POLL RESULTS: When it Comes to Dropping the L-Bomb...

30% of You brave fags will beat your beau to the punch and say "I love you" first.

29% of You passive-aggressive fags will bite your tongues and wait until the boy you heart drops the L-Bomb first.

28% of You newbie fags have no idea yet because you haven't fallen in love with any of these emotionally unavailable loser boys you keep meeting.

10% of You emotionally unavailable fags would rather be fucking a girl than dealing with all these girly emotions!

Number of Fags Who Voted: 84

You're Not One of Those Church Going Fags...

...but you don't mind putting on your Sunday Best and making your way over to Port Authority to catch the free Ikea bus to celebrate Easter by getting some colorful ideas for your new apartment, which you can neither afford to buy nor furnish. But when your hangover wakes you up at the completely unreasonable hour of high noon (perhaps Daylight Savings happened again?) you wind up being held hostage in your bedroom because you hear your Hobosexual Roommate rummaging around your Home Sweet Hovel doing something noisy that probably involves imaginary Bedbugs. After last night's Twilight Zone incident, you have absolutely no interest in having another insane conversation about drycleaning your underwear or wrapping your mattress in one of those plastic wee-wee pads that are much more popular with Watersport fags then Imaginary Bedbugs.

Eventually you hear the click of the lock which indicates the Hobosexual's departure (hopefully to go to Mass to pray for the safe return of his sanity) and your bladder is about to explode from all the Gay Cocktails you had last night. Only you're way too tired even to relieve yourself standing, so you end up sitting down to pee, and that's when you notice that the Huggies Baby Wipe dispenser (which is designed to function like a box of wet tissues) has been opened and thrown into the corner because it is empty. The fact that the Hobosexual bought you a life supply of these unflushable wipes a mere two weeks ago, in order to replace your Cottonelle Flushable Moist Wipes that he used while you were on vacation. And now the family size box is completely empty! The fact that he's obviously using them isn't even the issue anymore. Is he using them to swat imaginary Bedbugs? Or is he just a Power Bottom? You wonder how many of these wipes the Hobosexual could possibly use to clean his bum, and then you begin to worry about the effect that the unflushable Huggie Wipes will have on the ailing pipes that make up Lower Manhattan's infrastructure? You shudder to think about it, but decide against pulling out the Cottonelle refill pack you have hidden under the sink, because surely the Hobosexual will use all seventy-eight of them up on his next B.M.

You attempt to have breakfast after your shower, but unfortunately you are out of milk and eggs. You briefly consider wetting your CherriO's with Stoli O', but decide against it in favor of holding off for the yummy Ikea Buffet where you can fill up on a delicious Easter Brunch of Swedish Meatballs. Only when you get to Port Authority you are surprised by the amount of fellow Heathens lined up for the Ikea Bus; somehow you thought all the boys would be busy showing off their Easter Bonnets and saying their Hail Mary's over Bloody Marys at the All-You-Can-Drink Brunch at Intermezzo. But as fate would have it, all the gay boys had the same exact sacrilegious Ikea Idea as you did.

You decide to return a $10 Coat Hook rack that you bought but, surprise-surprise, never got around to installing. The idea of expending one more drop of energy or dropping one more dime into your Home Sweet Hovel makes standing in an endless Customer Service line seem completely worthwhile. You pull the number "01" from the dispenser, yet your heart sinks when you look up to the "Now Serving 51" sign. Didn't anybody go to fucking church today?? When you look back down you immediately recognize a very familiar face walk into the store, only you can't seem to produce a name, partly because you're in New Jersey so everything is definitely way out of context in that "I don't think we're in Kansas anymore" kind of way, not to mention the fact that your head is still too busy throbbing from all the Stoli O's to think properly. Luckily your familiar friend seems to be suffering from the same familiar Sunday affliction.

After a few friendly "hey-how-are-you's" followed by some obligatory "what-are-you-doing-here's," your synapses emerge from their early retirement long enough to realize that your familiar friend is actually Half-Share's (who recently upgraded to a Full-Share only in a less glamorous house) Fire Island Housemate's Boyfriend (does it get any gayer than that?) You were actually had your own share the summer that these two boys met, and you remember their relationship going from Zero-to-Sixty faster than two fags in a Saab Convertible (with the top down and the windows up as to not muss their hair). You distinctly remember one of their earliest discussions was whether or not they should buy their summer home in East Hampton or The Pines. Anyway.

When you turn around you see his boyfriend's prematurely white hair (a bit fussy and, of course, un-mussed) and Andy Warhol stomps his way over to you and Holly Woodlawn. You offer Andy Warhol a big smile because, really, what are the chances that you would run into the Zero-to-Sixty Couple so physically and seasonally far away from a Low Tea at The Blue Whale? Only when Andy Warhol finally notices you, he returns your dimpled greeting with nothing but a big ol' Stank Eye. You are in shock! Does he hate you? Did you do something nasty to him when you were drunk and then accidentally blacked it out? Eventually Andy Warhol musters up a meek and extremely hesitant, "Hello," as if he is completely sick of saying it to you in particular. Then he informs Holly Woodlawn in a huff that he's going to go search The Factory for some random replacement Ikea part. When Andy Warhol disappears without bothering to say goodbye, Holly Woodlawn rolls her eyes and informs you, "I'm about to fucking kick him in the head!" You immediately conjure up Lily Taylor's character in that indie film, I Shot Andy Warhol, and honestly, given Andy's bitchy attitude, you really couldn't blame Holly Woodlawn for her actions. But you digress.

You instantly realize that you've run into the Happy Go Lucky Zero-to-Sixty Couple smack in the middle of a horrendous, knock-down fight. Although Andy's bad attitude is obviously not directed at you, it definitely gets you thinking as you make your way around Ikea. And you must have misplaced your Beaujolais colored glasses because all of the Happy Gay Couples shopping for cheap European Knock-Offs seem to be a little bit snippier than usual. Although their couple's euphoria usually makes you slightly ill, today all you seem to notice is their couple's discord. And suddenly you are reminded of all the fights you used to have when you were in your Endless Relationship That Eventually Ended, and yet, for some unknown reason, you still find yourself wanting to get into another one. Specifically with Blonde Beard. But will you boys end up fighting like Zero-to-Sixty? Of course you will. And even though the thought of pulling out your claws and having a cat fight with your bearded boy makes you slightly nauseous, you still want it. Somehow the highs and the lows of a relationship still seem preferential to the mediocre consistency of waking up to the reflection of your own clean shaven face every day. And that's when you decide to text Blonde Beard. Just to say hi. Just to say you're thinking about him. Just to see if he might need any kisses. Just to not feel so alone amongst all the bickering couples while you shop for inexpensive things that you can't afford.

