument before deciding anything. Especially when good sex is involved. Correction: great sex. So before your date with Blonde Beard you actually make out a list of Pros and Cons. You need to see it on paper because your heart and your head are telling you completely different things. And you're not talking about your penis head because that head is telling you exactly the same thing that your heart is: Crack-schmack... Go for it.

You call your Ex-Cousin-In-Law, the Dating Guru who has published several books on the topic, but has yet to settle down herself (or perhaps you should simply say, "has yet to settle"). Although she's a successful writer now, she still sees everything from an Actresses point of view as acting was always her first love. So when you tell her all about your Blonde Beard "Is-he-or-isn't-he-a-Crackhead" dilemma--about how you are considering confronting him on this particular issue on your next date--the Ex-Cousin-In-Law instantly starts shaking her head before turning all Stella Adler on you. She explains that you are seeing your upcoming date with Blonde Beard like a writer would. You're seeing the entire beginning, middle and the untimely, tragic end before you ever go out on the damn date. And then she has the audacity to tell you, "And that's a boring scene. Yawn. Can I get my money back please?" You are a bit dumbfounded (not to mention mildly humiliated) until she explains further, "If you start the scene without knowing where it'll end, then you're taking the audience on a journey. Wouldn't you rather go on a journey?" And you've got to hand it to her; a journey sounds like a much more appealing date than a fucking drug intervention. When she presses you, you have to admit that you could've canceled the date if you wanted to, but, for some reason, you chose not to. And that's when she explains to you, "That's because you want to go on this journey. Because you want like him." And you know she's right. You decide that you'll begin tonight's date with Blonde Beard without any assumptions of how it will ultimately end, because, after all, you don't have any idea what will happen.

So you meet Blonde Beard at the new Vynl on 15th and Eighth and you try to begin the scene like an actor instead of a writer. You're practically doing voice exercises by the time Blonde Beard arrives, and you try to cover your embarrassing tracks by kissing him. But Blonde Beard shifts his head to offer you a hairy cheek because he thinks he might be getting sick. You wonder to yourself, "Would a Crackhead really care about getting someone sick?" And then, of course, the Libra in you considers the alternative, "How did he get sick? Has he been doing too much Crack lately?" Your list of Pros and Cons grows as the evening progresses, but honestly, even though you are actively looking for any kind of sign, you really aren't adding too many Cons to this inane, imaginary roster. In fact, the Pros continue to grow to the point where you have to shake your imaginary pen because you're worried that it has actually run out of imaginary ink.

After dinner you go back to his place. You pretend to feign interest in the Prom Dress rerun of Project Runway while yapping with Blonde Beard's Jealous Roommate while, in actuality you are scanning the supposed Crack Den for drug paraphernalia. But you notice nothing out of the ordinary. Nada. Rien! And after enough face time with the Jealous Roommate, the two of you happily retire to Blonde Beard's bedroom and lie on the bed as he shows you an article in Dwell magazine about his new boss. You ask yourself, could a Crackhead really pull an impressive job like that out of his Crack Pipe? You think not. But then he puts on some Cocteau Twins, which he has already told you is his all-time favorite band, yet when the song "Sugar Hiccup" begins to play, he informs you that it had to have been written while they were on Heroin... Your antennae instantly go up and you're about to add another Con to your imaginary list until you realize that the lead singer of Depeche Mode, your favorite band, was definitely a notorious junkie who almost killed himself. You realize that you are really grabbing at straws now.

But then the kissing starts. Or actually the non-kissing since Blonde Beard doesn't want to get you sick. So you sniff him head-to-toe in search of his Mothball Crackhead Pheromone, but beyond his super sexy, manly odor, there is nothing. Yet somehow when you look deep into his eyes during the moments when neither of you are speaking, there is something. It's at this moment that you realize that your Ex-Cousin-In-Law was right. You are glad you went into this date as an Actress would, instead of a Writer; you are glad you didn't begin the date at the end by making unsubstantiated accusations; you are glad because this non-kissing is a much better ending than the one you would had already written in your head. Are you sure Blonde Beard doesn't have a drug problem? No. Are you willing to give him the benefit of the doubt? Well, until any actual hardcore, Betty Ford-like evidence is uncovered, that answer will have to remain an undisputed, the-Pros-outweigh-the-Cons, yes. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Fags Who Gets Depressed and Becomes a Hermit...

...but you are really bummed about the fact that Blonde Beard is a Crack Head. Or might be. Hell you don't know, but you had such high hopes for this one and now you are totally re-examining everything underneath a giant microscope, even though what you really need is one of those giant Drug Sniffing Dogs that like to hang out around JFK Customs.

You're working from home today even though the police called to let you know that they recovered your laptop from the Lazy Blackmailer's apartment. You told them you'd drop by the precinct and pick it up tomorrow partly because you don't feel like getting out of your pajamas, but mostly because you're enjoying wallowing in your own filth and self-pity. After whining to your BFF about your latest novel: "Crackheads and the Boys Who Love Them," he informs you that your dilemma is nothing that can't be solved by a few Gay Cocktails. So you two make a plan to meet at The Ritz for their extremely economical Half Priced Happy Hour.

After an unproductive day of work, somehow you pull it together to take a shower. While you're waiting for the hot water to meander its way up to your 6th Floor Walk-up, you end up staring at your mopey-fish-face mug in the mirror and decide that you need to shave off the damn beard you've been growing. You think of it as a symbolic shave that will somehow rid you of your disturbingly co-dependent feelings for Blonde Beard. Besides, yesterday someone told you that it made you look older, so good riddance and buh-bye to the beard. First you do some weed whacking with your manscaping clippers and then you hop in the hot shower to shave the fucker off.

Afterwards, even though it's only been a few weeks, you definitely do a double-take because you've already become accustomed to your fuzzy/furry look. You definitely look younger though. Gray hairs sprouting from your cheeks was definitely not your best look. So you get dressed to go out and meet your BFF, but when you go to leave your hovel, the bottom door lock just spins and spins, yet never unlocks. There's no click. You stare at the inside of your apartment door in disbelief as you begin to grasp the fact that you are actually locked inside your apartment. How is that even fucking possible? Did your Hobosexual roommate break the bottom lock when he went out for dinner? Do these sorts of ridiculous things happen to other people? Or specifically just to you?

You immediately call the Hobosexual and, of course, you get his voicemail. You leave a frantic message, partly because you want your message to seem a bit urgent, but mostly because you are totally Jonesing for your Gay Cocktail. Next you call your Super, even though he only answers to text messages, but you figure bombarding him with S.O.S.'s can't hurt. Then you call your BFF so that he doesn't wind up going to The Ritz, since it's pretty damn obvious that you won't be meeting him there anytime soon. When he answers you tell him, "Don't go to the bar." "Too late," he informs you, "I needed a cocktail. What's up?" You explain your ridiculous situation which he can't help but laugh at you, "You're locked inside your apartment?"

