You're Not One of Those Fags Who Gives Shameless Self-Promoting Interviews...

...but y'are Blanche.! Y'are!

Check out Chris Jai Centeno's Style column at Fab Magazine (issue 340).

You also owe yourself an apology for being so out of touch. You are on a fabulous European Tour with your BFF and you're too busy to write all about your gay shenanigans! You're back on Sunday, March 2nd. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Fags Who Likes to Douche...

...and neither do the French, apparently. The shower situation in l'hotel est très ridiculous! Mais oui! In that same way that "brunch" is a combination of breakfast and lunch, you, my gay friend, have discovered yourself an authentic French bower. It's not really a shower. And it's not really a bath. It's a bathtub with a hand shower that does not attach to the wall. There is no shower curtain of any kind, so if you stand up in the bower you will inevitably flood the entire hotel. So you kind of have to get down on your knees (a position not all that unfamiliar to you) and kind of carefully move the hand wand around your freezing body as if you're bathing in a bidet. But suddenly it becomes crystal clear why the French get a bad rap for not bathing. Don't blame the French. Blame their bowers. Anyway.

After getting into an argument with the Merci Beaucunt at the front desk about the impossibility of moving to another room with an actual shower head, you, your BFF, and your all the Ski Fags in your gay ski group head into town for Gay Cocktails. This poor little mountain town has never seen such a parade of designer jean fabulousness as you all prance your Jet Lagged asses to Le Rusticana. Et voila! Le petite mountain town has its first impromptu gay bar! The red wine flows through your veins in direct proportion with the Euros flowing out of your wallet, and after you are sufficiently liquored up, a bunch of the Ski Fags talk about heading to Chamonix to check out Le Non-Gay Gay Bar that the bartender turns you onto.

However, when le taxi arrives, the other Ski Fags quickly bail so you and your BFF are the only two die hards left. Your unbearable Jet Lag is quickly trumped by your collective need for more Gay Cocktails, coupled with le hope et le possibilitie of actual French French Kisses, en France. Your BFF starts yapping with Le Italian Cabbie in his native tongue as your drunk ass is whisked to Chamonix. After a ten minute ride, Le Italian Cabbie proceeds to rape your drunk ass with a 35 euro fare ($51). Le Italian Cabbie Rapist also neglects to drop you in front of the bar, instead choosing to let the two lost American Fags wander aimlessly through Chamonix in search of Le Non-Gay Gay Bar. But what the Italian Rapist doesn't know is that your liver is like a homing pigeon when it comes to Gay Cocktails!

When you finally locate Le Non-Gay Gay Bar, you are very confused because it’s 11:30pm on a Saturday night and the damn door is locked? You ring the bell and an angry French woman (je ne comprends pas?) comes up the stairs and yells through the glass, en français, and you think she tells you to come back at midnight. Midnight? Are you on the Champs d’ Elysee waiting to get into Le Queen? Unfortunately, when you look around the itty-bitty little ski town you confirm that you are actually standing outside of Le Non-Gay Gay Bar. But you wind up killing the half hour in some straight bar where everybody is drunker than you. And you hate that.

At midnight you and your BFF saunter over for your Non-Gay Cocktail and luckily the door has magically been unlocked. The bar is a tiny dirty little underground hole in the wall with Two Bartenders and absolutely no boys. But after a few Non-Gay Cocktails the place does pick up a bit and you start to get hit on by a French Man who doesn’t speak a lick of English! C’est parfait! You quickly figure out that the Non-Gay Gay Bar’s Female Bartender speaks a little Italian, so you end up enlisting her as your translator and between your merde-y French and your BFF’s Italian, you wind up being able to cobble together enough information about him. You learn that he is gay, that he works in construction and, most importantly, that he has a car. You have fun flirting without words (or comprehension) and after a few more Non-Gay Gay Cocktails, Le French Construction Worker offers to give you boys a ride back to your hotel. Actually, he might have asked you where you were from or what you did for a living, but his accent is so thick and your French is so bad that perhaps you just assume he offered you a ride, but it really doesn’t matter because you quickly accept his kind (and possibly make-believe) offer because you, the Jet Lagged Fag, are ready to say “Bon nuit!”

So you and your BFF pile into Le French Construction Worker’s teeny tiny little Smart Car, and you quickly realize that without the Non-Gay Bartender’s broken Italian, it is absolutely impossible to communicate anything beyond basic French terms like, “Hello my name is…” and “My favorite color is…” or “Voulez-vous couchez avec moi ce soir?” The ten minute ride takes an untranslatable eternity, and when you get back to the hotel your BFF knowledgeably abandons the Smart Car faster than the little voiture could ever get from zero-to-sixty. And there you are: drunk, tired, and trapped in a Dumb French Conversation with Le Construction Worker’s Smart Car who’s expecting toi to couchez avec lui ce soir. But you can barely keep your eyes open. In fact, you may have actually fallen asleep in the passenger seat when you receive your first official French French Kiss.

After about ten make-out minutes (which, incidentally, was equally as long as the ride home), you feel like you have more than fulfilled your obligation, so you say your au revoirs and sleepwalk your way back to your hotel room. Only when you walk into the room, you think something might be wrong when you find your BFF ransacking through his newly unpacked luggage, but you really know something is wrong when he doesn’t ask you any details. At all. Instead he says, “I lost my passport tonight. And my camera.” He begins to freak out as he calculates the time in New York so he can call the U.S. Embassy or whoever it is that you call in these dire, drunken situations. Meanwhile, you’re all pissed because all you want to do is gossip about your first French Kiss with Le French Construction Worker! You can’t get over the gall of your BFF to actually lose his passport on such a momentous occasion! Eventually, of course, he searches through his new TrueReligion Jeans pockets one last time and finds his passport all folded up in some map of the bars you went to in Chamonix.

The next day your hung-over ass is rudely awoken by some French Maid walking into your hotel room because, with all the passport hoopla, you forgot to hang the Do Not Disturb sign. You feel like merde but somehow pull it together to take an irritating bower and get on the slopes by 1pm. Actually, you arrive at le restaurant at the bottom of the slope by then, and by 2pm you are cramming into the Gondola with Europeans who seem to have absolutely no concept of waiting in line. Neither of you have any interest in skiing, and you are both endlessly irritated by everything and everyone. At the top of the mountain you decide to procrastinate over several $5 Coke Lights for the sole reason that it will enable you to put off skiing for another hour. Or so.

Your BFF bitches about not being able to take any photos of the beautiful scenery that neither of you are enjoying. At all. You spend at least a half hour discussing the lameness factor of taking the gondola back down to the base so you won’t actually have to do any skiing, but you decide that is just way too pathetic. Even for you. So you take your first and last run of the day simultaneously and as you walk back toward the hotel you begin to make up an elaborate story about the amazing day of skiing you had so you can save face if you run into any other Ski Fags on your way back to your room to take a Disco Nap. Only by the time you reach the parking lot, you look up and squint your eyes because of the glare coming off of the shiny metal object being held up by, you guessed it, Le French Construction Worker who is sitting on the hood of his Smart Car. Your BFF screams, “Mon camera!” as you want to scream, “Mon Stalkquer!” You begrudgingly decide to take Le French Construction Worker out for (yup, you guessed it) a thank you cocktail. Only today you are exhausted and hung over and you have neither the patience nor the cognitive ability to parlez français with Le French Stalkquer. Anyway...