But you don't get a response from Blonde Beard. Not while you're shopping. Not while you're checking out. Not even while you're waiting in a forty-five minute line for the free Ikea Bus. He doesn't even respond during your trip back to the city, even though you get caught in a half-hour of tunnel traffic. You're sure that he'll respond by the time you emerge from the signal-less subway, but he doesn't. And you begin to get annoyed. And sad. And scared. Are you having your first fight? Perhaps you upset him in some way shape or form? Perhaps he wants to "fucking kick you in the head" for some silly reason like perhaps he's realized that you're writing about him in your Blah-Blah-Blog? Or perhaps he went to Sunday Mass? By the time you ascend the six flights to you Home Sweet Hovel, you are totally grasping at straws and completely freaking out. You want to know the exact time that you sent the text so you know exactly how long he's had to respond. Only when you finish sifting through your sent texts you realize that your message was never actually sent. And that's when you realize that you've just won your very first fight with Blonde Beard even though he wasn't aware you were having one. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Strung Out Fags Who Hasn't Slept For Days...

...but after last night's Magnum-less P.I. (Penetration Incident), let's just say that you didn't sleep very soundly. You even tried counting sheep, but for some reason you kept imagining a Perv-y Sheppard fucking his livestock raw. Meanwhile, today your feet are definitely dragging (almost as if you were in drag, complete with painful 9" Stilettos). You're so tired that you almost fall asleep during your schlep of shame back to your Home Sweet Hovel. However, after sleepwalking up six flights of stairs (while dreaming wistfully about moving into your new building with one of those fantastic new inventions they're calling an elevator), you walk into a Katrina-esque disaster area that used to resemble a sub-poverty-level kitchen. It seems as if your Hobosexual roommate threw some sort of dinner party (even though the Home Sweet Hovel lacks any sort of table surface to eat off of) and then just threw all of the dishes into the sink, obviously for Alice to clean. However, although you keep reminding the Hobosexual that he can "Kiss your Grits!" he somehow keeps forgetting that he's not one of The Brady Bunch kids and that Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore (and that includes both Alices: Ann B. Davis and Linda Lavin). You practice your Lamaze breathing as you tip-toe through spaghetti stains while dreaming about that dishwasher in your new apartment!

You're so tired that your only accomplishment is futzing around on the internet trying to decide whether or not to change your Connexion profile from "Single" to "Exclusively Dating." Although you haven't had that particular conversation with Blonde Beard (yet), you kind of feel compelled to change your status not only because you want to be exclusively dating, but also because it helps you to imagine that you would only do the Magnum-less P.I. with a boy that you were in an exclusive relationship with. Ugh. You were so fucking stupid last night, but you try not to beat yourself up because, after all, you are only human.

Later that afternoon, you end up dragging your BFF out to Jackson Heights because you have to drop off a $100 check to the Real Estate Agent who reminds you of Benning's famous character from American Beauty, only a bit more Jewish and lot more whiny: Annette Weining. Only when you get to the office, it's an absolute mad house. Or more specifically a mad Open House. Everybody and their unemployed Uncle wants in on the cheapest real estate east of the Mississippi. While you're filling out your check you over hear one of the agents talking about your friend Jet Blew who has apparently gotten lost in the Bermuda Triangle of the Receptionist's inept attempt to transfer his call to Annette Weining and you wonder if he'll be moving into Melrose Place too? You, of course, will be playing the Heather Locklear role.

The whole ordeal takes way longer than you expected so you end up racing back home to change into something cute because you have a plethora of evening plans that begin with a 5:45pm dinner (yes, you realize that it is absolutely ridiculous to schedule anything smack in the middle of Happy Hour, but The Ex wanted to get a Blue Plate Special and since he's paying, you do your best not to complain even though you are failing miserably). However, The Ex is pissed (rightly so) when you arrive at DB Bistro on Gay Standard Time, which today happens to be thirty minutes late. But The Ex used to live with you so he probably assumed you'd be late and subsequently lied to you about the ridiculously early reservation time. But when you arrive, the fancy restaurant is packed with Pre-Theater Diners munching on $32 Hamburgers. When you place your order, you briefly consider asking the waiter how much extra it would cost to add a slice of cheese, but decide to stick with what's on le menu. You and The Ex have a really nice time catching up, and you listen sadly while he tells you about his father, Jerry the Hugger's funeral, which happened while you were hemorrhaging euros and gallivanting around Europe. He also tells you all the gossip about the movie he's currently directing in Texas with half the cast of High School Musical (which sounds dreadful, but ultimately much less painful than the train wreck of a musical that you end up seeing in Previews: Cry Baby).

You certainly want to Cry, Baby, but that has as much to do with the Mid-Western Giant Breeder that's kicking your seat in time to the horrendous score, than it does with the horrendous show. Somehow you make it through the ghastly Broadway remake of the dreadful John Waters film (trust me, this one feels more like Jeri Curl than Hairspray). Meanwhile, you're busy mentally decorating your new apartment while the ridiculous show drones on, and you count down the moments till your post-theater escape. Afterwards, just like trained seals, the Broadway audience jumps to their feet and gives the poor actors a standing ovation (which is fine, because it's not exactly their fault that they were cast in this dreck. Unlike the audience, at least the actors are being paid for their nightly humiliation).

You pummel over Blue Haired Old Ladies With Walkers and even stomp on a Toddler's Tootsie because you can't get out of the theater fast enough since you are definitely Jones-ing for a Gay Cocktail. Outside, you air-kiss The Ex and shudder as you wish him a safe trip back to Bush Country. Then you race over to The Ritz to meet your anorexic friend, Fat Albert, and a crazy Russian boy (who, of course, you used to date). The Soviet Dicktator (who recently moved to London) is back for a visit and has arranged a Boys Night Out. The Dicktator notices you as you walk into the shockingly empty bar and his expression immediately elevates into one of the warmest stoic frowns you've ever seen. You congratulate The Dicktator about some new Comrade you've heard he's dating back in London to which he immediately begins an interrogation, "Who told you that?" A bit embarrassed, you begin to backpedal, "I'm sorry. Are you not seeing him anymore?" But The Dicktator quickly begins to use his old Soviet-era interrogation tactics as he backs you into a corner beneath a dimly lit "Exit" sign that somehow suddenly floods your retinas with a blinding surge of wattage that seemingly doubles as a truth serum. Eventually you submit to The Dicktator's probing question, "Fat Albert told me!" And with that, The Dicktator relinquishes you to hunt down your anorectic friend to further his investigation.