After lecturing you on your shitty-ass karma, your BFF pledges to come downtown and rescue you after he finishes his cocktail, of course. While you wait for your BFF to arrive, you end up playing sappy broken-heart love songs, and by the time he buzzes you, you're busy scanning the ceiling of your Hovel for something strong enough to hang a noose from while listening to Jennifer Hudson belt out "And I Am Telling You I'm Not Going." Ten minutes after buzzing him in, your out-of-breath BFF reaches the final step of Mount EverShanty. You tell him that you're gonna slide the key under the door for him to see if he can unlock it from the outside. Luckily this works and you don't have to go to Plan B where you play Rapunzel and yell out the window pleading with Bad Samaritans on the sidewalk for help. Or the dreaded Plan C where you have to call, and pay, for a Locksmith that you will never be reimbursed for.

You let your BFF catch his breath before beginning the long descent to gayer pastures. By the time you reach the third floor, the two of you decide to go to Urge since it's close by. And as luck would have it (obviously your BFF's luck, as you are void in that department lately) it turns out that your BFF knows the bartender (which is the New York equivalent of winning Lotto). After a few extremely strong and desperately needed cocktails, you actually end up having a laugh about your latest dating debacle. Your BFF thinks that you should keep your plans with Blonde Beard for tomorrow night and just go out and have a good time. After all, you really like the guy, and you don't know for sure that he's a Crackhead. Maybe he's only a recreational Crackhead? Maybe he uses soap that smells like Mothballs? Maybe it was his roommate's Crystal Pipe? Since you don't have the answers to any of these questions, it's important not to presume that Blonde Beard is guilty until proven innocent. You should never judge a Crackhead by his Crack Den. Especially when the Crackhead is great in bed.

And then, after you are sufficiently cheered up (or, more likely, sufficiently liquored up), the cute London Lush without any facial hair (who you've been keeping tabs on from the corner of your wandering eye) begins to chat you up with his adorable accent. You ask him a few questions about nothing in particular, and, yadda yadda yadda, you're making out with the London Lush in the back corner of Urge, exchanging cell numbers. Blonde Beard who? Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Fags Whose Closet is More Impressive Than His Résumé...

...but you do have way too many clothes for your closet-sized hovel of an apartment. So to kill time while waiting for your Blackmailer to go online so you can IM him about getting your laptop back and/or catching the fucker, you decide to start rearranging clothes in your closet. Your sweaters are still in a big pile on your bedroom floor and it's almost February, so you start removing piles of tank tops, skimpy gay bathing suits and camouflage cargo shorts that are hogging up valuable sweater space. You put all that summer stuff into a large suitcase and promise yourself that you'll buy some Mothballs and schlep it all over to your storage space in Queens sometime before Memorial Day. The sweaters take up way more room than your Speedos but somehow you make it all fit. Meanwhile, the Blackmailer never signs on so you climb over your overstuffed suitcase and go to bed as visions of Blonde Beard's Crack Pipes dance in your head.

The next day, when your Lazy Blackmailer still hasn't signed on to AIM, you decide that you're just gonna text your oppressor back. You T9 him, "Who is this and what do you want?" and begin a Text-fest where he explains that he was hired to crack the password on your laptop's login screen. Luckily, being a paranoid fag, you used your phone number for a User Name just in case something ever happened. You were also clever enough to squeeze the word "Reward!" into the login and now this Lazy Blackmailer obviously thinks he's gonna extort some extra cash before selling your stolen Dell on eBay. After a few irritating texts the Lazy Blackmailer valiantly offers to sell your stolen hard drive back to you for $250, almost as if he's some geeky Robin Hood 2.0. Luckily, since you use a free online backup service, your entire hard drive has been completely backed up so you could give a shit about it, but you really want the laptop back, and you definitely want to catch the fucker, so you, of course, call the police.

The Detective handling your case tells you that if you can get the Lazy Blackmailer to agree to meet you somewhere and make the exchange that they will arrest him at the scene of the crime. You immediately have this retarded, yet exciting image of being a gay Johnny Depp in 21 Jump Street, so of course you agree to it (see fagnote #1, below). Meanwhile you have a Doctor's appointment because your right nut hurts and you are absolutely sure you are dying of testicular cancer. Unfortunately, when you get to the Doctor's office, you realize that the waiting room is buried deep in a Post-War monstrosity and you have no cell service (Get More with T-Mobile!) so your text-fest quickly grinds to a signal-less halt (see fagnote #2, below) as you wait to drop your pants so the specialist can inspect your recently manscaped testes.

The Ball Doctor asks you a few questions and then sends you away to give a urine sample, and then you are sent back into the waiting room. Eventually your name is called (and mispronounced) three times by a man who not only looks like Wallace Shawn, but also shares his speech impediment, which is somehow coupled with an impenetrable Russian accent (see fagnote #3, below.) You follow Wallace into a little room overflowing with medical equipment, and the next thing you know you are lying down with your pants yanked down to your knees, as Wallace mumbles, then gestures for you to hold your penis out of his way. You gulp when it dawns on you that you are actually having a, get this, Scrotal Sonogram, which you are not at all happy about it. At all. You try not to think about the ugly little straight man rubbing his electronic wand around your junk so, of course, your mind quickly turns to Blonde Beard. But the mere thought of the sexy boy actually arouses you, so you immediately start thinking about bad, penis-softening things. The recent Crystal Pipe incident comes to mind and that's when you remember that Blonde Beard kind-of-sort-of smelled like Moth Balls when you were covering him head-to-toe with kisses. It was so weird that it really stuck with you, and it wasn't like he was wearing some old sweater because he was absolutely naked at the time. Anyway.

You leave the Doctor's office with an antibiotic prescription to cure your, get this, epididymitis (try saying that three times fast...) and your phone instantly begins to beep with lots of anxious texts from the Lazy Blackmailer. After the two of you agree to meet at a Starbucks on 14th Street, you immediately inform the Police about your rendezvous. The Detective tells you that he'll meet you ten minutes beforehand to discuss the plan of action. You're pretty psyched about starring in your own private episode of Law and Order, but, even though "You're ready for your Close-up, Mr. Demille," you end up going back to your office to try and get a little work done before your 8pm call time. Only when you get back to the office the first thing you do is google: "crystal meth moth ball smell." The number one result is entitled "How do you know if your son is using crack?" and as you search through the answers you are shocked when you stumble upon this one: "One tell tail sign that you can not miss, people who smoke crack smells like moth balls. A really putrid smell that if your not used to smelling it you will catch on anyone." (See fagnote #4, below) Your heart instantly drops and you don't get any more writing done before the Sting Operation because you're too busy wondering if Blonde Beard is really a crack head or are you really just a Nervous Nelly Olsen? Then, of course, loads of suspicious things start flying into your head. For instance, if Blonde Beard doesn't smoke and doesn't have a cold, then why the hell does he have a hacker's cough? Anyway.