POLL RESULTS: What do you do when you realize that the great guy you met on Manhunt is still actively pursuing other fags online?

34% of You fags would dump his gay ass. Over IM, of course.

26% of You fags would talk about it and hope you don't come off like one of those stalker fags.

23% of You fags would keep dating him, but you would also revenge date as many other fags as you could on the side.

15% of You fags would ignore it because eventually he will realize that you are the crème de la crème of the online world.

Number of Fags that voted: 94

You're Not One of Those Easily Impressed Fags...

...but come on! Even though you've never even been to Kansas before, you are well aware that you are definitely NOT there now! Perhaps it's your jet lag, or more likely the fact that you've left the confines of your little island in New York Harbor, but you feel a bit like Woody Allen in search of a good bagel. Or perhaps a nice gay cocktail would be more comforting to you, even though it's still 5:42 am in Gay Gotham and all the bars have already closed. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those First Class Fags...

...but thanks to several glasses of cheap red wine coupled with your old fashioned Valley of the Dolls-circa sleeping pills, you slept a few hours on your way to Geneva. Thankfully your BFF helped you navigate your unconscious gay ass through customs. Now you're on a bus full of sporty fags on your way to the French Alps. Unfortunately the Euro trash has no idea that (212) is in da chambre.

One of your overly friendly ski bunnies just told you to break a leg and you're not so sure if they were kidding? Perhaps they are less of a freind and more of a frienemy? There are lots of big gay personalities on this trip so you've obviously got your work cut out for you. Because, after all, nobody puts Baby in a corner! Especially when Baby's wearing her cute new ski outfit. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Fags Who Hearts Valentine's Day...

...in fact you like to refer to it as V.D. as it always seems to creep up on you and spread throughout Chelsea as quickly as a dreaded Venereal Disease. But when you're walking through K-Mart while waiting for your pharmacist to fill an antibiotic prescription (and no, even though you're a whore, this time you don't have the clap), you see the giant display of Chocolate Candies in tacky red, heart shaped boxes. You roll your eyes until you notice the fine print, "Heart-Shaped, Bite-Sized Butterfingers!" And somehow they miraculously hop into your cart.

Later that evening, you and your Literary Lot of writer friends head over to a very downtown night of storytelling at The Moth. You invited Blonde Beard and were happy when he accepted your invitation because it meant that, a) You'd get laid, b) He wasn't opposed to meeting your friends, and c) Your friends could sniff him for that dreadful Mothball odor and help decide if he is or isn't a Crackhead, even though you're pretty convinced at this point that Blonde Beard is not moonlighting at the local Crack Den. When you get to the event, Blonde Beard is waiting on the curb and you introduce him to your little Lit Lot and head inside. You, of course, immediately head for the bar and leave Blonde Beard alone with the Lit Lot so that they can begin their interrogation. However, when you make your departure, you notice that Blonde Beard actually recedes from the small group and leans up against the wall which is, ironically, papered with flowers. When you get back and dole out cheap wine to the Lit Lot, you are absolutely horrified when the wordsmiths begin to crack (bad drug pun intended) inappropriate jokes about the vino, "Oh this wine tastes vile." You squirm in discomfort as the Lit Lot pats themselves on their collective literary back and begin to one up each other, "Oh pipe down, the wine is fine," and then, "Maybe I should've gotten a rum and coke... On the Rock...sssss"

Luckily you are saved by the flickering lights that indicate either a city-wide brown-out or that your show is actually beginning. Either way you are pleased because the conversational masturbation finally ends. The Moth show is just okay. One Storyteller goes on and on about finding his girlfriend after she committed suicide, and although you want to feel bad for him, you actually only feel bad for yourself because you've got to listen to him. Ironically, your favorite story was about a woman who partook in a documentary about female masturbation (ewww) where she had to be filmed doing just that (double ewww).

Afterwards, you and Blonde Beard split off from the Lit Lot to go grab a bite at Spice. The Hostess sits you next to the front door, and you, of course, instantly ask to be moved away from the wintry draft. She rolls her eyes and moves you four and a half feet to the next, equally drafty table, even though the restaurant is practically empty. But you let it go because you prefer your restaurant meals sans spit. The dinner is, as usual, quite nice, although this time there are plenty of dead spots in the conversation between you and Blonde Beard. Perhaps the initial goo-goo gaa-gaa stage of lustful, lingering looks is coming to an unfortunate end? After all, you like to talk. A lot. But you don't need to talk just to hear yourself (well, not usually). And you definitely never need to talk just to fill in an awkward space, since you know, from experience, that an awkward space is often where people tend to reveal everything about who they are and what they feel. So, although it's a bit uncomfortable, you remain quiet and keep your gaze set on Blonde Beard. And you wait. Nobody is more surprised than you when eventually he just looks away.

Later, back at his place, after your sweaty fix of Blonde Beard's bed heroin, but before either of you have fully recovered from your sex comas, Blonde Beard's stomach begins to growl. That's when you suddenly remember the heart-shaped Butterfingers in your bag. You practically fall out of his bed, naked, reaching for your backpack, but you are so excited to reveal your thoughtful gift and surprise your bearded Valentine and his grumbling stomach. You choose to say, "Ta Dah!" instead of "Happy Valentine's Day," because that is already implied by the tacky red box in your hand. Blonde Beard says, "Oh my," as you hand him the present, and you suddenly feel silly for having bought it.

The next morning, when you're gathering your stuff to leave, Blonde Beard holds up the Heart-Shaped box and says, "You forgot your Butterfingers." You joke and say, "My fat ass is not taking those anywhere. Those are yours," even though you are a little bit surprised and somewhat saddened by the idea that your Valentine wants to re-gift his chocolaty gift back to its Giver. Yup. You quickly reaffirm that still hate Valentine's Day. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Fags Who'd Move to Massachusetts Just to Get Married...

...you are a New Yorker! And being a Single New Yorker trumps being a Married Bostonian any day of the week. Even at a Sunday Tea Party hosted by Paul Revere at the Blue Whale. Well, perhaps you'd swap one of your Fire Island weekends to go to that party. But you'd go as a Single New Yorker! And you'd definitely steal a kiss from Paul Revere when his Hubbie was busy at the bar ordering (overly taxed) Long Island Iced Teas.

