You're Not One of Fags Whose Head is in the Clouds with Unrealistic Dreams...

...but as you lay in bed you can't help yourself imagining how nice it would be to be snuggling up against Blonde Beard right about now. You imagine your face rubbing up against his softer than expected beard, and kissing his welcoming lips, as you get lost in the feeling that made you fall in love with him in the first place. Only instead of your unrealistic dreams coming true, you wind up with a text message that beeps you back to reality and makes your heart skip a beat. The only boy who would be bothering you during your silly fantasy is Blonde Beard, right? Wrong. You pull your hand away from your nether-regions in order to check the phone and, not necessarily unfortunately, your message is from Mr. Write. "that was great fun...meeting you. i told my director all about you and he thinks you sound 'dreamy.' and he is the straightest boy i know." Although you are obviously touched, your heart is still busy imagining the bearded boy who you hoped to be receiving this dreamy message from, and you take a moment to decide how best to respond. You know you're not in the best mental space, but you also know that you met someone special tonight and you don't want your bad mood to sabotage the obvious potential. So you take a moment and edit your crankiness, and wind up responding with something deprecating, and are quickly rewarded with yet another compliment, "dude you ARE dreamy. surely you know." And you decide to end the conversation because you like the idea of Mr. Write falling to sleep and dreaming of your alleged dreaminess, even though you'd prefer to imagine Blonde Beard tossing and turning to his obvious nightmares of leaving you crying on a subway platform.

The next morning you awake to a full schedule of crap coupled with an overwhelming case of woe-is-you, and you have serious trouble pulling your head from your pillow even though it is (surprisingly) not hungover. You never feel like shit after a night of relative soberness, however, when you reach over from your pillow to check your cell you are distracted from your Blonde Beard sorrow long enough to see that Mr. Write has obviously jumped out of his bed and texted you with a simple, yet substantial, "Hi."

You have so much to do today before schlepping out to JFK and flying to Florida to visit your aging Snowbird parents, but your first order of business is to finish that damn Shutterfly Photo Book and send it off to Blonde Beard. You want to be done with that humiliating task so you make sure it is at the top of your daily To-Do list. You feel kind of silly putting it together, yet for some unknown reason, you want it to be as spectacularly special as you initially imagined it would be. So you run out to a card store to buy some self-adhesive photo-corners in order to paste all of the restaurant business cards that you collected onto each page of the ridiculously inappropriate book. It saddens you as you flip through the book, pasting each card onto each page, while wistfully remembering each conversation at each restaurant, and yet somehow you are compelled to finish. You need to be done with this and drop it in a mailbox. Only you can't. After you finish you end up dragging the humiliatingly sentimental Photo Book into work so you can show someone how fucking fantastic it is. And she literally tells you that, "It's absolutely wonderful. I would cry if I ever received something like this." And that makes you happy enough to finally drop the fucking thing in a mailbox and be done with it. Then you race over to The Mercury Lounge in order to buy tickets to Yaz this summer because you know that, although Blonde Beard bought tickets for both of you, that you are no longer going to see that concert with him. You fret over which night to purchase tickets, but you ultimately decide that if running into Blonde Beard would ruin the entire experience of seeing one of your favorite bands, then you should definitely buy tickets for the alternate night's show.

That evening you have plans to go have drinks with the Portuguese Brazilian From London, only you aren't really feeling all that social, so when he IM's you in the middle of the day to ask if you'd rather go help him buy a suit, you are completely non-plussed. You had tentative plans to have a drink with him tonight, even though you're in no mood, so you're kind of happy that he's altering the plans and giving you an easy out. You want to ask the Portuguese Brazilian From London if, perhaps, he'd rather come watch you write for the rest of the afternoon, but you are friendly enough because you realize that it is indeed best that you skip this undeniably doomed date. So you lie and tell the Portuguese Brazilian From London that you are very busy working even though you are merely procrastinwriting, and you happily put an end to the possibility of spending your aftersnooze at Brooks Brothers.

Later on you get a really nice Text from Mr. Write that says he really wants to see you before you leave for Florida to visit your parents. You are touched and tell him your crazy schedule, to which he responds, "can we at least have coffee? i want to lay eyes on u b4 u go. 4 or 5 ish." And how can you really say no to that? So you meet him at 5pm after a full day of procrastinwriting and then you have a nice coffee at a NewsBar on University Place even though you carry in a Diet Pepsi because you don't drink coffee. You wind up talking about past relationships and even though you consciously choose to be vague about Blonde Beard, Mr. Write is definitely even more vague about his recent romantic shenanigans. So, of course, you press him. He hems and haws but basically tells you that he has recently ended a four year (open) relationship because he wound up falling in love with a boy (which is exactly why you would never allow yourself to be in an open relationship...) and that they broke up a few months ago. When you ask for specific dates you are given nothing. Actually you are ignored. So, of course, you ask again. And then Mr. Write says, January. Or February. As if he has actually forgotten which month his heart was broken.