Eventually the Detective calls you and you mope your single ass downstairs to meet him on the street, only your broken heart is no longer into this Sting Operation anymore. All you can think about is how it's hard enough to meet someone who you even like, not to mention feel connected to on several complicated levels. Unfortunately, you know you'll never be able to connect to Blonde Beard on the Crack Level, even though you're sure it's very slimming. When you hit the street you hop into the Detective's unmarked, yet completely obvious, squad car, and he and his partner inform you that they'll get to Starbucks first and promise to arrest the Lazy Blackmailer as soon as you make the exchange. Then they drive away down the block, letting you walk the rest of the way so the Lazy Blackmailer doesn't get suspicious of you showing up in an tragically unmarked police car (see fagnote #5, below).

Only, as you're jay-walking to the south side of 14th Street (what, are they gonna arrest you?) you hear your name yelled out from behind. Something tells you not to turn around because you are sure it must be the Lazy Blackmailer, especially since you know that the Plain Clothes Detectives are already inside Starbucks. So you pretend you don't hear the Lazy Blackmailer and run inside to tell the Cops in a panic, "My Blackmailer is across the street!" Then you cleverly call the Lazy Blackmailer and tell him that you're in Starbucks but can't find him. He says, "I'm double-parked across the street. Didn't you hear me yelling your name?" So you go outside to meet him and he's actually super nice. Not so cute though. He starts blah-blah-blahing all about some Freelancer's Union Health Insurance PDF he saw on your hard drive and segues into how you both have freelancing in common. You almost ask, "Since when did Blackmail become freelancing?" (see fagnote #6, below), but the Detectives have him cuffed up against his car and are reading him his Miranda Rights as soon as he hands you the hard drive. You kind of run away and hide behind the subway entrance because you think it's probably not the best idea if this criminal remembers what you look like.

Eventually one Detective takes the Lazy Convict back to the tragically unmarked squad car as the Other Detective informs you that they will definitely search his apartment with the hope of retrieving your stolen laptop. You take the hard drive home and all you want to do is lie in bed and wait for the Bedbugs to bite while feel sorry for yourself because you're afraid you're never gonna find someone to settle down with. Without settling. But when you get home you almost trip over that damn suitcase filled with your summer clothes and decide that you are definitely not going to put any mothballs inside of it. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Fags Who Hearts Tina...

...but after hearing enough horror stories of friends whose lives have been decimated by a love affair with Crystal Meth, you definitely agree with Ms. Turner, "What's Love Got to Do With It?" (see fagnote #1, below.) Luckily for you, you're just a functioning alcoholic who's much more comfortable waking up in Brooklyn on a Queens Bound G train (when the last thing you remember is, ironically, ordering a Manhattan in Chelsea at G Bar) than you are hosting some P-N-P Bareback Orgy-in-your-Ass after 72 sleepless hours of scouring craigslist for similar social gatherings. But, as usual, you digress.

You are soooooo excited for your date with Blonde Beard that you even break your steadfast rule of not working (out) on Sunday since it's your official Gay Day of Rest. But you want to be pumped up when you see him in order to give him unrealistic expectations. You do, however, take note of all the hot heathen boys that actually work out on the Sabbath, yet you're confused as to why they're not at home nursing hangovers like you usually are? Anyway. Afterward the gym you race to the movie theater to meet Blonde Beard for an early showing of Juno (which you've been dying to see), and as you're maneuvering yourself through throngs of irritating, slow-moving tourists on 42nd Street (see fagnote #2, below), you peer down the block and instantly lock eyes with your sexy date who's sooooo far away yet somehow still manages to catch your attention from half a block away. Your heart skips, and your legs would too, only there's too many people clogging the sidewalk.

The movie is amazing, but that probably has more to do with the fact that you're both holding hands and rubbing legs and sharing popcorn in that lovey-dovey way that usually makes you want to kick the chair of a similarly irritating couple in front of you. Blonde Beard's touch makes you crave more. At one point you can't seem to stop yourself from turning away from the screen just because you'd rather be looking at him. Towards the end, Juno yanks on your sentimentally prone heart strings and you start crying inappropriately like a little girl, sniffling, wiping your eyes, etc. (See fagnote #3, below.) It's definitely bad date behavior, especially since you want to get laid, but Blonde Beard rubs your arm in a way that seems to soothe rather than mock you.

After the movie, you take the subway down to the Village to grab an Early Bird dinner at Miracle Grill. The conversation continues to flow as do your lengthy, wistful stares, and before you know it you are paying the bill and heading back to his apartment. It is important, however, to note that you paid the bill. Cheap ol' you decided to pick up the tab since he bought the movie tickets. Definitely not a even exchange, especially since several rounds of Frozen Margaritas were involved. The important thing to take away from your gesture is that you obviously really like this guy. (See fagnote #4, below.)

You meet Blonde Beard's roommate back at his apartment and you are friendly even though you you just heard the whole story over dinner about how they initially met during a random Eagle hookup about a year ago. But there doesn't seem to be any overly apparent jealousy as the two of you quickly retire to the bedroom under the guise of watching 300 on DVD. His room is one of those tiny West Village bedrooms that would barely suffice for a coat closet in the suburbs. But it's cozy. And clean. And his bed is made to boot. You turn your cell off because you definitely don't want to be bothered.

The horizontal makeout session begins and it gets better and better as the winter layers begin to hit the floor. Blonde Beard's body is amazing, and the chemistry between you is even moreso. At one point Blonde Beard actually says, "You have the perfect combination of passion and tenderness," which kind of sends you into a sexual frenzy (mostly so you don't blurt out something ridiculously inappropriate like, "I want to marry you in Massachusetts!"), and then one thing leads to another, yadda, yadda, yadda, and the next thing you know Blonde Beard is wiping himself down with a conveniently located small white hand towel. Oh come on, did you really think you were the kind of fag who'd kiss and tell? (See fagnote #5, below.)

But something changes after the dirty towel gets thrown in the hamper. You both lie there, naked, not wanting to do a walk of shame past the Roommate in the Living Room and have some chit-chat on the way to the bathroom. But there's not a lot of cuddling going on. At all. You try, but it's not readily returned. After such an intense physical experience you are definitely feeling the emotional retreat. You kind of already know that you won't be invited to spend the night, but at this point you don't really want to. Eventually Blonde Beard gets dressed and makes his way to the bathroom. You get dressed while he's gone and when he comes back he asks you if you'd like something to drink. Blonde Beard gasps as you enter his tiny kitchen and it startles you. You look around, expecting to find a rodent or a cockroach, or possibly even his Jealous Roommate waving a butcher's knife around, but you see absolutely nothing beyond an extremely clean kitchen with a bunch of newly washed dishes. You ask, "What's wrong?" And Blonde Beard says, "Oh nothing. I just thought I saw a Crystal Pipe in the dish drainer."