You're actually not in any rush to find a husband. Even though you had been in a relationship since the Dawn of Gay Man, after that endless relationship ended you thought you'd end up in another one right away. But you didn't. And three years later you're pretty damn happy about being single. You've learned a lot from dating the lower half of Manhattan (uptown boys are just too much of a schlep), and you're pretty content with trusting that one day there will be a boy that is meant for you (downtown). But since you are busy getting back at Blonde Beard who can't seem to walk away from his laptop long enough to log off of Match.com, you agree to go on another Revenge Date with an Exotic Island Boy that sought you out on Connexion.

However there's nothing Exotic about trudging through the damn wintry blizzard to meet your Island Boy at Bar Veloce in Chelsea. And when you arrive, the place is packed. With straight people. It never ceases to amaze you how quickly those people who are allowed to get married can take over and baby proof the neighborhoods that the fags (who are unworthy of that sacred institution) spend years gentrifying. But you digress. You and Exotic Island Boy end up going to three different places before settling on Le Singe Verte on Seventh Ave. You sit down at the bar and Exotic Island Boy is certainly as cute as his online photos, but the date starts off on an odd note when he starts pretentiously throwing around his wine knowledge and giving the Bartender a hard time. The Bartender quickly puts an end to the endless stream of grape-related questions, and offers sips (probably just to shut him up). Four or five tastes later, Exotic Island Boy finally makes a choice (one from the menu that he didn't even taste) and then he actually has the gall to order dinner even though your explicit plan was "to grab a drink." You decline to order dinner (partly because you can't afford it, but mostly because you are defrosting a chicken breast at your Home Sweet Hovel and you hate to waste).

Exotic Island Boy's constant patronizing behavior to the Bartender, coupled with a four year conflict between his online (39) and in person (43) ages, help you quickly navigate your way to the phrase, "Check please!" (although you were much more polite than that...) And you schlep your way back to the subway through the inch of snow sludge that blankets the city. You get in the workout you skipped in order to meet Exotic Island Boy during the six flight ascent to your Home Sweet Hovel, and you quickly boot up your PC with the hopes of finding an email from Blonde Beard since you've literally already forgotten about Exotic Island Who?

Only instead of finding an email from your Future Ex-Boyfriend, you find one from your Actual Ex-Boyfriend who is busy directing a movie in Texas. You had emailed The Ex to ask about his Dad because you heard that he was very sick and had been hospitalized. This is his response, "i think tomorrow is going to be it. very sad, but not unexpected. i think the funeral will be in nyc, because he wants to be buried beside my mom."

Jerry the Hugger had been diagnosed with prostate cancer during the first Gulf War, and although he has gotten much older, you were pretty sure that he'd make it through Gulf War II, but it is highly unlikely that we will pull out of Iraq by tomorrow. Tomorrow. This is a man who drove you crazy during his endless visits when you lived in Pacific Palisades. The Ex (who never went to his office on the Studio Lot) went to work every single day of Jerry the Hugger's visits, leaving your unemployed ass to entertain his father all day long. And two narcissists sharing one house was one narcissist too many. However, you were younger and Jerry the Hugger had been a highly skilled narcissist long before you could even say, "Me!" So like a Bear and his fuzzy little Cub who he picked up at The Eagle, you ranked much, much lower on Darwin's narcissistic evolutionary scale. When it came down to survival of the fittest, Jerry the Hugger could eat you up for breakfast and shit you out before you ever got a chance to change the subject back to you.

Even though he drove you absolutely insane during his extended visits to California, and even though you learned more about Busby Berkeley musicals that you never wanted to know, and even though the man's hugs sometimes bordered on sexual harassment, there is one thing that is absolutely sure. This man, your boyfriend's father, welcomed you into his family with open arms. Jerry the Hugger loved nothing more than to introduce you as his Son-In-Law, even though there were no laws that would have legally bound you as a member of his family (not even in Massachusetts at the time). Your own parents never returned the favor to your Ex. Even after living together for the better part of a decade, your Boyfriend was not asked to be included in the family photos at your brother's wedding. And suddenly you begin to cry. Suddenly you want nothing more than to be held in Jerry the Hugger's tight grasp while eagerly listening to him teach you all about Busby Berkeley. It doesn't really matter that there was never a piece of paper that legally made you Jerry the Hugger's Son-In-Law, because that piece of paper never really mattered to Jerry. Your Father-In-Law. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Flower-Power Fags Who Believes in Karma...

...but something is seriously off kilter and the gay YOUniverse seems to be taking it out on you in the form of leaks. Perhaps you've been dating too many Astrological Water Signs lately? Anyway. You go to your Storage Facility in Long Island City to collect your gear for an upcoming ski trip, and while you're rummaging around you begin to notice a slight drizzle. You look up with dread and realize that there is a slow drip, coming from the ceiling, that has actually formed a puddle around all of your precious crap. You find yourself wondering about the odds of your leak-prone Hobosexual Roommate renting the Storage Space directly above yours as you head down to the main office to make such a big stink that they have no choice but to give your cheap, but loud ass a discount, or some other freebie, just to shut you up.

Unfortunately the Elementary School Drop Out manning the office that Sunday is much more interested in slurping her Frappuccino while playing Scrabulous on Facebook, than she is concerned with your damp Karmic dilemma. She informs you that you can either move your shit to another unit today, or you can schlep back to Queens sometime during the week, duke it out with the manager, and then, of course, move your shit into another unit then. Either way you've got to move your shit so you decide to minimize your time in Queens and just get it over with now.

So you go back upstairs to your leaky Storage Unit and begin to throw boxes of your old forgotten crap onto a large dolly. It's been years since you've seen some of this stuff; years since you and your Ex broke up; years since you left your privileged much fancier Manhattan life and traded it in for your first Home Sweet Hovel, in Queens, which was so minuscule that you needed to rent this damn 6' x 7' Leaky Cubicle in order to store your crap. You remember feeling exactly like Eva Gabor when she had to leave Manhattan for Hooterville, "New York is where I'd rather stay! I get allergic smelling hay! I just adore a penthouse view! Darling, I love you, but give me Park Avenue!"

But your old fancy stuff isn't half as distracting as your box of photos is. You get sucked in to glamour shots of yourself during exotic safaris to South Africa, to your gut renovation of a 3,500 sq/ft Union Square loft, to your three-star Michelin Guide culinary tour of France, to Madonna's 35th Birthday Party circling Manhattan on a fucking yacht that with the cast of A League of Their Own during Madge's lesbian period where she was making out with Ingrid all night! It's almost hard to believe that these photos are from your life. Hell, at this point it's hard to believe that you used to live in an elevator building. The photos make you sad, but not in a "green-with-envy-I-can't-believe-I-used-to-be-so-fabulous" kind of way. You don't feel jealous or bitter of yourself, because, after all, you were the one who chose to leave the fabulous life that you had become very accustomed to. However, the photos make you sad mostly because you realize that you don't have anyone to take photos with anymore. Now when you travel, most of your photos are of you, solo, standing in front of something touristy. All the shots are blurry, poorly composed and off-center, taken from an unflatteringly close distance because you have to take them yourself with one pathetic, extended arm.