This is when you begin to look at Mr. Write long and hard. And something seems off. His enthusiasm for you no longer seems appropriate. Suddenly, his overly confident assurances that he is, indeed, truly single, and that he is ready to be dating make you begin to wonder exactly who he's trying to convince? You smile, even though you thinks that the Lady doth protest too much. But you have a plane to catch, so you kiss Mr. Write goodbye and race home so you can pack your largest Gay Fat bathing suit and head out to JFK so you can fly JetBlue through the white puffy clouds to warmer weather for a dreamy weekend in the sun with the Straight Senior Set. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Fags Who Wears Jewelry...

...but if you were wearing one of those Mood Rings from the '70s it would definitely be a lovely shade of Lavender right about now because you are feeling totally Gay in all derivations of the word! You are so excited about your rebound date tonight with Mr. Write and you figure that he is exactly what the Doctor prescribed in order for you to get over Blonde Beard, even though, for some reason, you're not particularly all that Broken-Up over the Non-Breakup of your Non-Relationship.

After a recent email-fest with Mr. Write, you have learned a lot about the boy. Not to mention the fact that you are definitely liking what you've learned. Except for the fact that he's a Red Sox fan, but he grew up in Boston so you can excuse him for being a fan of brightly colored footwear. Meanwhile, the most interesting thing you learned about Mr. Write is that you are both adopted Catholic boys. Although, unlike your Recovering Catholic Ass, Mr. Write was raised in a Jewish family! This little tidbit practically has you running out the door to start up a kosher wedding registry at Jeffrey (where you will make sure Mr. Write gets a few pairs of more subtly colored $200 socks). A fake Jewish Boy! Your heart begins to kvell as you think of all the fake Passovers you will have together! All that unleavened bread with none of the Jewish Guilt! And the best part is that you are younger than Mr. Write so you are forever guaranteed to say The Four Questions! Oy vey! This just gets better and better!

Even though you've already planned which gay retirement village in Boca that you'll spend your Golden Years Nair-ing away each other's graying back hairs and dying each other's grey chest hairs with Just For Men products, you decide to play this Internet Meet n' Greet by the rules that have always served you well. As usual, you suggest that Mr. Write should be the one to pick the place to grab drinks. This way you get a little insight into the kind of place Mr. Write likes to go, and also what kind of date he wants to have. For instance, if he picks Starbucks you can suddenly come down with a case of dirty hair that needs to be shampooed. However, Mr. Write suggests going to a straight place called North Square that you've never heard of. It's an interesting choice because, on one hand it's nice because you know he won't be distracted by Gay Boys with flatter abs than the new (post-surgery) you. But on the other hand, you won't get to find out if Mr. Write has a roving eye, which is always a good litmus test for a first date.

You take the F train to the infamous West 4th stop in Greenwich Village where Blonde Beard recently left you weeping about your Non-Breakup on the subway platform, and then you stroll gaily along Washington Square Park while you enjoy the warm and beautiful evening (which, of course, you take to be a very good omen). You're right on time and get to the bar before Mr. Write does, so you order a draft beer from a straight bartender with the most tragically gay haircut that is about as pathetic as a wet cat. Actually his 'doo kind of reminds you of Christian from Project Runway after someone threw his Flat Iron into the tub that he was bathing in. For some reason you find wet hair that isn't really wet to be thoroughly disturbing. But you digress. You take a sip of your beer and you look up as you are licking the foam from your upper lip and your heart almost skips a beat as Mr. Write walks into the bar. Definitely better looking in person. If that's even possible. Mr. Write is Drop Dead gorgeous. And, luckily for everybody involved, your memory of Blonde Beard is what has actually just Dropped Dead. You stand up and your face lights up with dimples, as does Mr. Write's. He walks down the steps to greet you, only now that you're both standing on the same level you finally realize Mr. Write's (for lack of a better word) shortcoming. Although you like to think of yourself as an above-average writer who happens to be merely of average height, you are definitely UPPERCASE to Mr. Write's lowercase stature. But when you get a good look at his goods, you quickly realize that it all evens out when you're lying in bed homozontally. As long as you don't smother his hot little frame.

You have a really nice chat. For over two hours. You even break your rule of ordering more than two drinks. Who are you kidding, you always break that rule... Anyway. You have loads to talk about and tons in common. You even have friends in common. As in plural. But you're just thrilled that he has friends, unlike Blonde Beard who, in comparison, seems like a bit of a hermit. You end up having to move away from the bar because a really loud, Red-Headed, Fag-less Fag Hag is giving you both migraines. The corner table you relocate to is definitely an upgrade. Dimly lit and very romantic. The conversation turns a bit intense and time seems to fly by so fast that you are actually shocked when Mr. Write informs you that he has to leave to meet a Director about a reading he's having tomorrow for one of his as-of-yet un-produced plays. And when the check comes Mr. Write reaches for it and nervously knocks over what's left of his Pineapple Martini (and yes, of course you made fun of Mr. Write for ordering such a girlie drink...) A table across the bar has a severe case of schadenfreude and they begin to laugh hysterically at Mr. Write's misfortune as they syrupy mess covers the table and begins to overflow onto the floor.