A fucking Crystal Pipe? You look into the dish drainer mostly because you have absolutely no idea what a crystal pipe would look like. Blonde Beard points out a mini glass bowl, probably meant to hold Kosher salt or Soy Sauce, as you ask, "Is a crystal pipe really in the realm of possibility?" Blonde Beard kind of laughs it off as you inform him, "I wouldn't even know what one looks like." There's an awkward silence as Blonde Beard pours you a glass of water. Eventually you ask, "Have you ever done Crystal?" to which he answers an honest and simple, "Yes. But a long time ago." Unfortunately now you have a million more questions that you refrain from asking. You want to know what exactly constitutes a long time ago? You want to know why he's so alarmed by the thought of a Crystal Pipe? Does it act as a Pavlovian trigger for him? Or did he have a bad experience with an ex-crackhead-boyfriend? You know you're a bit of a Pollyanna when it comes to highly addictive drugs, but they scare the shit out of you. You've been a bit drug shy ever since your high school graduation when you got all coked up and ended up, get this, licking your parents' Honda Accord in search of coke dust. You knew right then and there, while eagerly blotting your tongue against the filthy floormats, that cocaine would ruin your life. So you never did it again. And now you can't even begin to imagine what you'd end up licking if you ever tried Crystal. (See fagnote #6, below.)

It gets really awkward with Blonde Beard even though you're sure that you're the one who's making it awkward. So you finish your water and give him an awkward kiss goodbye after making plans to see him again on Wednesday. You turn on your phone when you hit the street and it instantly beeps with a message. You smile because you assume it's Blonde Beard texting you with some barfable Sweet Nothing which would help alleviate any weirdness that you have obviously created entirely in your own crystal-clear head. But the text is not from Blonde Beard, however it definitely seems like it's from some cryptic crackhead as it says, "I have very important information for [You]. Contact me under screen name BLACKM**ALE (just a screen name) ASAP..."

Your first thought is that you're being blackmailed for some unfortunate photo taken of you during that drunken striptease you lost at Ass Circus last week, but then you remember your stolen laptop. So you go home, put the the Creepy Crackhead on your Buddy List and wait for the Ex-Con to sign on. Anyway...

POLL RESULTS: Are You the Type of Fag Who Believes in Love at First Sight?

37% of You see the world through rose-colored glasses and said, "Yes."

33% of You see the world through shit-colored glasses and said, "No."

28% of You see the world through beer-goggles and said, "Perhaps if enough cocktails are involved..."

Total Votes: 45

You're not one of those Half Naked Go-Go Boy Fags...

...but you do like your Cher of attention. Especially after a few cocktails. But first things first because you're getting ahead of yourself. Last night you had a quiet evening planned with the Ex's Cousin, but when she cancelled you decided it might be good to do a little extra work. And when you say "a little" you really mean "a little," because moments after the cancellation your BFF calls to inform you that tonight is the monthly Ski Fags Party at Therapy and they're having a 2-4-1 Happy Hour till 8pm. If you hurry you'll be able to get in a few cheap rounds, so of course, you hurry. Since you don't want to schlep your laptop bag uptown, you decide to leave it at your Writing Space. You briefly think about shoving everything into your minuscule locker, but that will take more skill and patience than fitting enough cute Fire Island weekend outfits into your carry-on luggage (not to mention the fact that every minute wasted is cutting into your Happy Hour), so you just leave your laptop chained to the desk with a Kensington lock and tell yourself you'll pick it up on your way home.

The Ski Bums party is super cute and you know a lot of friends there. Unfortunately you tend to do more gay drinking than gay skiing, but let's face it, while equally fun, gay drinking is a much less expensive sport (not to mention the fact that the outfits are much more revealing.) So you enjoy your 2-4-1's, and, since you're drinking on an empty stomach, your right hand turns out to be a pretty cheap date. Eventually the Bartender gives you the bad news that Happy Hour is over, but then he quickly points out that $3 Draft night has just begun. The Silver Lining! So you order a Stella as you try to conjure up that Ancient Chinese Proverb, "Beer before liquor? Liquor before beer?" but you can't remember how it goes so you hope that your liver can't either.

Eventually, the Ski Bums with real jobs slowly begin to dissipate, and the replacement crowd is not really doing it for you. Your BFF suggests taking a trip downtown to XES, where the drinks are cheap and the boys are cheaper. You know your BFF only likes the place because it's around the corner from his apartment, but you agree to go because it's very close to your Writing Space so it'll be easy to pick up your laptop after another round. Or three.

You know you're drunk when you offer to pay for a taxi downtown, but you're having a good time so it's all good. It's definitely slim pickings at XES when you stumble in and are accosted, almost instantaneously, by a Drag Queen who introduces herself as Mimi Imfurst. She's recruiting for a little strip contest she refers to as "Ass Circus" where boys strip to their underwear and the crowd applauds their favorite ass. Your BFF cackles and then offers to buy you a drink if you enter. Although you are the type of fag that would do anything for a drink, this particular trade definitely seems like a Lose-Lose situation. That's when Miss Imfurst tells you that she'll also buy you a drink and then sweetens the deal by informing you about the $100 cash prize. You quickly browse the fugly crowd and realize that, indeed, you do have a chance at winning. You did legs and abs at the gym earlier today so your butt is especially perky. You didn't eat dinner so you're stomach can't be that flabby. Plus there's barely anybody in the damn bar to witness the entire humiliating escapade, so you inform Miss Imfurst that you will, indeed, participate.

By the time you reach the stage you are officially hammered, but all is good because the competition isn't that stiff. Actually, it's pretty damn flaccid and you feel like you're a a shoo-in to win the Ass Circus. A Skinny Boy with the Chest of a Seven Year Old Girl begins the strip show, and you're pleased as punch while the Bean Pole dances around in his saggy panties. Afterwards Miss Imfurst tells him that he must now show his ass to the crowd. You are suddenly horrified and consider pulling out of the contest all together because this was not part of the job description! But before you get a chance to protest, the Bean Pole happily moons the crowd with his prepubescent ass and Miss Imfurst yanks you up on stage.