Although you are way happier now than you were during the last few, sometimes suicidal years of your relationship, sometimes you wonder if you'll ever settle down again with someone who can take a more flattering photo during life's more memorable moments? That's when you get a text from the London Lush confirming your date later tonight at Bamboo 52. You have completely lost track of time so you start racing through your move, basically throwing all of your carefully organized shit from the leaky unit into a one big messy pile where you will never, ever be able to find a fucking thing again. You rush home, shower, and somehow make it to the bar on time, which is completely barren that you could almost here an echo when you kiss the London Lush's cheek. He's as super cute as you remember, but that's probably because he's sooooo much younger than you. When they're too young they always end up making you feel too old, and you definitely prefer being the young, cute one! You are typically much happier living in denial about your completely humorless laugh-lines and your, get this, graying chest hair.

Although the London Lush is super nice and the two of you seem to be enjoying each other's company while sipping your Gay Cocktails, you're pretty much completely aware that you are actually on a Revenge Date that has little or nothing to do with the London Lush. Right now you'd much rather be out with Blonde Beard, but since he's still actively pursuing other boys on Match.com, you are definitely not going to put all your eggs into the Blonde Beard basket so he can whisk them into a fluffy frenzy before scrambling them on Teflon over medium heat... As usual, you have too many Mandarin and Sodas while watching Tina Turner and Beyoncé steal the Grammy Awards with, "Better Be Good To Me." Although you have a lovely time throwing back a few with the London Lush, you can't help but be aware of the bad timing because there is only one person on your radar that Better Be Good To You: Blonde Beard. You're not sure if the two of you will last long enough to share a few Kodak Moments, but you know you'd definitely give him a big, dimpled grin if Blonde Beard ever asked you to say, "Cheese!" Anyway...

You're Not the Type of Fag Who Gets Easily Dickmatized...

...in fact, you can't even tell the difference between the Darren Stevenses played by Dick York and Dick Sargent on Bewitched. You've seen one dick, you've seen them all. And you, my man-slut friend, have seen a lot of dick.

Since Blonde Beard is obviously actively pursuing other online dates on Match.com, you decide that you need to keep dating, too. Even though your heart's not really into it, which is mostly because your heart is really into Blonde Beard. This becomes crystal clear (bad drug pun intended) when you find yourself rescheduling a date with the London Lush because you decided that you'd rather have gay cocktails with your GFF (Gay Fags Forever) than have gay cock with the London Lush. So you reschedule London Lush for Sunday evening, partly because you wanted to be able to easily compare and contrast the two boys after your Saturday date with Blonde Beard, but mostly because on Sunday you are Loser-Party-of-One with no plans on your gay agenda for that evening. Quelle horreur!

So you meet Blonde Beard for your Saturday night date at Quartino Bottega Organica on Bleecker near Elizabeth. It's his suggestion and it's the perfect date place. Blonde Beard is wearing the cutest horizontal striped V-neck sweater over a V-neck t-shirt which taunts you with a little tuft of his chest hair all during the delicious dinner which he pays for. Afterward, you race over to catch the 8pm showing of Persepolis at the Angelica, but you cringe when you hear your name called from behind you on the busy Houston Street sidewalk. You turn around slowly, while haunting faces from your dating past flash before you: The Cuddler, The Man Loving Fox Personality, The London Lush, Baby Daddy, Mister Softee, Same Name Boy, Algorithm Boy, The Boyfriendster, Hairy Potter, The Cellist, The Writer, White Pants, are just a few of the names that come to mind... But when you look around you see a face that is vaguely recognizable in a reassuring way because you know you've never slept with this one. Regardless, your heart begins to palpitate because you find yourself in one of your least favorite positions where you are obliged to make introductions. Even though it's freezing, you begin to sweat as you try to remember the guy's name who you now recognize as The Cryer from your brief and relatively painful stint at Gay Group Therapy. Somehow you actually pull his name out of your ass even though you haven't seen The Cryer in over two years, but you obviously use up all of your brain power because after introducing The Cryer, you completely stumble on Blonde Beard's name, and the awkward moment drags on until Blonde Beard ends up introducing himself.

In the ticket line you explain to Blonde Beard that you are absolutely awful with names and when you find yourself in one of those paralyzing situations it isn't too unusual for you to forget your own damn name. And that's when you see the silver lining from the embarrassing situation. You begin to tell Blonde Beard all about Gay Group Therapy and how most of the boys were in some Twelve-Step program for some highly addictive drug that began with the letter C: Coke, Crystal or Crack. You tell him how you felt a bit out of place since you were just a lowly alcoholic who didn't even like Coors, Cognac or Captain Morgan ("Alex, I'll take Booze that begins with C for $200, please.") You go on and on about the drugs and the intensity of the whole Gay Group situation, and after your Pollyanna-ish Just Say No monologue, you look up to Blonde Beard with baited breath, wondering what he's going to say about your fascinating story. But he just looks around and says, "Wow. It's insanely crowded in this theater

Wow? It's insanely crowded in this theater? That's it? His non-response almost makes you want to scream "Fire!" in the insanely crowded theater, but instead you end up racking your brain for explanations as to why he changed the subject. Did the drug talk make him uncomfortable because he is a Crackhead? Or perhaps he wondered why you were in a Gay Group full of Crackheads? Maybe Blonde Beard is now wondering if perhaps you are the Crackhead? Or maybe he wasn't even paying attention to you because what you were saying wasn't really all that interesting or relevant to his life? Anyway.

The movie turns out to be really entertaining (except for that twist ending where the chick has a dick--just kidding), and afterward you decide to grab Frozen Margaritas, no salt, at Cowgirl Hall of Fame. After you finish your first one you begin to ask about the last guy Blonde Beard dated who just vanished into thin air. With some prying, you realize that the disappearing act happened much more recently than you had assumed: November. You also uncover the fact that they both used the "L" word. In regards to each other. In the presence of each other. You are so shocked by this little tidbit that for a moment you actually wonder if perhaps he's discussing that Dyke series on Showtime? But seriously, why does somebody disappear after using the "L" word? Apparently the boy disappeared for a week, only to return with the tabloid newsflash that he went on a sex binge. You, of course, read between the binge lines and assume that there must have been a drug binge fueling the sex binge. Regardless, it's an awful story and you feel really bad for Blonde Beard, who explains to you that the whole experience has left him extremely guarded. This is when you realize that both of you have been busy constructing concrete walls in order to not get hurt by the other. Blonde Beard is scared of getting his heart broken again, and you are scared of getting yours (for lack of a better word) Cracked.