You split the wet check and have an awkward moment outside the bar. Although you have a strict handshaking rule for Meet n' Greet's, Mr. Write coaxes you into walking him home and you go along with it because it's a gorgeous evening and he's a gorgeous guy, and you want to prolong the date. Along the way your girlie bladder informs you that it has processed way too many manly beers, and you inform Mr. Write that, if you walk him home, that you will definitely need to use his bathroom. He worries about the mess factor, but willingly succumbs to your request even though he says his apartment is messy. The idea of a mess has you briefly worried that, like your roommate, he might be another Hobosexual who lives surrounded by his own filth, but this will be good information for you to receive before you send out your Wedding Shower Invitations. Luckily the super cute apartment turns out to be a Homosexual mess instead of a Hobosexual one, and after Mr. Write moves the one little offending pile of papers out of sight, his spacious 1BR on Union Square actually sparkles like Jesse Archer. After an awkward stare-fest, you end up breaking another one of your Meet n' Greet rules as you reply "Yes," to Mr. Write's adorable request for a kiss. You end up hunching a little (so that you don't end up giving him a hickey on his forehead), but the kiss is nice. Very nice. You, of course, quickly cop a feel, and the body beneath Mr. Write's shirt must actually belong to Mr. Right because, honey, there ain't nothin' at all Wrong with it.

You leave on an absolute high, but as you begin to walk to the subway you decide to swing by your Writing Space to see if the Shutterfly Photo Book you made for Blonde Beard's birthday has finally arrived. It has. Your natural high (coupled with your Beer Buzz) begins to quickly spiral downward as you flip through the Photo Book. You immediately go on an emotional journey of all the dates the two of you had ever gone on. And that's when it finally hits you. Since the initial Subway Sob-fest, you've been wondering why you haven't had a moment of sadness over the Non-Breakup with your Non-Boyfriend? You just wanted to be done with him and send the book off to him for some old fashioned literary closure, yet the book literally ends up closing you as you begin to shut down. How on earth are you suddenly back to this place of going out on first dates? Even though meeting Mr. Write was probably even better than your first date with Blonde Beard was, your mood begins to plummet and your imaginary Gay Mood Ring turns the very real color of Black while your heart foolishly wonders if you could dye it Blonde? Anyway...

POLL RESULTS: What would you do if the fag you fell in love with told you he was spreading himself too thin to have a relationship with you?

51% of You would cut your losses and walk away from Blonde Beard immediately.

29% of You would give Blonde Beard some more time to realize that he better start spreading his boy butter more liberally--all over your chest.

13% of You said, "If the sex was mind blowing then I'd keep letting Blonde Beard blow me."

5% of You said, "An eye for an eye! I'd start spreading a thin coating of my boy butter all over town."

Number of Fags Who Voted: 157

You're Not One of Those Fags Who's Too Chicken to Discuss His Feelings...

...but, as you pull a frozen chicken breast out of your freezer, you realize that it has become glaringly obvious that Blonde Beard is definitely a Chicken shit. And it kind of blows your mind. How is it possible that he could be so undeniably intimate with you, for months, and then just run away like Chicken Little after the L-Word came falling from the Sky (after too many Skyy Vodkas, of course...) You truly don't understand his issue, but as far as you are concerned there are two scenarios: 1) Blonde Beard doesn't feel the same way about you as you feel about him, or 2) Blonde Beard does feel the same, but he's too scared to express it. Neither doomsday scenario is acceptable. At all. So there you have it. It's officially over. Buh-bye, Blonde Beard. Don't let the razor nick ya on the way out! Next!

You sit down on the Hobosexual's lumpy futon couch and rest the Zip-locked Frozen Chicken Breast on your swollen Balloon Balls when you realize that your revelation about Blonde Beard neither surprises, nor disappoints you. And honestly, when you think about the relationship in such broad terms, it doesn't even seem like that big of a loss. But here's what's making you dazed and confused, not to mention driving you slowly insane. If the loss is truly no big whoop, then why on earth were your feelings sooooooo intense for Blonde Beard? Was your tearful subway meltdown just an "in the moment" kind of drunken thing? Or were your intense feelings more like a fast-acting, yet short-lived drug? Perhaps after years of dating Flaky Fashionista Fags, maybe you confused Blonde Beard's promptness and politeness as something that was actually unique and special and worthy of your deepest emotion? Or perhaps it's just that the sex was just so damn good that you let your girlie emotions get the best of you? And meanwhile, if you truly feel so Non-Plussed about the end of your Non-Relationship with your Non-Boyfriend, then why on earth are you so obsessed with the fact that you don't feel worse? Let it go already! Hell, if you're just in denial about the whole damn thing then why can't you just enjoy it before the other designer shoe drops?! And that's when you stumble upon what's really bothering you: After years of being single in New York, has your concept of love become so superficial and Chelsea-fied that you've finally become one of those "out of sight, out of mind," emotionally compartmentalized fags? Anyway.