Luckily, you find Fat Albert before The Dicktator does, and you immediately apologize for passing along his benign non-gossip to the KGB. But while the two of you are talking, some random boy makes a bee-line for you and interrupts your apology as he extends his hand,"I don't think we've met." You are a bit taken back by the formal introduction that feels much more Ritz-Carlton than Ritz Gay Bar, but you introduce yourself because, after all, he's cute. And although you thought he was just some random patron, The Cute Interrupter turns out to be part of The Dicktator's little group of Comrades who have gathered to toast his triumphant return to Amerika with generous shots of Stolichnaya.

A few Stoli O's later, the tears you shed during Cry Baby have long since dried up and you quickly find yourself yapping about The Cute Interrupter's boyfriend (all the good ones are always taken...) as well as the various places that you've both lived. You even attempt to play the Lame Name Game, but he doesn't seem to know any of the same Left Coast Fags that you do. But then he asks the inevitable question, "What do you do?" Ugh. This question always makes you squirm because you hate talking to anyone who receives a weekly paycheck about how you are a Starving Writer (on a diet of course) who's living off his savings in order to write the Great American Govel (Gay Novel). However, not only do The Cute Interrupter's eyes not glaze over, but they actually seem to light up as he tells you that he works for Genre Magazine. "What a coincidence," you laugh lamely, "I read Genre Magazine! Now if only I could write for it..." And then The Genre Gent reaches into his wallet and produces his business card and hands it over, to you. Your eyes almost pop out of your cartoon head when you see his high powered position, and then you instinctively bow toward this Gay Rupert Murdoch Publishing Czar, much like a Japanese Geisha would, and you accept his gracious business card as if it were your most coveted possession. And then you do something you've never done before. You tell The Genre Gent all about your anonymous Blah-Blah-Blog which has really started to take off (oh come on, if you don't sell yourself nobody else will!) And the Gay Cocktails really start to kick in as you begin embellishing the truth with heaps of relentless networking about how your Blah-Blah-Blog was recently written up as one of the Best Gay Blogs, yadda, yadda, yadda.

After your shameless self-promotion you are absolutely famished so you grab another celebratory Gay Cocktail and head downstairs to dance. The KickAss DJ has got the whole floor up on their feet, but when he plays MIKA you find your big Gay Fat ass ascending to the top the banquette so you can really let loose. You sing along to your court of young adorable boys as you inform them, "Big Girls, You Are Beautiful!" and you, of course, are The Biggest Big Girl as your arms flail around in time to the music... And that's when it suddenly hits you, or more like scrapes against you like a recently groomed Blonde Beard. None of these delectable drunk boys, no matter how young, hung, hairy or smooth, absolutely none of them are even remotely on your Gaydar. Even though you are Out and About, grinding amongst a sea of P.Y.T.'s on the dance floor, the only place you really want to be is lying in Blonde Beard's arms on his overly soft mattress (which definitely needs to be upgraded; sooner than later) as you tell him all about the amazing new contact you made at Genre.

So just like that that you decide to say your goodbyes to Fat Albert, The Dicktator and, of course, Genre Gent before you hop on the subway to go back to your Home Sweet Hovel. Although you'd rather go to Blonde Beard's, it's late and your boy is definitely making Z's. Luckily the subway arrives almost as if on cue which makes you feel like you've just picked up a Monopoly Chance card which says "MTA Error in your favor! This weekend the A Train is Running on the F Line! Advance immediately to Second Avenue without transferring!" However, your luck instantly runs dry when you get back to your Home Sweet Hovel and you find your Hobosexual Roommate sleeping on the little couch. Again. Unfortunately he wakes up as you tip-toe through your Lifeless Living Room, but he doesn't just wake up. He's so strung out that he actually jumps up and shrieks. You apologize for waking him, but you take the opportunity to ask him why he's sleeping in the Living Room. Again. To which he responds, "The bedbugs are everywhere. They're on the futon couch now, so I have to sleep on the little couch." You want to ask him why he doesn't just sleep in his own damn bed in order to keep the infestation in his bedroom, but he offers you an explanation without you having to ask, "I haven't slept through the night in months. I even threw my mattress away last week."

And that's when the light bulb above your head starts to flash uncontrollably because you realize that your Hobosexual Roommate has officially gone insane. Either that or you are the only fag on earth who is immune to Bedbug bites. Even though you've never once been bitten, you've definitely scoured the apartment for signs of the alleged infestation and found absolutely zero evidence. You begin to wonder if the Hobosexual has caught a bad case of crabs and is in denial? But you begin to lose both your patience as well as your Stoli O' Buzz as he tells you, complete with big saucer-sized pupils, that you will have to have all of your clothes drycleaned and then put away in storage. The Hobosexual's Imaginary Bedbug situation was all fine and dandy, but if he thinks you're actually going to spend a dime on his delusion, then your sleep deprived roommate better prepare himself for a rude awakening. So you inform him, in the nicest possible way, that you'll be happy to do whatever it takes to get rid of the Bedbugs, but you will definitely need to see a Bedbug before you start paying for their extermination. And that's when the Hobosexual begins to groom his sweater as if it were his baby Gorilla, and you are in shock when he actually produces several pieces of, get this, lint, and attempts to convince you, in all honesty, that the wool he pulled from his pilling sweater is, indeed, a Bedbug. You begin to wonder if he might actually be sleepwalking and having a simultaneous dream, or if this bizarre dialog is actually coming out of your nightmare? But you just politely say, "Goodnight," and tell him that you will discuss it in the morning. And then you go straight (for lack of a better word) to bed and spoon your pillow while delusionally imagining that it is Blonde Beard instead of a Bedbug. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Fags Who Fucks Over His Friends Without a Condom...