You want to stroke his hairy face and promise him that you'd never ever intentionally hurt him. Or anyone for that matter (well, perhaps maybe a select few like your 11th grade English Cunt, oops, you actually meant to spell Teacher, however that bitch never taught you anything, not even how to spell Teacher.) After a nice brain freeze helps you forget your moral dilemma, you wind up going back to Blonde Beard's place and have an amazing time as you take your relationship to the next level of physical intimacy: you actually spend the night. And yes, you Nosey-Pokers, you finally bring your sexual relationship to that next level, too. And both levels are a-fucking-mazing (with an extra emphasis on the fucking.) But just as you're about to fall fast asleep in his strong arms, you find yourself jarred awake as you begin to realize that you are stuck between a rock and Blonde Beard's hard place. You are completely and utterly dickmatized by a boy who might be traumatized by the things you are writing about on your narcissistic blog. Your online diary-hea actually could be intentionally hurting him. Some of the things you've written might actually really hurt him. You kind of worried that this might happen, but you never expected it to happen so soon. Anyway...

FAG POLE: Are You the Type of Fag Who Lost His Gay Virginity...

57% of You honest fags said "as a Power Bottom."

22% of You lying fags said "as a Big Butch Top."

11% of You alcoholic fags said, "Who are you kidding? As usual, Blackout Barbie was much too drunk to remember..."

And 9% of You aren't even fags yet! You anal wussies said, "Um, I'm the 40 year old virgin. Does doing it with a Masculine Girl count?"

Number of Fags that Voted: 117 (you are being nice and counting the non-fags, even though this number should realistically be 106. Anyway...)

You're Not One of Those Lazy Fags Who Forgets to Raise the Toilet Seat When He's Taking a Leak...

...but you do practically pee all over everything else in your bathroom when some asshole begins frantically banging on your front door while you're draining your lizard of Diet Pepsi. You flush and scream, "Who is it?!" to the potential Murderer on the other side of your six-floor Walk-Up (even though your rational side knows that any Murderer with half a brain would definitely choose his victim on a much lower floor). However, your Cardio-Crazed Murderer yells back at you through the locked door (with the broken lock that your Not-So-Super still hasn't fixed), "Who the fuck do you think it is?!" And just like time will slow down before a car accident, you realize that you're about to have yet another one of your ridiculous Seinfeld-esque social injustice moments.

You peak through the peephole but the hallway is too dark because your Not-So-Super never replaced the burnt out hall light, so you yell back, "If I knew who it was then why would I be asking?!" That's when the Cardio-Crazed Murderer yells, "It's the fucking Super!" So you unlock the non-broken lock and let the Ex-Con into your apartment as you greet him with a pained smirk in lieu of a more cordial, "Hello."

"What's wrong with your fucking lock?" he asks in that oh-so-polite way of his, to which you respond as deadpan as you can possibly muster, "I don't know. It seems to be fucking broken." He actually rolls his eyes as if he were Molly Ringwald in Sixteen Candles and says, "I know that. You texted me last week about being locked inside the apartment or some such shit." And you really can't believe you are actually getting this kind of attitude from your Not-So-Super who, for all he knows, left you to rot in your Home-Sweet-Hovel for a week. You can't resist so you end up saying, "Yeah. Thanks for responding so quickly." But he's not having any of it, "If you want me to fix your fucking lock then you and your fucking roommate better stop throwing me so much fucking attitude. Especially after the dumb fuck flooded the whole fucking building last month. That asshole better pray that I don't evict his fucking ass."

You are in absolute shock as you look around for signs of water damage as you ask, "Excuse me? Flooded the building?" and all of a sudden it becomes crystal clear why your Not-So-Super has it in for you and your Hobosexual Roommate. "Yeah. I got a call from the restaurant downstairs when their fucking ceiling caved in on some woman who was in the middle of her fucking appetizer. She had plaster all over her fucking head. I checked every floor until I found your fucking roommate mopping up the kitchen floor while he's trying to convince me that somehow it wasn't his fucking fault even though he was the one who left the sink running for forty-five fucking minutes." Your jaw is agape as your Not-So-Super continues, "I'm sick of his bad fucking attitude! And he better pay that $2800 bill he got from the management company or his ass is gonna be evicted. And if for some reason his name's not on the fucking lease then he better start looking for a new fucking apartment right away."

Your Not-So-Super begins to inspect the broken bottom lock while you remain motionless; you're stunned by the breaking news of the Hobosexual's Noah's Ark incident that, somehow, he failed to mention to you. But now you're even more tongue tied because, although his name is on the lease, your name is definitely not. And if the Hobosexual doesn't cough up $2800, then so you might be the one who becomes Home-Sweet-Homeless and will be fondly remembering your time spent in your Home-Sweet-Hovel from the Refrigerator Box that you'll soon be subletting from that Homeless Tranny who lives above the subway grate outside Jensen-Lewis on Seventh Avenue. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Fags Who Walks Into Things Blindly...

...but you are definitely blindsided as you're walking down 14th Street with Blonde Beard and notice a Blind Man with a terrifying Old Testament Ash Wednesday cross scrawled across his forehead. The visually impaired Religious Zealot's cane is whipping its way toward your knees until your valiant Blonde Beard yanks you of harm's way. The two of you share an uncomfortable giggle, but your giggles quickly turn into hysterics when you actually see another cane carrying Blind Man (this heathen, thankfully, has an ashless forehead) and he's headed directly into the Religious Zealot's path. You both stop in your tracks to witness the impromptu Seinfeld Street Theater moment unfold as the two canes begin to whack each other with absolute confusion. The two Blind Men tap-tap-tap their canes at each other as Blonde Beard asks, "What do you think the odds of that happening are?"

While you were in Florida you and Blonde Beard had a virtual Text-a-palooza which was super flirty and fun, however, at one point it did get a bit weird. During one of your midnight Text-fests, you were actually multi-tasking while chatting online with your Ex-Cousin-In-Law. She, of course, was asking you all about Blonde Beard. You quickly realized that you could easily send her his Match.com profile link so that she could drool over his photos. Not to mention the fact that it would be nice to see his smiling mug while you were so far away from anything remotely gay. Only when you sign onto Match you see that Blonde Beard's profile announces proudly, "Online Now! IM me!" So you do. You decide to keep it short and simple and write, "Ho," which probably comes off a bit rude, but you're less than thrilled to learn that Blonde Beard is scouring the Internet for dates instead of pining away for your gay ass to return with it's new-and-improved tan lines. It's an odd situation, because it's not like you are officially seeing each other. You're still dating other people, so of course he's allowed to also. You just don't want to know about it. Yet now you do. Ugh.

Regardless, you were very excited to come back and see Blonde Beard, but since you are both busy gay boys (you with your endless social life, and Blonde Beard with his pesky job and irritatingly selfish night-school classes), and the only overlap in your schedules was on Wednesday. Unfortunately you have had long standing plans with the Boy Luck Club, but you just have to see Blonde Beard so you both decide to meet for a quickie before meeting your gay posse at Food Bar.