Mimi Imfurst asks a few simple questions: "What's your name?" "Where are you from?" and "What do you do for a living?" But you're totally having a wide-eyed "Cindy Brady/Baton Rouge" stage fright moment, so you just stutter or possibly slur your way through your lame one word answers. Luckily that's when the DJ begins to play Rhianna which immediately loosens you up. You decide it's best to take your time, ease into the song. Nobody likes a rushed striptease. Besides, you've seen Gypsy and remember Mama Rose's advice: "Make 'em beg for more. And then don't give it to them!" You decide to start with your shirt which comes off easily and you turn around and shake your ass for the crowd as you attempt to slip your shoes off. Unfortunately one of your Nikes goes flying off stage and hits Bean Pole's belly button. Bean Pole gives you the Evil Eye and begins to campaign against you as you mouth the words, "I'm sorry." But the show must go on so you begin to unbutton your jeans. The crowd seems pleased until you get all tangled up in them and end up tripping onto the stage floor. Eventually all the clothes come off except for your new Diesel briefs (50% off at the Union Square location BTW) and the DJ abruptly stops the song, even though he's ironically playing, "Don't Stop the Music." So you just stand there in your skivvies, humiliated, while Miss Imfurst instructs you to turn around, pull your underwear down, and shake your grove thing for the crowd. You do as you're told but you're not at all happy about it. Your BFF is both laughing as well as applauding, but you definitely expected more applause. Way more. Could the Bean Pole be cuter than you? Oy vey. You're premiere striptease number is bad in a pathetic Showgirls kind of way.

A few more contestants compete but you're too humiliated to pay attention. And Miss Imfurst won't let you get dressed till the end of the damn show, so you just sip your cocktail as naturally as you can, even though you're not wearing anything but your skimpy little Diesel underwear, in a fucking bar. After the final contestant humiliates himself, the crowd ends up voting by applause and you can actually hear the crickets chirping when Miss Imfurst instructs the crowd to clap if they want you to win. The good news is that now you can get dressed, go home, and blackout this entire experience. Which you do, immediately.

God knows what time it is when you stumble up the six-flights of your walk-up and pour yourself into the hovel you call Home Sweet Homo. You flip on the lights and start rummaging noisily through the fridge because you still haven't eaten any dinner, but you're shocked when you realize that you've woken up your Hobosexual roommate. For some unknown reason he is sleeping on the living room couch. You slur an apology and ask him why he's not sleeping in his bed, to which he shudders, "Bedbugs." Needless to say, you instantly lose your appetite.

The next morning you are woken up by an early morning, completely inconsiderate 11am phone call. Caller ID informs you that it's coming from your Writing Space (which is odd) but you let it go to voicemail because you're embarrassed that your raspy morning voice will definitely give away the fact that you're way too hungover for a workday. But you're even way too hungover to listen to the voicemail which says, "Did you by chance leave your laptop in the Writing Space last night? Because we had a break in and several computers were stolen. The police are here now so give us a call when you get this." Anyway.

You're not the type of fag who falls in love on an Internet Date…

...but you've been especially looking forward to your follow up date with Blonde Beard. You tend to think of Internet Meet n' Greets as sub-dates; they're usually so terrible and awkward that, even if you like the boy (which you never do), you don't really count them as first dates. But the two of you have been emailing back and forth since you met, and Blonde Beard definitely gives good email. He makes you laugh. Almost every time. And it's really hard to make you laugh. Actually, it's not that hard, but it's important to point out that nothing but nervous, uncomfortable, "I-want-to-kill-myself" kind of laughter has ever emanated from a stupid match.com date. (See fagnote #1, below.)

You've definitely been thinking about Blonde Beard. A lot. But that probably has more to do with the fact that you just spent a nice ski weekend in Vermont with lots of your irritating, lovey-dovey Couple Friends. They all got to share big beds while you and your right hand got to snuggle up in a twin bed. But you digress. Tonight's date is at a place called Rice. Of course you made Blonde Beard suggest the restaurant as a test, mostly because you find that boys choices tend to say a lot about who they are, and, more importantly, how they see you. As usual, your only request was Cheap and Cheerful.

Instead of daydreaming all day about your impending date with Blonde Beard, your day turns out to be extremely annoying since it is mostly spent holding on the phone for Yahoo! Tech Support (see fagnote #2, below). Somehow your narcissistic blog site had simply vanished from the Internet without a trace. Poof! After one hour and fifty minutes of hold music you scream at the poor straight guy who answers because you know that that Fags across America are in dire need to read all about your recent Hemorrhoid Procedure. You know this to be true because you received several nice emails and a concerned IM from gay boys who were worried about what the hell happened to 2ndPerson.net! (Props to QuickTechnoSilver!)

Anyway. You get a bit nervous before meeting Blonde Beard, but you shower with your expensive yummy smelling soap and take way too much time picking out a flattering outfit. Luckily the restaurant isn't too far from home so you arrive uncharacteristically early instead of your usual 5-10 minutes late (typically you conduct your life in the GST timezone: Gay Standard Time.) But somehow Blonde Beard is already there, waiting on a stoop, and when you look up at him your heart kind of skips a beat because you've forgotten how damn attractive he is. He smiles and you jump up on the stoop to meet his whiskered lips with a kiss (see fagnote #3, below), making it crystal clear that from this point on, handshakes have become obsolete.

The restaurant is super cute and delicious and extremely affordable, but none of that really matters because the two of you are so lost in your own boring conversation. All of the diners around you seem to fade away from consciousness, and at three separate vomit-inducing points during the date, you both completely forget what you're actually saying because you just sort of get lost in each other's lengthy stare. You know it's gross, but it was totally just like that! You did get lost in his eyes! And at exactly the same time that he got lost in yours! And it felt fucking fantastic! Like a well-timed mutual orgasm. Only visual. And, unfortunately, with your clothes on.

You definitely overstay your welcome at Rice, but neither of you seem to want the date to end. You even order an extra glass of wine after the check comes just to prolong the date. Even though you'd really prefer desert, this is, after all, a gay date and you don't want to come off like a "Feed Me, Seymour!" Fatty Fag (see fagnote #4, below). Eventually you split the bill and find yourself out on the cold street. Blonde Beard asks, "Are you up for doing something else?" to which you answer immediately, "I'm up for making out with you. But it's too cold outside." You both decide to take it slow, which is relatively easy since you are both saddled with homebody roommates. Eventually you decide to go to Urge since it's right around the corner.

You sit at the bar and order beers as your knees begin to touch. Slightly at first; then hard and deliberate. Soon after that the kissing begins and then there's no holding you back. You were a bit worried about how it would feel to kiss a beard, but you're pleasantly surprised at how soft and simultaneously masculine it feels. You definitely get lost in his kisses and don't care who's watching, even though you're typically against P.D.A.'s. Everything's nice and dandy until the damn Drag Queen show begins and everybody in the bar seems to be more interested in watching her show than listening to the two lustful bearded boys blah-blah-blah about what good kissers they are. So you grab Blonde Beard's hand and yank him toward the front of the bar where it's completely empty. That's where you guys let loose and really go at it. After some heavy hand-over-the-Diesel-Jeans action, you are as happy as Christopher Columbus with your recent discovery of Blonde Beard's substantial new land mass. (See fagnote #5, below)

After both of your lips are way too chapped to do anymore kissing, you walk him to the Second Avenue F train and, get this, you go down to wait with him even though you're within walking distance from home. Your cheap ass is completely shocked as you find yourself swiping your Metrocard just to wait on a subway platform with the simple ulterior motive of not wanting the date to end. You must really like this guy. Unfortunately your two dollar entrance fee isn't really worth the price of admission since the train comes almost instantly. You kiss Blonde Beard goodbye, but not before making plans to see each other again on Sunday. Only now that he's gone, Sunday seems sooooooo far away. Could you be falling for Blonde Beard? You almost want to smack some sense into yourself so you don't let your emotions play tricks on you. But then you realize that anything can happen between now and Sunday. And it usually does ;-) Anyway...