...but when you wake up on Friday morning and begin receiving overly inquisitive IM's from Jet Blew about your interest in the Jackson Heights Co-Op, you begin to wonder if, at the very least, he's going to supply you with some lube as he fucks you over:

JetBlew: what are you thinking about the apts?
You: morning! i really liked it! how about you?

Then there's this really long pregnant pause which is weird since he's the one who IM'd you first. Eventually he writes:

JetBlew: yeah... are u seriously considereing?

It was bizarre that you ran into JetBlew at the Wednesday Open House, but suddenly you realize that he's not just doing a friendly follow up after your coincidental meeting because suddenly you have a sinking feeling that your friend is fishing for information in order to beat you to the punch of buying the apartment. You decide to play it cool and make him work to get the information out of you.

You: yeah, i think i'm gonna head back over today to take some pics

There's another really long, very pregnant pause before Jet Blew gives birth to his ulterior motives...

JewBlew: which apt are u leaning towards
You: i dunno. probably A
JetBlew: K
You: ok? or you like K? is that the big one?
JetBlew: thats H
You: this conversation is worse than "who's on first." are you serious about the apt, too?
JetBlew: yeah
You: about H?
JetBlew: about H and A. getting mortgage rates now.

With that you realize that you better get your gay ass in gear because you want this apartment, whereas Jet Blew was just dragged along to the Open House by one of his Flight Attendant Friends during an extended Lay Over! And now he wants the same exact two apartments that you are interested in! So you immediately get on the horn and call Daddy Warbucks to discuss the possibility of him sharing his good credit to help his Number One Gay Son get a good Thirty Year Fixed Rate smack in the middle of a fucking mortgage crisis. Since you've tip-toed around this conversation before, you don't expect it to go very well, but either Daddy Warbucks has recently been diagnosed with Alzheimer's or your Mommie Dearest has started brow beating him into submission with Wire Hangers down in Florida, because, get this, your retired father agrees to sharing his good credit, his good name and his illegible signature on your mortgage deed. You are in such shock that you'd probably start to cry if you weren't already too busy racing to Queens on the F train in order to forge Daddy Warbucks signature on the dotted line so you can get enough Honey Roasted Peanuts (at a fixed 5.75% rate) before Jet Blew even finishes his Beverage Service and returns his seatback to the upright position. Although Jet Blew definitley picked the wrong fag to fuck with, may the best fag win!

Your head is spinning when the painfully slow-talking, extremely Whiny Real Estate Agent (who is one Co-Op Board Approval away from the Annette Benning character in American Beauty) puts you on the phone with the Monopoly Banker in order to get Pre-Approved by someone who has absolutely no interest in how cute you look in your form fitting G-Star T and your new Se7en Jeans (which you seriously consider returning to Loehmann's since you obviously can't afford them any longer). However, when the Monopoly Banker informs you that you have passed Go! and are pre-approved to collect $200, you almost faint.

You begin to hyperventilate over going into thirty years of debt in order to live in Queens (thank God it's the Queeny Gay Latino Barrio), but when Annette Weining's Assistant interrupts your panic attack to inform her slow-talking boss that Jet Blew is on the phone, your hand immediately starts writing down a number so big that your head can't even count that high. Annette Weining looks at the number and a smile takes over her face as she winks at you and informs her assistant, "Take a message. I'll have to call him back after we've finished this deal."

On the subway ride back to your Home Sweet Hovel your inner-Martha can't think of anything but plush fabric swatches, crown molding accent colors and whether or not your big ideas for your tiny apartment are following the basic principles Feng Shui? Or perhaps they're just plain old Faag Gai? Meanwhile, you are running late for your date with Blonde Beard, but you are excited to tell him all about the Co-Op that you just *gasp* bought. Only when you get to his place, Blonde Beard immediately pops open a bottle of Cabernet and hands you a Solid Dark Chocolate Easter Bunny that he spent a small fortune on at Li-Lac. And even though you are slightly pissed because you know your fat ass is going to eat the damn thing in one fell swoop (probably without bothering to swallow) you are touched by his adorable gesture which is almost as sweet as the Bunny's deliciously pointy ears. Then Blonde Beard tells you his good news about getting a pay raise at his brand new job, so the two of you decide to go out and celebrate on an expensive dinner which he can now afford even though you no longer can.

But it's early and your BFF is out having Happy Hour Cocktails with a few of your *gasp* Straight Friends, so you butch it up and navigate your way through the Fratty NYU neighborhood to The Dove Parlor where you order a nice big glass of wine that even comes with it's own little extra carafe because, get this, the glass isn't big enough! Even though the place is straight, they definitely know how to put the Happy in Happy Hour. As you toast Blonde Beard you realize that you have stumbled upon a momentous occasion as this is the first time that he is meeting your BFF. You, of course, are chatting it up about your new Co-Op with whoever is sucker enough to listen to you. Out of the corner of your eye you notice your BFF as he goes in for the kill and begins to interrogate Blonde Beard, who, you are noticing for the first time, is painfully shy. Even though you just asked the Straight Couple who recently relocated from L.A. a million probing questions, you begin to ignore them because you are dying to eavesdrop on the first round of BFF vs. Blonde Beard. Since you have to pretend that you're interested in what The La's have to say about La La Land, you only get to hear a few highlights of the amusing dialog: like when Blonde Beard tells your BFF that you guys are celebrating tonight because you've both had great days and your BFF (who texted you incessantly about his shitty day) literally says, "I'm so happy for you," while he puts his index finger into his mouth and feigns an impressively realistic gagging reflex as if he were a seasoned, seventeen year old Bulimic cheerleader.

After you leave and begin to wander aimlessly and equally reservation-lessly through the West Village in search of a nice restaurant without a long wait *ha!*, you kind of laugh when Blonde Beard tells you that he thought your BFF was a little mean. "He's a lot mean!" you chuckle, "That's why we get along so well!" And then you tell Blonde Beard about your BFF's shitty day and that he was just teasing and most likely a bit jealous. Eventually after circling the neighborhood, twice, and giving your name on the wait-list of every restaurant you pass, you both decide to go back to your first choice, Market Table, because your hour wait is already practically half over. You wind up killing the remaining thirty minutes having another delicious glass of celebratory wine next door at BarFry. Perhaps it's all the wine, or maybe it's your good fortune, or even your extremely attractive dinner date, but the Braised Lamb Shank with Gouda Gratin is honestly the most delicious meal you've had in over two years. Afterwards, as if you were wondering whether Blonde Beard was indeed the man for you, all your questions are answered when he decides to forgo dessert and order, get this, a delicious side of delectable French Fries. And as if that wasn't good enough, Blonde Beard ends up paying for the entire meal and poo-poos you was you try to hand over your ailing Visa card. Your day is now officially perfect. And you haven't even had sex yet.