After the Blind Kneading the Blind incident, the two of you horny boys rush back to Blonde Beard's place and waste no time getting busy. Luckily his Jealous Roommate is nowhere to be found, so there are no restrictions regarding noise level. You, of course, sniff him from head-to-toe to see if there's any kind of Mothball odor, and there's not. Well, not really. There is kind of this odd musty smell which seems to emanate strictly from his beard and you begin to wonder if perhaps that was what you were assumed was the Mothball odor? You wonder what products he uses to wash that hairy thing because it kind of smells like Old Man. And Old Man Smell can easily be confused with Mothball Smell because oftentimes the two scents are unfortunately combined. But you don't waste much time wondering about this because you are quickly distracted by other hairy parts of Blonde Beard's beautiful body.

After an intensely satisfying sexual experience, you definitely notice a bizarre distance again. While you'd rather cuddle and discuss the various towns where you two should buy your imaginary beach house, you are definitely aware that Blonde Beard seems preoccupied with counting the moments until your imminent departure. It's weird because he is so emotionally available to you until he gets off, and then he's Mr. Wham-Bam-Thank-You-Sam. Is it because he needs his crack fix? Anyway. Since you are a sweaty smelly mess you ask if it'd be okay to jump in the shower, and that's where your ulterior motive exposes itself as you begin to sniff through all of Blonde Beard's fancy grooming products for something that smells like Mothballs or Old Man. But nothing does. Afterward, you share an awkward, slightly distant goodbye yet definitely make plans to see each other on Saturday night (which is always a good sign since he could've easily offered you a much lamer night of the week), then you rush over to Food Bar to meet the B.L.C.

Upon your arrival you are shocked when everybody seems to instantly know that you have been freshly laid. "How on earth?" you ask as you inspect your sweater for a Monica Lewinsky-esque cum stain. "Oh please," they say. "Your hair is still wet." You, of course, protest, "I could've been coming from the gym!" but your Cheshire Cat grin does nothing to back up your lies. The B.L.C. quickly begins their By-The-Book Interrogation and you start giving all the glowing details about Blonde Beard. You tell them how you met on Match.com yadda-yadda-yadda, yet you decide to leave out the details about the fact that he may or may not be a Crackhead. Somehow you worry that this information might come back to haunt you if this relationship actually goes somewhere. Your friend Half-Share (whose actually upgraded to a Full Share next summer, yet in a less glamorous house in The Pines) begins to ask you about Blonde Beard since he's also doing the Match.com thing and is just as irritated and jaded about it as you are. Only when you tell him Blonde Beard's screenname, Half-Share's face instantly drops in shock. This, of course, convinces you that Blonde Beard is indeed a Crackhead, until Full-Share informs you that he was just chatting with your man on Match.com. And get this, it was recently. You are completely blindsided as the B.L.C. gives a collective giggle to your latest dating foible. That's when you find yourself wondering, "What do you think the odds of that happening are?" Anyway.

You're Not One of Those Sentimental Fags...

...but after your horrible experience in Fort Lauderdale you have absolutely no energy for any emotions whatsoever. After Hairy Potter's paranoid delusions put you out on the street, you spent one of the worst nights of your life sleeping it off at the Delta Ticket Counter. Then you slept through the entire flight back to Laguardia, probably snoring the whole way, but when you finally get home you have never been so happy to schlep your thirtysomething years of baggage (along with your luggage) up six flights of stairs to your Home Sweet Hovel. Thankfully, your Hobosexual Roommate is away for the rest of the week visiting Who The Hell Cares in the lovely town of Who Really Gives A Shit. You, of course, go straight to bed so you can take a restless nap.

You know it's nothing you had any control over, but you are really freaked out by Hairy Potter's bizarre accusation that he saw you making out with That Black Guy In The Bathroom. All day you keep waiting for him to call and apologize, but it never happens. And even though you are thrilled that you will never have to see Hairy Potter again, you are also really sad. He was really upset with you, because he really thought something happened, and you almost feel like calling him up to explain your non-delusional version of the story. But you know it won't matter. Hairy Potter probably wouldn't even take your call, and what would you do then? Have an intervention with the perky, yet repetitive Voicemail Lady? Even though the whole situation is completely preposterous, it has really gotten you bummed out. Are all gay guys fucked up? Will you ever fall for someone who's just a nice, run-of-the-mill alcoholic like you? Or will you forever be surrounded by Crack Pipes and Eight Balls and Random Letters of the Alphabet like E, K and don't forget G, H & B, whilst being accosted by That Imaginary Black Guy In The Bathroom?

So you kind of do nothing all day beyond actively avoiding contact with the outside world while you nap and eat and eat and eat. Back off, Richard Simmons! You're depressed. The last thing you want to do is write a damn blog entry about how damn sorry you are for yourself (boo-hoo, everybody feels sorry for you!), but eventually you check your email and you find some of the nicest, most wonderful words from some nice gay boys who, for some unknown reason, like to read the narcissistic crap you write. A comment from a talented blogger named Jesse (Jesse On The Brink) makes you feel like your selfish pass-time is perhaps not as egotistical as you think, "Your stories make me feel less alone. And as far as I know, that's the only thing worth doing. Thank you!" And one email in particular from a Hot Latin boy named Jose really pulls at your heart-strings. And it actually gets your jaded gay ass a little bit veklempt, "I was feeling blue... In fact, I have been somewhat in a depressed mood the past several days; but then again, who doesn't? Upon stumbling on your blog, my curiosity lead me to reading it. I laughed most of the time, usually by the usage of nicknames and employment of smart wit used to convey your stories. Afterwards, I feel much better, and may even go out tonight and have dinner with a few friends. Thank you for writing, and I'll be looking forward to future postings." OMG someone quick, go get you a Softique before your mascara begins to run!

And that's when you realize that you need to stop feeling sorry for yourself! Your ridiculous shenanigans are actually amusing other people (god knows why, but they are...) and somehow the knowledge that your stories can help pull someone out of his funk, actually helps you pull yourself out of yours. Sometimes, even though you're so jaded and bitter from all of the ridiculous dates you go on, sometimes, when you least expect it, a gay boy will stop obsessing over Britney's Breakdown or whether or not to pay full price for those cute New Religion Jeans, and sometimes that gay boy will make you realize that all of us fags are basically just trying to make it through our live-long days, because in one way or another, we're all You. Even that delusional fuck, Hairy Potter. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Coke Fiend Fags...

...but you will drink a Diet Coke as an absolute last resort when there are absolutely no Pepsi products to be found within a three-bodega radius. Diet Pepsi is just one of those things that helps make your life that much more enjoyable. Not to mention peppy.

When your parents drive you back to the West Palm Airport, you are happy as a clam while you suck down the two 24 ounce bottles that your mother packed for you. Oh back off with the judgments, it's a long drive with two bickering parents! You only make them stop once during the seventy-five minute drive at a lovely rest area where you notice your first signs of gay life since arriving in the Sunshine State. Scrawled above the urinal by homophobic, latent homosexuals who were obviously suffering from a heat stroke, "Fags Suck Cock!" Duh. And, FYI, we suck them way better and much more efficiently than your girlfriends ever will.