When your Boneless Balloon Balls are thoroughly numb, you put the Zip-Loc bag on the kitchen counter so it can continue to defrost, and then you pop a Pain Killer and hobble down the six flights of stairs in order to get your Gay Fat ass out of your Home-Sweet-Hovel. You head over to your writing space to do some procrastinwriting, however, by the time you schlep up the three flights of stairs and claim your second-favorite dark little cubicle, your Gay Fat ass is, ironically, feeling light headed. With all your Blonde Beard lollygagging this morning, you forgot to have a breakfast chaser with your one-calorie Pain Killer. However, your dizziness turns out to be a blessing in disguise when you check your email and see that Dr. Mary-Ann-Not-Ginger has sent you the results of your Scrotal Sonogram. Being single and sober would be a tragic combination to receive the lovely news that your aging Balloon Balls are actually suffering from a painful case of varicose veins that was obviously aggravated by your Hurtful Hernia Surgery. Varicose Fucking Veins?? How humiliating is that? Your Blue Balls are like the gay equivalent of some Blue Haired Lady in Boca! Do you even have testicles? Or is your scrotum actually holding a couple of over-sized Blue Haired Lady Ovaries? Oy Vey(arie)...

Luckily there's another email from the Portuguese Brazilian From London to help distract you from your Old Girl Troubles, and, even though it's a bit ridiculous, you are happy to set up a date with him when the old chap returns to New York for the weekend. After a busy, light-headed day of Procrastinwriting, you drag your Balloon Balls over to the Gay and Lesbian Center to see a Michael Cunningham interview because he's been one of your absolute favorite authors ever since you read A Homo at the End of the World. Only instead of listening to the old Literary PowerHouse's interview, you spend The Hours drinking the free wine and texting your new literary PowerBottom that you recently met on Connexion: Mr. Write. He definitely gives good text and you can't wait to meet him.

However, when your cell vibrates to alert you to what you assume to be another flirty text from Mr. Write, your butterfly-anxiousness is quickly replaced with rolling eyes when you notice that this particular SMS is from your Hobosexual Roommate. He informs you that he has put your chicken in a bowl of cold water because (get this) it has started to go bad. Now, you know this is not in the realm of possibility because, 1) It is April not August, and your Home-Sweet-Hovel is barely warm enough for your toes to defrost, and 2) Even if the frozen-solid chicken breast has defrosted and actually gone bad, that it couldn't smell because it is tightly sealed away in a Zip-Loc bag. So you text the Hobosexual back and ask him to put your poultry in the refrigerator for you, as you will be home soon to take care of it. He immediately writes you back and informs you, "i put it in the fridge but i wouldn't eat it cause it really smells." You know that this is preposterous because the Hobosexual would never eat any kind of non-processed food that didn't come in a package from Trader Joe's.

After the Michael Cunningham interview and an inappropriate amount of free wine, you head back to the Home-Sweet-Hovel and are surprised to find that the apartment really does smell. Bad. Kind of like rotting chicken. However your rotting chicken is sealed in a Zip-Loc bag, which has been put away in a sealed refrigerator. So like Toucan Sam, you follow your nose and open the sink cabinet where you find the offensive Specimen. Days it's been since the overflowing trash bin has been taken out. And it reeks. You want to kill the Hobosexual because, had he taken care of this smelly situation hours ago, then your apartment wouldn't smell like Flesh and Blood. So you tie up the garbage bag and place it in front of the door because, between your Blue Veined Balloon Balls and your Hurtful Hernia, there's no way you are doing another twelve flights (round trip) to bring out the trash. So you whip up a delicious chicken dish and go to bed early. Of course, when you wake up the next morning, even though the Hobosexual had to move the smelly trash bag in order to get through the door, he couldn't be bothered to take it downstairs on his way to work. God forbid he should do something around the house when he has his old, Varicose-Veined Gay Mommy to do it for him. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Fags Who Waits by the Phone for Your Boy to Call...

...but that's mostly because you're much too busy waiting anxiously by your laptop for an apology email from Blonde Beard. The last thing he said to you was that he would contact you on Sunday. And, of course, now it's Monday and not only have you not been contacted, but you have also woken up in severe pain. Heartache would actually be preferable to the excruciating testicular "kick-in-the-balls" kind of pain that you're feeling. At first you were proud of your swollen balls, but now they're seeming a lot less, as Fergie would say, Glamorous. But, since you have your priorities set (for lack of a better word) straight, before calling Dr. Mary-Ann-Not-Ginger to schedule an emergency appointment, you log onto Connexion and change your online profile from "Exclusively Dating" back to, sigh, "Loser Party of One." Oops, excuse the typo, you meant to write "Single."