Your Literary Lot of friends calls while you're waiting for the waiter to return with change asking if you guys want to hook up. But after a quick conversation you realize that, ultimately, you boys are not willing to travel East of Sixth Avenue and since the Lit Lot isn't offering to travel West of The Bowery, the four long blocks dividing your improbable rendezvous seem even more impassable than Fifth Avenue during the Gay Pride Parade. Meanwhile, you're not losing any sleep over it because you've got a nice little buzz going and there is lots of dirty gay sex to be had with Blonde Beard!

As usual, being naked with your Bearded Boy is amazing and you get lost in his kisses as he holds you tightly and whispers things into your ear that you can't comprehend because he's got you in one of your frenzies. And you want more. You want to be closer. To kiss more intensely. To feel his heartbeat through the salty perspiration of his soft chest hair. You want to be much closer than is physically possible. The intensity of the moment takes you away. The perfectness of this amazing day has your guard down. Your desperate need to be closer to this man who bought you a Dark Chocolate Easter Bunny takes you to a place that you haven't been in a very long time. A place that is so insanely intimate, yet equally terrifying. And when you find yourself in the eye of your sensual storm, it is the undeniable calm that ultimately produces your panic. Because that is when you realize that Blonde Beard is inside of you without a condom. It is a sensation you haven't experienced since your Endless Relationship ended over three and a half years ago. You both attempt to enjoy the awkward moment, for it lasts no longer than it takes Blonde Beard to reach across the bed for an easily accessible condom, only once you are separated by a layer of latex as well as both a physical as well as an emotional layer of fear, you attempt, unsuccessfully, to deny it. Even though it only lasted a moment, you weren't ready for this to happen yet. And now you have been fucked, however briefly, literally and figuratively, without a condom. Needless to say, you are freaked. You feel like an idiot because you're not even really drunk. And you're not exactly sixteen. You know better and yet it still happened. How did that happen? Anyway...

POLL RESULTS: What Would You Do If You Found Out the Boy You Were Falling In Love With Wrote a Secret Blog About His Love Life?

57% of You said, "It would depend on what I was writing about you. And whether or not I was a good writer..."

19% of You said, "You'd read it secretly and then emotionally fuck with me in order to make sure I had something interesting to blog about..."

15% of You said, "You think it would be pretty cool if I were writing about you instead of Blonde Beard."

4% of You said, "You'd dump my gay ass, no questions asked."

3% of You said, "You'd make me choose between writing about you, or sleeping with you..."

Number of Fags who Voted: 97

You're Not One of Those Emotionally Unavailable Fags...

...but you are beginning to worry that you might be dating one. Ever since you dropped the old "I'm falling in love with you" L-Bomb on Blonde Beard, something seemingly imperceptible, yet practically platectonic, has changed. For starters, your mood has turned to shit. And not just your run of the mill shit. We're talking diarrhea shit. And unfortunately for you, your Hobosexual Roommate has used up all the toilet paper. But, as usual, you're getting ahead of yourself.

You were feeling okay on Tuesday before your date with Blonde Beard, although your friends were taunting you over your use of the word "date." And to your dismay, they even started teasing you with the "BF" word to describe your budding relationship, which was absolutely ridiculous so you started to refer to Blonde Beard as your non-Boyfriend, because really, if this is one of those unrequited love things then you're not interested in getting anymore emotionally involved than you already are. Hell, over the past thirtysomething years, you've only told two other boys in the entire world that you loved them. Let's just say that when you use the L-Bomb, you mean it. But unlike the age old adage about the Chicken and the Egg, in your world the L-Bomb definitely comes first, with the "BF" term coming in second, albeit a near photo-finish. Meanwhile right now you're more like a gay Chicken Little who's still smack in the middle of the damn race, even though your sky has already begun falling (in love).

So you and Blonde Beard decide to go to his place (he still hasn't even been to your Home Sweet Hovel, which seems a bit weird, but whatever) and order some Burritoville Burritos (the cannibal in you chooses chicken) while watching something embarrassing on Pay-Per-View (Nancy Drew). The delicious burrito makes up for the lousy movie, but you're getting caught up in the unimportant (yet extremely embarrassing) details. During the movie you notice that you're not playing footsie as much as you did when you watched V for Vendetta last week. And after the movie, although you have (thank God) great sex, for some reason it seems a bit more rushed than before. And when you go to bed you feel like there's less cuddling than you've become accustomed to. And in the morning, Blonde Beard pushes the snooze button one less time before he hops out of bed. And on the M8 crosstown bus, he never once rubs his knee against yours. But the real kicker is that when you get off the bus at Sixth Avenue, you find yourself standing out in the rain with neither an umbrella (literally and symbolically) nor any sort of future plan to see each other again. And Blonde Beard always asks you about your schedule in order to make your next date.

Instead of working, you end up feeling sorry for yourself and moping around your apartment all morning. Everything annoys you, especially the dirty dishes that your Hobosexual Roommate left in the sink. Equally irritating is his week's worth of unopened mail that is overtaking the minuscule chopping block cart that doubles as your kitchen table. And when you hop in the shower you get really peeved that your recently purchased bar of soap has somehow disappeared into a shaving of nothingness even though you've been showering at either the gym or over at Blonde Beard's. In fact, you notice that the Hobosexual doesn't even own his own bar of soap! But the real kicker comes when you make your way over to the little teaspoon-sized basin that your landlord considers to be a sink, and you actually start to seethe from all the disgusting hair clippings that the Hobosexual has trimmed from his body and left blanketing everything. You are too old to be living like this. You need stability in your life. You need to live in an apartment where the hair clippings in the sink are yours. Or, at the very least, are Blonde.