You're feeling a bit guilty (and just about as mature as the eighth grader who wrote the brilliant epitaph above the rest stop urinal), but even though you're in your thirties, you still feel uncomfortable around your Church-Going Catholic parents when it comes to being gay. So instead of saying, "After three days of visiting you in Straighty-Straightsville, I will begin to go into detox and get the Gay Shakes." So you decide to just lie about your departure time and have them drop you off at the airport a day early. A bit sneaky, but this way everybody's happy and your gay ass gets to escape and spend a night in Fort Lauderdale with a boy you met last winter.

You say your goodbyes to your aging parents through the gate of their SUV while they're still arguing over the air conditioning temperature. You grab your luggage and wave goodbye as they argue their way back to Vero. However, moments after they drive away, your cell rings and your friend, Hairy Potter, informs you that he's pulling into the airport. You met Hairy Potter last winter at a bar when you wanted to check out the Fort Lauderdale scene, since then, somehow, the two of you have kept in touch and you decided to short change your elderly parents and spend your last night in Florida with Hairy Potter doing dirty gay things. You're a bit worried about spending a night with a boy you barely remember, but as you hop into Hairy Potter's Acura you are pleasantly surprised at your impeccably good taste in men.

Hairy Potter takes you back to his condo to drop off your luggage, and then you head to a late brunch at Rosie's Bar & Grill. You sit outside amongst lots of muscled gay boys with tank-tops and February tans while you breathe a sigh of relief because after four days of free-flowing Man Boobs and retired straight couples wearing matching outfits purchased at Wal-Mart, you are finally someplace that feels familiar. At least these boys shop at Target... Hairy Potter keeps sneaking looks at you and smiling while you pick at your gay salad. You are actually starving, but since your doting mother has been filling your dinner plates with second and third helpings, you are now officially gay-fat again. Not straight-fat, god no. But definitely gay-fat. You decide you'd rather use up your calorie intake drinking alcohol so you order a few beers.

After brunch, Hairy Potter starts yapping about some Fort Lauderdale Sunday Tea Thing that you kind of roll your "been-there-done-that" New York Eyes at, but when you arrive at VooDoo Lounge you are duly impressed! The space is a-fucking-mazing. Being a Manhattanite you tend to forget what it's like to have space. Space to move around. Space to dance. Space to gossip. VooDoo Lounge is like the final spacious frontier! And you are the gay Neil Armstrong, making one giant step where you don't have to accidentally step on any bitchy Drag Queen toes!

You're almost out of cash so you opt to start a tab rather than be raped by the ATM, so you grab yourself another beer and order Hairy Potter a Grey Goose and Soda even though he didn't ask for one. Hairy gulps it down as he introduces you to his sudden group of friends. You've barely sipped your Amstel when Hairy Potter has finished his drink and asks you if you'd like another. You say, "What the hell," as he asks if he can put the next round for his friends on your tab. The George Costanza in you wants to scream, "Are you insane!" but the gay Martha Stewart in you says, "Of course."

You're dancing to something by Kylie, or possibly even Danni Minogue when Hairy Potter informs you that it's time to go. You're surprised because it seems early, but since Hairy's your host you head over to the bar to close out your tab. The bartender hands you the bill and you are absolutely shocked when you see that your three beers and one Grey Goose and Soda have somehow added up to $96. But you're a bit drunk so you don't make a scene. You begin to wonder how many people Hairy Potter bought drinks for? And then you wonder what vintage of Dom Perignon his freeloading friends were drinking? But you just smile and add a nice 20% tip because, after all, none of this is the cute bartender's problem.

You follow Hairy Potter and his friend to the parking lot and are a bit confused when they get into the friend's BMW instead of Hairy's Acura. Hairy informs you that they're headed to Miami and suddenly it all sounds very exciting. You put on your backseat seatbelt just in case, but before you know it you're pulling into some weird parking lot that doesn't seem so Glamorous even though Fergie's aptly named song is now playing. Hairy Potter jumps out of the passenger seat and tells you to wait there because he'll be right back. The Drunk Driver kind of sings along to "Glamorous" only he spells it without a "U" Finally you ask, "Where did he go?" and Drunk Driver informs you that, "He went to buy coke," even though you're a bit confused because you could really use a Diet Pepsi right about now.

After Hairy Potter scores, you end up going to the lamest gay club in Miami with absolutely no patrons (yet somehow there's still a fifteen dollar cover) and you kind of dance alone waiting for your Floridian hosts while they powder their noses in the Men's Room stall. You order a strong drink or three while chatting with the yawning shirtless bartender until you are eventually dragged outside to the car. They swerve their way back to Fort Lauderdale and end up taking you to several bars where you continue to drink your way out of the mess you've found yourself in. Eventually, BMW Boy drops you off at Hairy Potter's condo around 3am. You're bleary eyed when you get out of the car, but Hairy is still Chatty Cathy. He glares at you as his BMW Boy drives away before he accuses you, "I saw what you did in that bathroom."

Your drunken mind beings to rewind as you wonder if you forgot to wash your hands? But Hairy Potter storms off down his front path while you ask him sincerely, "What did I do in the bathroom?" He sighs dramatically before answering, "Don't pull that bullshit with me. I was there. I saw you kissing that guy!" Now, as usual, it is a given that you are drunk, but you're not that drunk. You ask, "What are you talking about? Who was I kissing?" because you're definitely not the type of fag that forgets a kiss. Ever. Hairy Potter unlocks his door as he informs your sunburned ass, "I saw you making out with that black guy in the bathroom!"

Now, you are certainly drunk, but you're not that drunk. You would definitely remember kissing someone. Anyone. In fact, until moments ago, you were actually looking forward to kissing Hairy Potter, until you realized that he is so coked up that he is imagining things. You follow him inside mostly because you are dying to hear about what else you might have done this evening. But he's pissed. And you end up getting scared because Hairy Potter actually believes all the ridiculous things that he's accusing you of. You want to talk about it, mostly because it's so super upsetting to you, but Hairy wants to go to bed. He tells you to just go to sleep and then he'll drive you to the airport tomorrow morning. You no longer have any interest in spending the night with an insane person who is accusing you of cheating on him even though you aren't dating. That's about the time when you realize that Hairy Potter left his Acura in the VooDoo parking lot so there's absolutely no way he'll be driving you to the airport. So you ask him for the phone number for a Taxi service as he's climbing into bed. He happily recites the number from memory and you call it right away.

You wait in the driveway until the taxi comes to take you to the airport (which doesn't even open until 5am). You pass out at the Delta Counter, waiting to check in and get the hell out of Florida so you can go back home to hang out with the Crackhead you're dating. At least you got a nice tan. Anyway...

POLL RESULTS: Are You the Type of Fag Who Would Enter a Strip Contest?

42% of You uptight fags said, "Only if the competition was fatter and drunker than me..."