Dr. Mary-Ann-Not-Ginger barely takes thirty seconds out of her busy day to examine your Balloon Balls (which, given their current size are at least worthy of a two minute gawk, or perhaps even a paparazzi tabloid shot on Gawker), and then she writes you a prescription and sends you downstairs for a, get this, Scrotal Sonogram. You wait and wait and wait for what feels like forever before you are finally taken into a room and informed that you must take all your clothes off and put on a humiliating hospital gown with the opening to the front. Ugh. You do as you're told, however, without the support of your Calvin's, the weight of your pendulous scrotum practically brings you to tears. Although sitting down in a hospital gown that opens to the front happens to be the most disturbingly unbecoming pose you've ever donned (not to mention the most un-lady-like), gravity forces you and your Balloon Balls to take a seat so you don't have to add crying to your list of woes.

Eventually you are called into a little room by an unintelligible Russian Technician who is surrounded by lots of expensive medical equipment whose operating manuals hopefully come in languages other than English. Ms. Gorbachev instructs you to "Move your pen-iss," which takes you a moment to fully understand, but eventually you realize that she needs help with her Soviet Penis-troika so you happily move your junk out of her way. She lubes up your balls with gobs of petroleum jelly while you lay there and try to think about anything less humiliating than this particular experience. So, of course, your mind instantly turns to your recent Non-Break-Up Break-Up with Blonde Beard.

While Ms. Gorbachev rubs her Transducer over your Junk, you mentally escape the humiliation by creating a Pros and Cons list in your head. Although the Cons seem to substantially outweigh the Pros, and even though the two of you were so substantially different that it would have been practically impossible to achieve a long term relationship, you can't help but wonder, "Why the fuck hasn't Blonde Beard called you?" Regardless, you are somewhat relieved that the stressful relationship has ended before you had to come out of your Blah-Blah-Blogger Closet. Your unexpected relief kind of reminds you of the way you felt when you lost contact with your Homophobic Birthfather, even though that troubled relationship ended because you came out of the closet. Anyway. The whole situation is just too confusing and too difficult that it somehow actually seems easier not to have it. So the silver lining of your whole Blah-Blah-Blogged relationship is that you're not really all that broken-up about breaking-up with Blonde Beard. Although you don't feel particularly sad, you definitely feel, particularly and undeniably, confused. You run through the embarrassing chain of events that led to the demise of your Non- Relationship with your Non-Boyfriend and you begin to wonder if perhaps Blonde Beard might somehow be mad at you for ruining his 40th birthday? But all you fucking did was tell him you loved him after paying for everything. Note to self: Next time definitely confess your love before the check comes.

Eventually, Ms. Gorbachev finishes probing your nether regions and runs out of the room as she mutters something gruff and unintelligible which you decipher as, "Get dressed." You stand up, carefully wipe the goop from your throbbing Balloon Balls, get dressed, and when you open the door Ms. Gorbachev is absolutely nowhere to be found. Defeated, you just leave, feeling even more confused than you already do, not to mention slightly defiled (but not in that good gay way that you've become accustomed to).

The hospital ends up sucking a lot of time and energy out of your day that would have been much better spent laying in bed, so when your phone reminds you of an HIV test you made weeks ago when you still had a sex-life, not too mention testes that weren't tortured by even the lightest touch, the last thing you want to do is drag your ailing balls across town to Callen-Lorde to get tested (especially since the prospects of ever having sex again seem to have recently become extremely unlikely). Unfortunately, it's much too late to cancel, so you schlep across town on the M23 bus and wait for your name to be called for your $10 Rapid HIV test at the Community Health Center.

After Miss Hot Tranny Meds pricks your finger for a bit of blood, you habitually get up and start to limp back to the waiting room so you can slowly drive yourself crazy during the twenty minute wait while visions of your accidental Magnum-less P.I. (Penetration Incident) with Blonde Beard dance through your head. You're almost out the door when Miss Hot Tranny Meds asks you in her deepest baritone. "Where do you think you're going? You signed up for a complete set of STD tests." Ugh. Miss Hot Tranny Meds sends you downstairs for a blood test, and when you return, both ends of your digestive system are thoroughly swabbed as if you are one of the Perps on Logo's newest show, CSI: Fire Island. During the commercial break, Miss Hot Tranny Meds informs you that your HIV test came back Negative. Although you should be thrilled, you actually find yourself wondering whether it's possible to have a relationship that will last longer than the six-month gap between your Bi-Annual HIV test?