Instead of writing you start flipping through Time Out New York to look for distractions. Only what distracts you is an advertisement for a new co-op in Jackson Heights where the studios start at $160k. For a second you worry that your Lasik might need a touch-up, but instead of dialing your eye surgeon, instead you find yourself dialing the Real Estate Agent about her obvious typo. The next thing you know you are headed out to the Gay Latino Barrio in Queens to look at real estate you can't afford even though it's Midwesternly cheap. Funnily enough, when you turn around from ringing the Real Estate Agents buzzer you are shocked to find your flight attendant friend, Jet Blew, who's standing behind you in the vestibule. You haven't seen him since the XXX-mas party last December when you hooked up with The Cellist; a period you now refer to as B.B.B. (Before Blonde Beard). Apparently Jet Blew is on a layover and saw the same ad you did. So you go upstairs and practically cry on his shoulder as you tell him all about your non-Boyfriend and your unrequited L-Bomb.

The Real Estate is a nice distraction, and actually could make a really nice Home Sweet Home if your Daddy Warbucks would help get you out of your Home Sweet Hovel by co-signing the mortgage. You're pretty sure that no bank in their right mind would ever approve a loan for starving writer who's living off his Blah-Blah-Blog Income. Which, thanks to an advertisement you're running on Facebook, is actually Outgo. Especially during a national mortgage crisis. But you're too busy dwelling on your whole Blonde Beard situation to be thinking about anything that might affect someone else. Especially anything national. But when the hairy man in question sends you a text message informing you that he's on his way home from work and absolutely starving because he didn't have time for lunch, you take the opportunity to ask if he'd like to meet for an early dinner, even though you have no appetite.

You end up meeting at a loud, crowded, cheap burger place in the West Village, cleverly named Westville. It's probably not the greatest choice for the heavy conversation that you want to have, but the prospect of being dumped in a nicer, quieter, more romantic restaurant sounds equally awful and expensive. Not to mention so fucking cliché that you'd rather be dumped in a burger joint, if for nothing more than the sympathy that it would demand during your rehashing of the event. So when Blonde Beard asks you if you're feeling better you decide to take the opportunity and jump right into the source of your recent mania. Suddenly you feel like Mr. Sheffield on The Nanny after he told Fran that he loved her and then decided to take it back. Instead of humiliating yourself and bringing up the whole embarrassing situation again, you just remind Blonde Beard of the other night when you said that thing that he didn't respond to. And when he instantly knows the thing you're referring to, even though you've just given the lamest most vague description possible of the event, you instantly realize that indeed, it was a very big thing, for both the Plaintiff as well as the Defendant.

You feel immediately desperate. It's a place that you're, unfortunately, familiar with, but, thanks to lots of very expensive therapy, you realize that this situation has just triggered all of your Abandonment Tissues. Typically you are extremely confident in most any social situation, probably too confident for your own good, but whatever, it's who you are. However, since you were adopted, this sense of confidence can be dismembered faster than Lorena Bobbit could sever a penis with a blunt carving knife. And, right now, your confidence is M.I.A. As in M.i.a. Farrow and all of her adopted children who probably wonder where they came from and why their birth mothers didn't want them either? Although you are now old enough to recognize this pattern that has repeated itself throughout your thirtysomething post-adoption years, it still takes you off guard in that same breathless way that a kick in the balls will. But here you are, once again, watching someone, whom you may or may not be in love with, (Oh please, who do you think you're kidding with the "may not" shit?) watching someone you love begin his incomprehensible retreat. Away from you. "Anxious" is what normal people might feel in this type of situation, yet you find yourself feeling desperate. As in a sort of "Mommy, please don't give your two day old baby up for adoption" desperate kind of way.

You preface this irrational fear with your adoption back-story, which may be too much information for someone who's about to dump you, but whatever, it's a long enough story to prolong the break-up for a few extra minutes. And then you explain to Blonde Beard that, after you dropped the L-Bomb, that his behavior seemed to change. That his previous level of extremely generous portions of affection seemed to have waned after you unleashed the explosive L-Bomb. And this change has made you very uneasy. You brace yourself as Blonde Beard thinks about your accusations and prepares himself to sign the relinquishment papers and sever all ties with you. But then something drastically unexpected happens; Blonde Beard apologizes. He tells you that his feelings for you have not changed. He tells you that he wants to continue seeing you. He tells you that if his affection for you seems to have waned, that it is completely unconscious on his part. But the most interesting part of his apology is that you believe him.

Suddenly you feel like a big fat idiot (your appetite has obviously returned), but luckily that's when the waiter brings the burgers, so you get to be a big Gay-Fat idiot with a Cheeseburger Deluxe to boot. Which, of course, will only make your boot even bigger than it already is. But Blonde Beard's apology seems sincere and you are struck by how quickly he changes the subject to something unimportant. You realize that he's hastily changing the subject, not because he feels uncomfortable for you, but most likely he's changing it because he feels uncomfortable. Just because he wasn't ready for the L-Bomb doesn't mean he'll never be ready. It just means that he wasn't ready yet. And he's uncomfortable talking about it now because he's still not ready. But not being ready doesn't mean he's abandoning you. Maybe it has less to do with the fact that Blonde Beard is emotionally unavailable, yet more to do with the fact that you are emotionally un-fucking-stable. Anyway...

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

...goddamnit, you are a professional in all of your gay endeavors! Especially when it comes to drinking. So you are extremely annoyed on Saint Patrick's Day when all the amateurs come out of their suburban closets and descend upon the city to do some loud, obnoxious drinking, clad in head-to-toe, you guessed it, spiffy green clothing.

So you decide to avoid the whole Hot Green Mess when your sober gal-pal emails you about grabbing a bite to eat. Since Double-A lives in Logan's Run (a.k.a. The 'burg), she suggests going to Dumont for a little post-birthday celebration. After a flurry of Reply All's (which always make you nervous because with your big mouth you are usually bound to end up offending someone) you quickly realize that tonight you will be Standing In for Michael York in his famous role of Logan, since you are *ahem* over thirty. This, of course, is evident by both your blinking Palm Light as well as the amount of money you spend each month on anti-aging products sold by Charlatans moonlighting in the cosmetic industry. But you digress.

You and your BFF take the L train to Lorimer and when you get out of the station you look around and say, "Toto, I don't think we're in Chelsea anymore." The one nice thing about the Williamsburg Slacker Factor (actually the only nice thing) is that nobody is wearing anything green. You also haven't seen even one "Kiss Me I'm Irish" button since you set foot on the L train. You have, however, noticed two original Charlie's Angels T-shirts and one '70s Iron-On with a fraying picture of a Corvette that actually says, "Wipe Your Ass In Fiberglass." But it's all good because the Corvette is not British Racing Green.