26% of You brooding alcoholic fags said, "Absolutely not. I'd rather drink a six-pack than show mine off."

17% of You Blackout Barbie fags said, "Perhaps. But only after finishing that six-pack..."

13% of You gym bunny fags said, "Of course! Do you think I go to the gym for my health?"

Total Number of Fags that Voted: 80

You're Not One of Those Pool Fags...

...but you are terrified of being mistaken for shark chum along the east coast of Florida. Meanwhile it's been almost 48 hours since you've seen another gay boy. Or anyone under the age of 70 for that matter. The good news is that, just like Yahoo's share price after Microsoft's hostile bid yesterday, your gay stock has gone through the roof! However your sudden upgrade has more to do with your monopolistic lack of Chelsea Boy competition in the Retired Floridian marketplace than anything else. Especially since you are the only boy without Man Boobs within a fifty mile radius. Anyway...

You're Not the Type of Manhattan Fag Who Gets Antsy Crossing Bridges or Tunnels...

...but your parents live half the year in Florida and you do get a bit uneasy around blondes who are too lazy to push a chad out of an election ballot. However, it is February, and your face is as pasty as Woody Allen's ass, so you agree to visit for a long weekend.

Everyone on the plane is not only straight, but ancient, and that, my gay friend, is a bad combination. Although you got home late from your date with Blonde Beard and wanted to Blackout everything between JFK and West Palm, you unfortunately find yourself sitting amongst a gaggle of Retired Orthodontists from The Bronx who can't seem to stop yapping about George Washington's wooden teeth and various other prehistoric orthodontia fables.

When you land, you immediately find your aging parents waiting for you in a very choice and visible spot, most likely because they left to pick you up last Tuesday just so they wouldn't be late. They're a bit slower and grayer than you seem to remember, even though you just spent Christmas with them three minutes ago in Vermont, but Florida has a way of sapping the life force out of the best of us. You listen to the 'rents bicker about which lane not to be in and which car not to hit as they make their way home to the Island of Mis-tanned WASP's: Vero Beach. Luckily for you, your internet enabled cell phone actually has service so get to focus on your email instead of the toothless Good Ol' Boy in the F-150 who's giving your father the finger, most likely because dear old Dad drives a bit like Mister Magoo. After a few cocktails.

When you check your blog mail, you're thrilled to find an email from a young boy who's going to school in that Southwestern state where they refused to recognize Martin Luther King Day until 1992 (did the racist bastards really not want an extra day off work?), and this boy asks you, "I'm not really sure if I'm gay yet, when did you know?" Suddenly you are a seventeen year old High School Senior with parents that are much less gray, yet, unfortunately, no less (for lack of an actual word) bickerful. It's a Tuesday night in February and you are watching Bruce Willis flirt with Cybil Sheppard on Moonlighting. After your parents say goodnight, you get so horny watching Bruce Willis (shut up, he used to be cute) that your heart starts to heat your body as if it's being microwaved from the inside out. For the first time in your life you are experiencing horniness like never before. One hand, of course, is reaching down beneath the fag-tag of your Girbauds, while the other is primping your recently coiffed George Michael-esque haircut. Your new 'do immediately makes you think of the swishy Scottish Hairdresser who cut your hair. Your Best Friend's Father owns a Hair Salon (and he's not gay) and they recently imported the red-headed lad from the U.K. You, of course, recently happened to memorize the Scot's phone number when you accidentally shuffled through papers while visiting your Best Friend's house to play Nintendo and watch videos on the Betamax. And now, you suddenly find yourself dialing those memorized digits after, gasp, 10pm.

The Scot answers and is very confused. You try to explain who you are while he tries to convince you that he remembers you, although you're both pretty sure that he's lying. But you are so beyond horny that none of this really matters. You cut to the chase and lay your gay card down on the table, "I thought maybe we could get together..." And needless to say, the Scot is very surprised, "You mean like go to a movie sometime?" But, alas, your horniness keeps you extremely focused, "No, I was thinking more like tonight." Then there's this really uncomfortable awkwardness that is compounded when the Scot repeats, "Tonight?!" And you instantly back off because you are beginning to wonder if the Swishy Scottish Hairdresser could somehow possibly be straight? You start to backpedal as you hem and haw, "Uh, I'm sorry. Maybe I misunderstood the situation. I think I should probably hang up now." But that's when the Scot finally steps up to the plate and says defiantly, "No. Don't go," in a tone that lets you know for sure that you are about to lose your gay virginity.

The Scot gives you his address and, since it's late, you actually put your parents Honda Accord into neutral and push it down the entire length of the driveway before ever starting the ignition. You race your way over to the Scot's house and are a bit shocked to find out that the newly relocated Ex-Pat is living on a sofa bed in someone else's Den. Someone who works for your Best Friend's Dad. Someone you've actually met. But you are more shocked to learn that the Scot is twenty-seven, and suddenly you feel like you're about to embark on a New England Antiquing trip. Yet when the Scot asks how old you are you lie and say eighteen even though you've barely just turned seventeen. The Scot seems so old to you, but you don't care because: a) it's past 10 o'clock, b) you've already snuck out of the house, and c) you've stolen your parents' car. At this point there is nothing that is going to stop you from having sex with this old relic. Nothing, except for your own endless stream of consciousness.

Suddenly you can't shut up. It's diarrhea of the mouth and you are talking about anything and everything in that way that only a seventeen year old can. You talk the Scot's ear off with your nervous chatter for hours. At midnight the Scot finally cuts you off with a highly offensive yawn and informs you that he's going to bed. This shocking news is the only thing that silences you. You stand there with your jaw agape as The Scot pulls open his sofa bed and begins to undress. He pats the corner of the pancake-like mattress and gestures for you to sit down. You obey silently, and he slips off your down jacket which is surprising to you because you realize that you've been so nervous that you actually forgot to take it off. But this all becomes moot when the Scottish Hairdresser starts to kiss you. You feel the scruff from his 5 o'clock shadow scraping against your pre-pubescent peach fuzz and it makes you feel alive in a way that you've never felt before. Funnily enough, the only aspect of losing your gay virginity that you never imagined was kissing another man.

The next thing you know you are both naked, and since you've never been naked with anybody before, you don't really know what to do. After a minute or so of foreplay, you become so terrified that the Scottish Hairdresser will realize you're a virgin, that you wind up sticking your bare ass up in the air for him to fuck. Because isn't that what gay men do? Your face smashes into the rickety, flat mattress as the Scot takes no time to move in on his underage prey. When he pushes his old bagpipe inside of you, the noise that comes out of your de-virginized mouth is, needless to say, blood-curdling.

After the deed is done, you limp your way back to your parents' Honda and drive back home in the middle of the night. The only thing that you are absolutely sure about is this: if you could somehow get through that, then, the next time you are absolutely positive that you could definitely fuck some girl. Yet the only thing that absolutely positively came true after this anally painful experience was this: the next time you'd be the one doing the fucking, but definitely with some guy. Anyway...