Anyway. When you get home and drag your aching Balloon Balls up the six flights of stairs to your Home-Sweet-Hovel, you instantly race to your computer to check your email for an apology from Blonde Beard that you're never going to receive. Only when you check your Inbox it actually contains something that proves to be even more ego-stroking: an email from a very, very cute Connexion boy. It says, "hey! i'm a writer, too. what kind you ask? i'm the trying-not-to-be-lazy kind. i'm actually just a playwright, so not a real writer. you can google me, i ain't lyin'." You, of course, instantly Google Mr. Write and are absolutely shocked to find a Wikipedia entry that includes so many credits and prestigious accolades that, one thing's definitely for sure, Mr. Write "ain't lyin'."

Blonde Beard who? Anyway...

You’re Not the Type of Fag Who Cries Himself to Sleep...

...but you do whole-heartedly believe in the medicinal powers of an old fashioned sleeping pill. Forget about all this Ambien and Xanex crap, you, my friend, prefer to follow in the footsteps of the Ghosts of Divas Past. After coming home, alone, after the dramatic subway platform ending of your three month relationship with Blonde Beard, you decide to treat yourself to thirty milligrams of forty-winks and you knock yourself out (like Judy and Marilyn would have) with one of your left over Restorils prescribed to help you survive a Red Eye on your recent ski trip to Chamonix.

The next day you wake up, extremely groggy, and you’re kind of thrilled about the gorgeous warm weather. You don’t have any plans, so, as you lay in the comfort of your comforting comforter, you start to think about how best to spend your Sunday. And that’s when it hits you. You suddenly remember last night. You remember Blonde Beard’s fortieth birthday dinner at Supper. Drinks at The Ritz. More drinks at Barrage. Then you remember that sentence. The one that caused you to forget everything else that was said before or after. Blonde Beard’s sentence that suddenly put everything into perspective for you and your three month relationship: “I just feel that, between work and school, that I’m spreading myself too thin.” You are shocked, but not because of Blonde Beard’s irritatingly lame break-up sentence. You are shocked, but not because that sentence ultimately caused you to confess your love on the West 4th Subway Platform before walking away and bursting into tears. You feel like you've done everything you could in this relationship, and somehow you don't feel like too much of an idiot. Expressing your feelings to someone you love is not a bad thing. And the one thing you know for sure is that when you do express your love for a boy, you definitely expect it to be a good thing. Actually, more like a great thing. But none of these Post-Mortem realizations are all that surprising. What you find to be completely shocking today is that you're not really all that sad. At all. And shouldn’t you be? After all, you told the damn guy you loved him and then he let you walk away. Could you have possibly made a mistake? Well, obviously you were wrong for falling in love with Blonde Beard in the first place, but is it possible that you were never actually in love with him at all?

You remember your first break-up with your first love. You cried for weeks. An entire summer, in fact. And after you broke up with your second love you remember breaking into sudden tears almost daily in the shower, where nobody, not even you, could see your tears even though they were undeniably present on a daily basis. And the third boy you’ve ever said, “I love you” to is Blonde Beard. Shouldn’t you feel worse? Shouldn’t you be crying? After years of being single in Manhattan, is it possible that you’ve gotten too old and jaded to properly experience love and heartbreak? Your existential angst actually pulls you out of bed and keeps you busy sifting through your innermost superficiality for some hint of denied sorrow as you make yourself some (actually rather delicious) scrambled eggs and hop in the shower and sing along the poppy new British Import you bought on eBay, Now That’s What I Call Music 69, specifically to some song called Be Mine! by Robyn, “But you never were, and you never will be mine!” And, get this, even though the silly song makes you instantly think of Blonde Beard, it actually puts you in an even better mood.

So after getting dressed you decide exactly what you are going to do today. You are going to finish making that ridiculously romantic Shutterfly photo book that documents all of the dates you went on with Blonde Beard. And you’re not doing it to be spiteful. Well, you don’t think you are. Anyway. Instead of considering it as a birthday present, you decide that now it will work much better as a Lovely Parting Gift. So the Martha in you hobbles her Hurtful Hernia over to the restaurant that you took Blonde Beard to last night for his birthday dinner. Originally you had wanted to get the waitress to take a photo of the two of you for the last page in the book, but after Blonde Beard poo-poo’d that you decide that you still want to document your Last Supper with Blonde Beard which, ironically, took place at Supper.

And then you go home and spend the day in front of your computer, uploading photos, cropping them, putting them in chronological order, while you wait for Blonde Beard not to call. You title it “Forty Dates With a Thirty-Nine Year Old.” And you end it with a simple, “Happy 40th, xoxo You!” because the x’s and o’s seem to represent the way you feel now much better than the word “love” does. When you finish you actually feel kind of relieved that it’s over. You no longer have to live in fear of Blonde Beard finding out about your Blah-Blah-Blog. You don’t have to worry about him hating you for writing about your relationship and publishing it on the internet. The fact that he doesn’t love you seems somehow preferable to him finding out and hating your Gay Fat guts. And that’s when it hits you. It’s not that you’re too old to experience love and heartbreak, perhaps you’re just too scared to experience it publicly. Anyway...