You're not one of those fags who likes Foreign Objects Shoved Up Your Ass...

...but a gay man's gotta do what a gay man's gotta do. And your ass has been feeling a bit strange lately. You keep ignoring it, because, after all, it's your ass and it's embarrassing. Meanwhile you keep hoping that it will go away like a zit or a back ache or a Trick with bad morning breath who wants to cuddle. But it doesn't go away. And a ticklish ass is not so funny. Especially when it's your ticklish ass.

After convincing yourself that you have Anal Warts or Prostate Cancer or some new, as of yet undiagnosed Gay Leprocy, you eventually call your doctor and make an appointment. Only you make the mistake of calling from work and the receptionist asks you, "What seems to be the problem?" You cup the phone to your mouth and look around to make sure nobody is listening as you whisper, "I have a ticklish butt." There's a long silence before the irriatated receptionist eventually responds, "Is this a prank call? Because I have HBO on Demand and I've seen this episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm already." (see fagnote #1, below.) You assure her that it's not a prank and explain that your ass is only ticklish, "But kind of itchy. Only from the inside." The receptionist is nonplussed but makes an appointment for you.

You writhe and wiggle in the waiting room chair until your non-gay doctor sees you at 12:30pm for your 11:00am appointment, with nary an acknowlegement or an apology for being so tardy. He's like one of those bartenders at G who treats you as if mixing your cocktail is some massive inconvenience to their busy day of watching their reflections in the mirror. Only this doctor isn't even remotely cute. Before you know it you're bare-assed, lying on your side and facing the wall while listening to the snaps of a latex glove (see fagnote #2, below) as Tardy Doctor gets ready to Top you . Tardy Doctor informs you that, "This may feel a bit uncomfortable but if you push like you're about to have a bowel movement it should make it easier." You chuckle to yourself but his lubricated finger disappears into your itchy ass before you get to say, "Poppers help, too." However, you don't feel like joking when he informs you that, "You have two internal hemorrhoids that are very inflamed (see fagnote #3, below.) I'm going to write you a prescription and send you to a specialist for treatment."

The Hemorrhoid Specialist sees you and schedules an appointment for an IRC treatment, which he describes in depth but, luckily, most of the details are lost in translation due to his thick Indian accent. However one thing comes through crystal clear: the nice, yet indecipherable Hemmorrhoid Specialist who suffers from vitiligo is definitely going to shove a laser up your ass to burn away the hemorrhoids. You make the appointment with the indecipherable Filipino Receptionist who has a habit of yelling instead of speaking, and she gives you a Fleet Enema as she informs the entire waiting room that "NO EATING AND MUST TAKE ENEMA BEFORE APPOINTMENT! MUST TAKE ENEMA!" (See fagnote #4, below.) Since you don't have your backpack you ask the Loud Receptionist if she has a bag so you don't have to walk through the streets of Chelsea holding a Fleet Enema in your bare hands, but she just shoos you away, "SORRY NO BAG FOR YOU!" and then, just in case you or anyone else in the waiting room has forgotten, she repeats, "MUST TAKE ENEMA BEFORE APPOINTMENT!"

When you wake up the next morning, you substitute your regular breakfast of two scrambled eggs with one Fleet Enema. You are especially entertained by the instructions on the box which include drawings of seemingly irritated cartoons who are shoving the enema up their toon asses. You think about all the Enema jokes you've ever heard as you lay on your side and shove the applicator tip up your anus and squeeze the saline water bottle until it all disappears up your butt, "That'd be up the butt, Bob." The whole process is completely painless and unmemorable until, suddenly, you have the sudden need to, as the instructions on the box describe, "discharge." So you race to your bathroom with the speed and agility of Cartman when he was suffering from explosive diarrhea. (See fagnote #5, below.) Only when you get there, you are horrified to discover your Hobosexual roommate is taking a shower behind a locked door. You immediately start banging on the door and yell, "I've got to get in there It's an emergency!" He takes his time drying off while you jump up and down and consider the logistics of shitting into an empty Pepsi bottle while you wait for him to emerge. When the door finally opens, the Hobosexual is pissed but you don't have time for chit chat so you basically slam the bathroom door in his face and scream, "I'll explain later," even though you have no intention of ever discussing this humiliating experience ever again.

Later, at the Hemorrhoid Specialist's office you are asked four times by four different people if you took your enema this morning, yet one of the four actually follows up the question with an inquiry as to whether you went to the bathroom afterwards. You briefly wonder about the lethal possibility of taking an enema without using the bathroom, but you just assure them, "Yes, I did everything I was told." Soon you're undressed and your ass is hanging out of a paper gown like a pair of cheap Chaps. The anesthesiologist informs you, "This may burn a bit," as he pushes the the Smack from his syringe into the I.V. in your wrist. You feel like a junkie as the liquid crawls through the veins in your arm and it's a bit disconcerting for a moment because...

...the next thing you know some random indecipherable accented girl is helping you pull your pants up. You babble to her about wanting to "dishcush" something with the doctor. But she tells you that he's already gone to lunch and promises that he'll call you later. You kind of feel like some cheap teenaged Cheerleader who's just lost her virginity to the Football team thanks to an unexpected Roofie (see fagnote #6, below) in her Wine Cooler. But it's all good because your ass already feels less itchy. Not to mention the fact that you've never dated a football player. Or a doctor. Anyway...

POLL RESULTS: Are you the type of fag who breaks up with a boy...

50% of You said "You break up with boys in Person."

10% of You said, "You break up with boys on the Phone."

6% of You said, "You break up with boys over Email."

1% of You said, "You break up with boys via Text Message."

31% of You said, "Breaking up takes so much effort. I'm sure he'll get the hint eventually..."

You're definitely not one of those Socialite Fags...

...but your social calendar is definitely on the lite side for the evening which kind of makes you feel like a gay loser (see fagnote #1, below), so you end up (gasp!) working late and then go to the gym around 9pm in order to avoid the after-work dinner rush. Luckily the January-Joining Resolutionaries have begun to wane so you can actually get on the machines you want without taking a number and relying on your evil eye to move things along.