While waiting for a table in the back bar at Dumont, you all get a non-green, non-Irish beer. Eventually your table is ready and you end up sitting down next to Double-A who starts asking you and your BFF about your recent Griswald Family European Vacation. You tell her about all the thin European boys, but about how you were (for the most part) a good boy because you are actually dating someone that you really, really like. Double-A is shocked, mostly because she knows how fickle your gay ass can be, and she's never known you to swoon over any boy. And she definitely has never known you to pass up some gay European nookie before! And that's when some Random Hipster Girl pops her hand through the vines of a plant that is separating your tables. For a second you feel like you are Seymour being attacked by Audrey II in The Little Shop of Horrors, but you quickly realize that, although you are definitely being attacked by a Kleenex, Random Hipster Girl has no idea what's really going on when she rudely says, "Here's a tissue if you'd like to blow your nose!" in a manner that is much more hostile than helpful.

You are slightly horrified because, although you don't even notice it anymore, your friend Double-A has Tourette's Syndrome, and, although she doesn't yell inappropriate swear words at inopportune moments, she does constantly clear her throat in a manner that sounds as if she is suffering from terrible allergies while snorting mounds of cocaine. But you are extremely impressed when Double-A turns to Random Hipster Girl and says in the nicest possible tone that in no way shape or form could be considered patronizing, "Actually I don't need a tissue, thank you. I have Tourette's Syndrome. Do you know what that is?" And you are completely impressed by your friend who is handling this difficult situation in such an amazingly calm manner.

And that's when Random Hipster Girl snaps back with, "Of course I know what Tourettes is!" You instantly want to yank out the bitch's eyebrow ring and pour bleach all over her Ironic Vintage T-Shirt Collection. But Double-A continues the conversation without raising her soothing tone, "Well it's just a tic from my Tourettes that I have no control over, so actually I don't need that tissue because it wouldn't help."

Random Hipster Girl stutters uncomfortably while waving the white Kleenex in a manner that in no way suggests defeat, "Well, I think you should just take the tissue!" Unfortunately that's when you can't help but pipe in, "Didn't you hear her? She doesn't need your damn tissue!" But Random Hipster Girl throws the tissue onto your table anyway, while giving you a nasty look reminiscent of a Nazi child who has just uncovered Anne Frank's secret hiding place. You are absolutely sure that Random Hipster Girl will, at her earliest convenience, inform the appropriate 'burg authorities that someone over thirty has illegally crossed the Williamsburg Bridge.

Although you are quite shaken up, Double-A seems to be surprisingly immune to the situation. You immediately inform her about how impressed you are with how she handled the unnecessary confrontation, and she explains that, "It happens all the time. For some reason people are really angered by my tic." And it's really unfortunate, not for your friend, but for the Angry Amateurs who shower Double-A with tactless tissues instead of recognizing the beautiful and amazing person that can be found just beyond her noisy tic. And with that you throw the offensive tissue back over at the Random Hipster Girl. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those S & M Fags...

...unless of course it's a night like tonight where you find yourself at one of those Stand & Model bars (can you say G Lounge?) where the only kind of pain that is inflicted upon you is strictly emotional (unless, of course, you count the misery of feeling physically inadequate amongst the artificially enhanced Chelsea Steroid Queens). But while you're busy chatting it up with the Boy Luck Club, an email comment from one of your Blah-Blah-Blog Readers beeps through to your iPhone and you quickly find yourself reeling as if you had just been iPunched in the stomach:

"I love your blog but even at the risk of never reading about your shenanigans again, I think now might be a good time to stop writing about your relationship with Blonde Beard. If you really like him and you want things to work out, you don't want entries like this floating around the Internet, because if he ever sees that you wrote about his drug problems on your blog, anonymous or not, he might (and probably should, to be honest) freak out..."

Meanwhile, the only person freaking out right now is you. The Boy Luck Club immediately notices the sobering change in your typically drunken demeanor and they try to comfort you about the strange situation that you have unexpectedly found yourself in. You started your Blah-Blah-Blog mostly as a goof, but after a while you realized that writing about your ridiculous dating foibles, was not only cathartic, but there might actually be a Silver Lining that might hopefully bring some attention to your writing and ultimately help attract a Literary Agent that could help sell your damn novel. So far, it's all been good, except for the fact that you never had a Plan B for when you fell in love. Especially not so damn quickly. And definitely not so damn publicly. So you say goodnight to the Boy Luck Club and shuffle your Gay-Fat Ass (actually at this point you may actually be creeping into Straight-Fat territory) to McDonald's on Eighth Avenue, and you order $3 worth of Food (you use the F-word lightly) from the Dollar Value Menu in order to drown your sorrows on cheap, yet Manly portions of TransFat across from, ironically, a Fat TransMan.

The next morning your alarm wakes up your depressed gay ass way too early for a Saturday because you have to schlep out to The Pines in order to check out a Quarter Share (even though all you want to be checking out is a Quarter Pounder) with your future Fire Island Housemates. You almost miss the 9:16am train because your Cabbie keeps making wrong turns because he is much too busy yapping Farsi into his cell and can't seem to retain the fact that you needed to go to that obscure destination they call Penn Station. Luckily you make the train with less than thirty seconds to spare, and plop yourself down between Rice Queen and Rice Queen Too, who, ironically, dated each other in college long enough to realize neither of them liked White Boys too much. You pretend to sleep while listening the two yap about their recent outings to The Web as they compare notes on their overlapping dates. At one point White Rice actually shares an Asian Boy's number with Brown Rice (which you find a bit odd) until you realize that Brown Rice is just entering it into his phone to double check if the number had already been stored which would, of course, mean that they had dated. Everyone is shocked when the fact neither White Rice nor Brown Rice has slept with this particular Asian Boy, so it is quickly decided that he must be Sticky Rice. You, of course, open your eyes at this point to learn the meaning of this new urban slang which is explained to you as an Asian Boy who would prefer to sleep with another Asian Boy over one of your two friends.