Click here to view this photo book.

POLL RESULTS: Are You the Type of Fag who Practices Monogamy?

63% of You Sexually Frustrated Fags said, "Yes! I am the gay equivalent of a Nun and I only sleep with one Priest at a time."

21% of You Fickle Fags said, "Depends on how cute my boyfriend of the week is..."

10% of You Nelly (Furtado) Promiscuous Fags said, "Mo-what-gamy? I'll give you exclusive rights to my dick when you pry it from my Trick's cold, dead hands!"

4% of You Polyamorous Fags said, "Of course. I am part of a completely monogamous threesome."

Number of Fags who voted: 137

You're Not One of Those Fags Who Says Things He Doesn't Mean...

...but sometimes you definitely mean things that you don't actually say. Like when you go out for brunch with The Ex. You've known each other so long that you don't even need to say things. In fact you can have entire fights without even saying a word. On the other hand, you can still have moments where you wonder why you ever broke up. Anyway. He's finished production on the movie he's directing in Texas and has a week off before moving to LA to begin editing. Since his idea of rest entails nodding off in a Broadway theater, you two meet at Eatery for a nice brunch before his matinee begins. You, of course, are late without any valid excuse, but The Ex, for some unusual reason, doesn't give you a hard time. You get seated right away and order something light because you feel like a big fat pig. And the two of you begin to yap while you wait for you food.

You start talking to The Ex about his imminent trip to Los Angeles and somehow you get on the subject of flying with the Kitty Cunt. The Ex got the cat in the divorce, and that was fine because he should have. That Kitty Cunt meant more to him than you ever did, and besides, you hated cleaning the damn litter box. Anyway. The Ex tells you a story about when he was traveling to LA with the Kitty Cunt who was, surprisingly, on her best behavior. However, during their Limo ride to The Four Seasons (yes, The Ex is fancy in that way), the Kitty Cunt couldn't hold it in anymore, so she turned her Kitty Cunt toward The Ex, raised her tail up inside the traveling cage, and pee'd a stream of smelly cat piss onto The Ex's white button-down shirt! The Ex freaked out and immediately opened the limo's window and hung the traveling cage out the window over the 405 (as if he were Michael Jackson dangling Blanket over that Berlin Balcony), and let the Kitty Cunt spray her scent over the gridlock they call West LA.

The two of you laugh and laugh over this ridiculous scenario until you begin to cry. Only you're not crying in that good way that The Ex thinks you are. You're actually wondering why Blonde Beard has never make you laugh like this? You wonder why your conversations with Blonde Beard aren't as easy-breezy as talking with The Ex. After brunch you are screwed because you know you must spend the day shopping for a present for Blonde Beard's 40th birthday and you have no idea what to buy. Although you had planned to take him to Vermont for a romantic birthday weekend, Blonde Beard's school schedule has recently changed and that trip will have to be postponed for weeks. And now you must come up with some sort of offering before his birthday dinner this evening.

During the train ride downtown, you put your thinking cap on to figure out a nice, romantic present that won't break the bank. You are, after all, still taking him out for an expensive dinner tonight, not to mention taking him to Vermont in three weeks. But you know you need to show up to dinner with something thoughtful. Luckily on the subway you have a brainstorm and you decide to make a Photo Book that documents all of the dates that you've been on since you two met. So you race home and quickly charge your digital camera while consulting your Blah-Blah-Blog for all of the wonderful places you've been. You make a list of bars and restaurants and then race down the six flights of stairs with the week-old surgical scars from your Hurtful Hernia. And you begin to document your relationship. You start at Urge where you had your first kiss and then you make your way West to all the romantic places you two have ever been. As you are taking photos of Quartino Bottega Organica, someone rudely asks you what the hell you are doing and you look up to see an old friend giving you shit. You are a bit embarrassed, but you explain to your Project Runway wannabe friend that you are photographing date locations for a Birthday Gift. Project Wannabe instantly starts to gush and he is sooooooo happy for you that, man-wise, things have finally turned around for you. You chit-chat for a bit, but you have tons of places to document, so you double-kiss him goodbye and then limp your way from East to West Village, taking photos and business cards from all the super cute places that you've shared experiences with Blonde Beard.

Sometimes people eating at these restaurants look at you a bit funny, but you don't really care. Sometimes you have to wait for a long time for the restaurant manager to find you a business card from beneath the cash register, but it's all worth it because everybody gushes about how romantic your gift is, and they all go out of their way to help you, which only makes you more and more excited to give it to Blonde Beard. At Shag, you even have to chat with the Bartender (who you made out with once in the corner of the bar which the surveillance system doesn't survey) while you explain that you are making a scrapbook for Blonde Beard. And funnily enough, the card the Shag Bartender gives you includes his phone number, prominently written on the back. But you digress. You wind up photographing twenty-three places and by the time you finish you can barely walk. You've spent the entire day documenting your relationship with Blonde Beard, and you wind up racing back home to quickly shower before meeting him at Supper for his birthday dinner. Of course you don't have enough time to actually make the book on Shutterfly, but Blonde Beard's birthday is a day away and you feel confident that your tardy present will be well worth it.