After your workout, you go home and cook a healthy carb-free dinner while your Hobosexual roommate gives you blow-by-blow outfit updates on what's happening on Project Runway (see fagnote #2, below). Luckily, you catch the second half and get to see all the avant-garde haute couture creations. Even though you can't stand that LesbiGay hermaphrodite Christian thing, you have to agree with Heidi, Nina & Ms. Kors that his/her gown is by far the best.

Of course Make Me A Supermodel sucks you in after P.R. ends, but that's mostly because of the twink ab-fest during the opening credits. Luckily you quickly lose interest and air kiss The Hobosexual goodnight before retiring for the evening to go look at online porn. You are segued, however, by a brief "Who's-on-Connexion" moment when a Drop Dead Gorgeous boy you have chatted with notices your online presence and begins a chat. He's kind of perfect, except for the fact that he's much too young, has the same name as you (creepy), and of course there's that pesky little issue that a good friend of yours has already slept with him. You've actually been told, in no uncertain terms, "Hands off!" (See fagnote #3, below.) But tonight your hands are only on the keyboard, and Same Name Boy is just way too hot to ignore.

Your chat goes from Zero to Sixty pretty quickly and Same Name Boy mentions something about imagining you face down and chewing on a pillow while you scream his/your name(s). He makes you laugh. He makes you excited. But mostly he makes you consider the pros and cons of trading in your Friendosaurus for sloppy seconds with Same Name Boy. Are you really that type of fag? It kind of kills you as you hunt-and-peck for the letters to spell out, "I doubt our mutual friend would approve..." but you worry that you were being too prude-y so you quickly add, "But if you throw a couple of drinks down my neck, I might not care..." (See fagnote #4, below.)

You instantly feel like a bad person and a horrible friend and you know you're definitely going to hell, but none of that seems to matter when Same Name Boy responds, "That's not all I'm gonna throw down your neck." You laugh and write back, "Then Drinks it is!" but you quickly say goodnight before any plan can be made, because, ultimately, when it comes down to what's important, you know you'd never trade a good friend for a good lay (perhaps a great lay...) Besides, it's late and you need to go to bed and wait for the Bedbugs to bite. Anyway...

You're not one of those Dirty Gay Boys...

...well, not in the traditional sense of the word, anyway. But when it comes to certain grooming regimens, for example, shaving (see fagnote #1, below) you can definitely be a lazy gay boy. However a week of scruff coupled with your new short haircut has seemingly opened up your dating options to an entirely new, previously under-appreciated demographic.

Let's face it. Your whole life you've pretty much had that All-American-Gay-Boy-Next-Door thing going on. Not that you're knocking it, because for the most part it works in your favor. But after you posted a cute new photo with 11 o'clock shadow to your dating profile, you were shocked by the all the sudden new attention from Men. Not boys, definitely Men (see fagnote #2, below). Well perhaps a few Cubs but the idea of being someone's Daddy is so beyond upsetting that you have already deleted all their letters of inquiry. After all, you want to be the young cute one! You don't even like being someone's older brother. But that has more to do with your particular poor-excuse for a brother than with your pervasive vanity.

But you digress. Your hairy new photo catches the attention of a hot blonde bearded guy, and you write back and forth all day, and it's easy because Blonde Beard gives good email. He says all the right things to the point where you wonder if he's got some electronic Cyrano program typing his emails for him. Anyway. You meet for coffee at Jack's which is good because your over-worked liver could really use a Personal Day. When you arrive, right on time, you are instantly pleased as punch because Blonde Beard is even cuter in person. You talk, and talk, and talk, but the whole time you're yapping you are busy imagining doing other things with your mouth. Dirty things. You imagine what it feels like to be kissing Blonde Beard and his fuzzy cheeks. You stare at his lips. At his slightly crooked teeth. At the tuft of hair popping from the neck of his perfect-fitting t-shirt. At his piercing blue eyes. You really have no trouble looking Blonde Beard in the eye. In fact, you could stare all night long if it weren't for the damn Coffee Sluggers who begin (not so subtly) to close down the place because they're probably sick of watching hairy gay boys make google eyes at each other. Eventually the locomotive-like noise of cleaning Espresso machines (see fagnote #3, below) sends you boys to the curb where you have an awkward, yet satisfyingly long goodbye that ends in a firm handshake (your #2 online dating rule: no kissing on internet dates.)

The thought of Blonde Beard's whiskers and all the dirty things you want to do with them dance in your head like Sugarplums as the F train pulls into the West 4th Street Station. In fact, you're in such a good mood when you get home that you're not even bothered by the six flights of stairs that lead to the hovel you share with your dirty roommate (and that would be dirty in the traditional, mold-collecting sense of the word). You ignore his dirty dishes which overflow from the kitchen sink, and make your way into the living room where, as usual, the Hobosexual is lying on the couch, watching Sex and the City, instead of having it. Yet this time, instead of ignoring each other with a cordial grunt on your way through the living room, the Hobosexual actually sits up and engages you with the dirtiest thing you never wanted to hear, "We have Bedbugs," (see fagnote #4, below). Anyway...

You're not one of those Interior Decorator fags...

...but you do have taste. Whether your taste is good or bad is for the rest of the world to judge, because one thing's for sure, when you get the invitation you will surely be judging their apartments!

Anyway. You end up agreeing to go on an actual date with a boy that you Revenge Fucked when you ran into The Writer last week at The Ritz. Revenge Fucking is always such a healthy thing to do, especially when coupled with a downward spiral of drunken self-pity. And even though you've been a bit resistant, Bar Boy has been nothing if not persistent. He's been texting and emailing and calling until you finally gave in and agreed to an early Sunday night dinner date at a restaurant he suggested called Hell's Kitchen.

The restaurant looks vaguely familiar, and you have an uneasy feeling of déjà vu as you walk up to meet Bar Boy who is waiting patiently on the sidewalk. You breath a sigh of relief when you get a good sober look at him and realize that, indeed, he's even cute without your beer goggles. However when you walk into the restaurant, your déjà vu turns into déjà ewww because you realize that not only have you "already seen" this restaurant, you've also "already slept with" its Bartender. Not to mention the fact that you never called him afterwards. Ugh. Of course the host informs you there's a thirty minute wait and of course there's nowhere to wait but at the bar and of course The Bartender instantly realizes that you're on a date and of course you order a bottled beer because you're absolutely terrified of letting him mix you a cocktail. Bar Boy, however, obliviously orders a Grey Goose and soda which you keep inspecting for traces of contamination.

A few glasses of wine into dinner, Bar Boy informs you that his friend is having a Game Night party and he thinks it would be fun if you both went. You're a bit surprised because what was supposed to be a simple first date is now turning into a full-fledged fourth or fifth date where you suffer through an endless evening of Impress The Friends. You know you're in over your head, but, as usual, after two glasses of wine you're much more agreeable. You are, after all, having a good time, and who knows? Maybe Bar Boy could be the one?