After spending the last of your cash and taking out a loan from White Rice to pay for the $24 round-trip ferry ride (which is explained to you by the Sayville Ferry Girl as a Winter Rate, although you consider it more of a Winter Rape), you are tickled pink when you realize you have sat your Gay-Fat Ass down next to Robin Byrd herself! You love-love-love the Original Public Access Fag Hag who would somehow always get her guests to expose themselves during a striptease during the final credits to "Baby Let Me Bang Your Box." So, of course, you discreetly take a photo with your camera phone because, even though it becomes blatantly obvious from her "mature" appearance that her shows have probably been rerun longer than The Brady Bunch.

Eventually you get to The Pines and meet your Real Estate Agent who reminds you of that actor in Ghost (you know, the one who played the Subway Ghost?), only this guy is much, much scarier. And in the same way that the Subway Ghost wasn't able to get off the Subway, this Realtor actually can't get off Fire Island because he lives in The Pines year round. Which is, ironically, nothing more than a Gay Ghost Town from Labor Day till Memorial Day. For a while it seems like yours is the first conversation the Ghostly Realtor has had since they shuttered the Blue Whale's doors after last Summer's final Low Tea, but you quickly tune him out because you get a text from Blonde Beard about meeting up in Rockville Centre later on. Somehow you agreed to accompany him to, get this, a two year old's birthday party. On Long Island. After telling Blonde Beard what train you'll be on, you end wandering up and down the boardwalk, touring luxurious, yet freezing cold beach houses, none of which have running water. This dry situation presents a constant drainage problem for your girly bladder which, as usual, overfloweth with Diet Pepsi. At the end of the day, you and the Rice Queens end up being drawn to a super cute place on Beach Hill that, shockingly, you all agree upon, and you tell the Ghost Realtor to draw up the papers so you won't be late to the toddler's birthday party.

When the train arrives at Rockville Centre (tragically, it really is spelled like that), you give some quick double Euro-Kisses to the Rice Queens because you are excited to get off the train and give some lengthy French-Kisses to Blonde Beard who is waiting for you on the platform. As usual, your eyes quickly weed through the Pastel-ish Suburban Crowd and immediately lock onto Blonde Beard's piercing blue eyes which draw you in like a Tractor Beam from the U.S.S. Enterprise. After you get your kiss you head over to the Breeder's party in order to celebrate the two year anniversary of their successful Breeding. Although it's not something that you'd typically relish doing on a Saturday, you were touched when Blonde Beard asked you to join him, not to mention the fact that you were excited to meet some of his friends. Besides, today is your Two-Monthiversary so you probably would have agreed to eat broccoli or even gone Women's Shoe Shopping with him if that's what he asked you to do.

You are both completely out of your element in the extremely spacious Long Island Home, and you keep staring mistrustfully at the plethora of Pastel Colored Suburbanites who seem to be, get this, enjoying their Nanny-less babies even though the Rugrats are spitting up and screaming and eating things off the carpet. Your eyes are also constantly drawn toward the staircase which is freaking you out because it is inside the living quarters instead of out in the dirty common hallway so it can be shared with apartment dwellers where it can do double duty as an ashtray to accommodate neighbors who are too lazy to schlep down six flights to get their nicotine fix. You suffer through the endless opening of the presents by a baby who is more interested in the discarded ribbons and ripped wrapping paper than he is interested in his actual toys. Suddenly one of the other childless Manhattanites happily informs you with a gleam in her eyes that your train is ten minutes earlier than you all thought it was, so you all mumble your goodbyes as you rush outside. You are so anxious to make this train that you end up squishing yourself in through the back liftgate of a Jeep Liberty so you won't have to suffer through an extra half hour with disturbing staircases and manipulative blonde babies.

You and Blonde Beard board the Long Island Railroad and duck away from the other Manhattanites into the first available seat. You worry that it might be rude, until Blonde Beard informs you that, "The party is over!" And before you know it you are back in Penn Station which is, unfortunately, full of Amateur Suburban Drunks who are wearing green and actually singing "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling" even though all their eyes are glazed over. You consider informing them that St. Patrick's Day is still forty-eight hours away, but then you'd actually have to talk to them, so you just leave because, after all, there is gay sex to be had.

Back at Blonde Beard's stair-free apartment it gets hot and heavy pretty quickly. You find yourself sitting on top of him, hypnotized by his blue eyes in that now familiar way where you forget absolutely everyone and everything that is beyond your peripheral vision. That's when Blonde Beard looks up at you and whispers, "Thanks for coming along with me to that horrible baby party today. I know you didn't have to go, but it really meant a lot to me." You instantly get all veklempt, and even though you know you shouldn't say it, you can't stop the words from coming out of your mouth, "Of course I went with you. I'm falling in love with you..." And just like that, on your Two-Monthiversary, you drop your first L-bomb. In all of your thirtysomething years, you've only ever said it to two other boys. Even though, this time, you didn't really say it, yet, you certainly just gave some foreshadowing of what was to come with this practice sentence, almost as if you were a sophomore in High School taking your PSATs.

And then you just wait. And wait. And wait. But all you get is crickets. Although Blonde Beard's body language stays consistent, and his eyes never ever veer away from your stare, he does not return your oral sentiment. Eventually the silence embarrasses you so you look away. On one hand you feel like you have just exposed your poker hand prematurely, while on the other hand, even though Blonde Beard obviously does not feel ready to meet your call, you trust that he is not bluffing. Although you feel extremely awkward, you do appreciate his confidence to savor the tender moment without feeling the necessity to parrot those words back to you before he is ready. So to break the silence you find your abandonment issues taking control of the situation as you quietly request, "Please don't hurt me." To which he quickly whispers back, "Don't hurt me either." And although you want to say that you would never hurt him, you instantly remember the comment from that boy who reads your blog and you begin to worry that maybe you already have? Or maybe you're even worse, like some anonymous Robin Byrd who profits off of your guest stars by emotionally exposing them on your narcissistic blog. Anyway...

POLL RESULTS: Which Gay Mecca has the Cutest Fags?

25% of You Eighth Avenue fags said, "New York."
16% of You Darlinghurst fags said, "Sydney."
12% of You Le Marais fags said, "Paris."
11% of You WeHo fags said, "Los Angeles."
9% of You Castro fags said, "San Francisco."
9% of You Girls from Ipanema said, "Rio de Janeiro."
6% of You Toga wearing Gladiator fags said, "Rome."
4% of You White Party fags said, "Miami"
2% of You Cabaret loving fags said, "Berlin."
1% of You Don't Cry For Me Argentina fags said, "Buenos Aires."

Number of Fags who Voted: 72