The party is actually fun and after an eight year stint in La La Land you realize that you're much better at Celebrity when you play in New York. The party splits up into groups so you don't really get to talk to Bar Boy all that much, however, you do run into him in the kitchen a few times while you're refilling your wine glass. This is where you first notice that Bar Boy has moved back to Vodka. Without the soda mixer. You also notice he's begun to sway.

You're pretty toasted when the party finally ends and a few of you decide to go check out Posh, however, when you hit the elevator and Bar Boy can't seem to locate the Lobby button, you realize that he's three sheets to the wind. Maybe even four. His eyes can't seem to focus and his eyelids seem to blink independently of one another. He is able to say two words, "Yes" and "No," although both words sound alike and convey only one consistent message. You all decide that, just like a horse with a broken leg, Bar Boy needs to be put down. Although everybody tries to skirt your questions during the stumble back to Bar Boy's apartment, his friends kind of allude to the fact that this behavior is not at all atypical. It's not like you have anything against over-indulging, but come on! This boy can't remember his own address!

But you realize that his Alcohol Poisoning is the least of his problems when you pour Bar Boy back into his apartment and discover the real deal breaker. The friends walk in and turn on the lights, full blast, and you are speechless. The last time you were here there must've been a dimmer switch involved because you are absolutely shocked by the decor! All of the furniture is so Gothic and over-sized that you feel like you've stumbled into Cher's Malibu Compound. Or possibly even Morticia Addams'. It kind of feels like Bar Boy decided to sell his Castle in Transylvania and downsize into a one bedroom rental in Hellsea.

You're still taking it all in when Bar Boy's torso falls onto his over-sized California King sized bed, fully dressed, yet his feet remain planted flat on the floor. His bedroom set is even bigger and bulkier than the gargantuan furniture in his Living Room. You help Bar Boy get his shoes off as you begin to wonder how his movers ever got this crap through the front door? Or perhaps they removed a window? Or possibly even an entire wall? Or more likely they just constructed the apartment building around the furniture, because it kind of has that Ship in a Glass Bottle feeling to it. You're so busy gawking that when you go to take Bar Boy's pants down you wind up sliding both his jeans and his underwear down to his knees where both promptly get stuck. His friends start calling for you as they're ready to go to Posh, and you feel bad about leaving Bar Boy in such a compromising position, but your retinas can't take his apartment any longer so you just turn off the lights and say, "Good night and Good Luck." Anyway.

You're not the type of fag who Breaks Up over Email...

...but you're definitely the procrastinating type who'd rather be doing something a bit more festive, like perhaps washing your roommate's dirty dishes or even having a colonoscopy, sans anesthesia. Unfortunately, when it comes to break-ups it's very rare that two people ever see eye-to-eye. Even when you assume they do. Especially when you assume they do.

After a week or so of being incommunicado, you receive an email from The Cuddler as if you've been in daily contact. He tells you all about his busy week and wants to know when you're free. You're actually kind of surprised, mostly because you thought this one would just fade away on it's own; no fuss, no muss. So you write back and apologize for your absence. You tell him how you've been sick and a bit depressed, but you also explain that you've been feeling a bit ambivalent over your "relationship." You don't go into any further detail, because really, what's the point? Isn't ambivalence reason enough? After all, you definitely wouldn't want to date a boy that felt ambivalent about you.

The Cuddler emails you back and suggests meeting for coffee to discuss the situation. Ugh. The phrase "Meeting For Coffee" definitely has a slight Exit Interview odor about it and you are so less than interested in bookending this particular Internet Dating Experience with beverages on either end. Especially non-alcoholic beverages. Anyway. The Cuddler tells you to email him when you're feeling better so you can make a plan. Only you kind of know that you'll never feel that much better. Especially since you don't even drink coffee...

You discuss the Exit Interview situation over drinks with the Boy Luck Club and their advice is split right down Fifth Avenue. The Chelsea Half of the BLC thinks you should just let a dead dog lie and avoid all further contact, but the East Village Contingency thinks you should beat this dead dog with a phone (call). The one thing that everybody does agree upon is that coffee is just way too much effort for such a short-lived Dating Experience. So you kind of put the situation on the back burner and forget about it. A few days later you get this:

"I'm not sure what's going on with you, but I hope things are OK. I definitely get the sense that you don't want to date anymore,which is okay; to be honest, after this past week I don't want to. I have no idea what your thoughts are, and I don't want to put words into your mouth, but from my side your silence has spoken. I hate doing things like this via email, and I hate being that guy doing it by email. But you don't even want to meet up to talk to end things and clear the air. It's all good, I'm not angry, just surprised and disappointed that you'd fall off the face of the earth like this. You didn't seem like that type of guy. I hope all is well and I wish you the best."

OMG! You've just been Email Dumped by the guy you were too lazy to break up with! It's almost as wrong as if K-Fed had beaten Britney to the chase with the infamous Text Message Dump. But you're not K-Fed! You're Britney, bitch! And to make things worse, The Cuddler accused you of being "That Type of Guy." So much for avoiding the drama. The Cuddler is obviously upset, but do you really deserve to be lumped into the"That Type of Guy" pile? And what exactly is That Type of Guy, anyway? Obviously "That Guy" has got to be lazy, because during your quiet attempt to avoid unnecessary conflict you've actually ended up creating much, much more. And the worst part is that you really have no hard feelings. You like this guy. Double ugh. So you write back. Immediately:

"Sorry for the silence. Actually I've only temporarily fallen off the face of the earth. Been a bit sick and just in a generally blah mood. Lots of shit with my parents. Please don't take it personally. I've just been depressed and have obviously been avoiding things that are complicated. Again, I'm sorry for that.

Regarding us, I told you I've been feeling ambivalent. I really do like you, however I just don't feel like we're headed down that crazy, passionate "Let's-scream-it-from-the-rooftops" kind of road, which probably doesn't even exist outside of cheesy '80s movies. I don't know. I hope it does. Anyway, it sounds like you're done with me, and if so, I get it. However, if you have any interest in parlaying this into a friendship, I'd really like that."

Soon after, your email inbox dings with The Cuddler's reply:

"Nah, it's not that complicated - we just weren't feeling the spark. I've been feeling the same way, so I get where you're coming from and glad things aren't awkward. I'm really sorry about your troubles, I hope you can work through them!"

Although you question The Cuddler's sincerity about "working through your troubles" (mostly due to his use of an overly exuberant exclamation point), you are happy that there's been some adult-like closure (even if it was via email). The good news is that now you both are single and available to look for your "shout-it-from-the-rooftops-type-of-boys. The even better news is that it shouldn't be awkward when you run into each other. And if there's one thing you know for sure, it's that you always run into these boys again. Anyway.