You're only a few minutes late, but Blonde Beard is, of course, waiting for you outside of Supper. You are soooooo excited to see him, however when you arrive it is obvious that he's in a bad mood. He informs you that he is feeling sick (again) and he begins to complain about it. However, you have spent the last five hours schlepping around Manhattan reminiscing about your relationship, and you are on such a natural high that you aren't about to engage his complaints. You just ignore anything negative, even when he seems to be taking it out on you for simply suggesting that he might want to finally go see a doctor. Although you let it all go, you can't help but wonder if Blonde Beard is trying to pick a fight? Perhaps he's just anxious about his big birthday? Whatever it is, it doesn't matter because you are here to make everything better tonight.

Your table isn't ready so you head over to the bar and buy a pair of overpriced $12 margaritas. You're even more bummed when you have to tip $2 per lousy (ridiculously expensive) drink, but you are happy when the tequila seems to help Blonde Beard lighten up. Eventually the host seats you at a not-so-private table for two, and you order more drinks as you begin your not-so-romantic dinner, during which Blonde Beard answers a phone call from his Jealous Roommate. Blonde Beard is told that he shouldn't come home because his Jealous Roommate is installing a new kitchen faucet this evening. You, of course, laugh heartily at this information, because his Jealous Roommate is the same man who hates you for joking about the fact that he's never going to finish his endless renovation... Meanwhile, you're thrilled because the faucet situation insures that Blonde Beard will be spending the night at your place (for the first time), which means you won't have to deal with the Jealous Renovating Roommate. During dinner you attempt (at least three times) to caress Blonde Beard's knee with your hand, but unlike previous dates, his hand never meets yours beneath the table. Perhaps his affectionate-less distance has something to do with him feeling sick? Anyway.

Somehow dinner, plus tip, turns out to be $130 (not counting the $28 margaritas you bought at the bar), and it wasn't even that good. But Blonde Beard seems to have drunken himself beyond his bad mood so it was worth it. When you walk outside you somehow remember that you have brought your camera and you attempt to coax Blonde Beard into allowing a stranger to take a photograph. You, of course, want this photo to be the very last photo in your Photo Album of Dates, but Blonde Beard whines about being sick and not looking good and you just let it go because, after all, it is his birthday even though you imagined the last page in the photo book to include a picture of the two of you.

For some reason Blonde Beard wants to go to Hell's Kitchen and you agree (even though you know your Internet Crush is less than three blocks away at Eastern Bloc), and you wind up going to The Ritz. You start a tab there and drink lots of poorly poured beers by the cute but lousy bartender from Syracuse who slept with your BFF. Would it actually kill him to fill the damn glass? Eventually you are able to coax your shy Blonde Beard onto the dance floor, and even though you are suffering from post surgical swollen testicles, you somehow find the energy to dance. Blonde Beard just stands there. Watching. Disapprovingly. Even though coming to The Ritz was his choice. He keeps looking around at other people, but not in that skeevy way where he's checking them out because he wants to chat them up. Somehow it seems like he's just not that interested in chatting you up. Like his Attention Deficit Disorder is pulling him away from you. Even though it doesn't seem personal, it still doesn't feel good. Eventually the dance floor is packed and Blonde Beard starts making fun of the music (even though it's really rather good, which is easily illustrated by all the cute young boys grinding around you). Since you're feeling a bit unsure of the increasingly awkward situation, you decide that flirting is the best policy and inform your hairy faced man that your friend Bunny recently told you that once Blonde Beard saw you dance that he would fall head over heels in love with you. However, when Blonde Beard doesn't even react to either your dance moves nor Bunny's ridiculous claim, you definitely don't feel like dancing anymore.

So you go to Barrage for their Hour of Power and you position yourselves at the far end of the bar where nobody seems to be bothering you. Somehow you finally begin to talk. For real. And even though you've had way too much to drink, you are somehow still emotionally parched for something that has seemed elusive all night long. Honestly, you're not even sure how the conversation begins (although you definitely bring it up), and you (not so suddenly) find yourself on such uneven footing that you can't help but begin to ask probing questions. You don't even remember what you ask exactly. But it doesn't really matter. Nothing he says is reassuring. You begin to panic. How did you go from birthday cocktails to this fucking conversation? Although everything Blonde Beard says is bad, the only thing you actually remember him saying is the only thing actually worth remembering, "Between work and school and you, I feel like I'm spreading myself too thin..." And that's it. When you hear that you know it's over. People don't say things like that when they really like someone. People say things like that when they want to break up. Or when they want you to break up with them. The ironic thing is that you didn't even feel like Blonde Beard was neglecting you! Lately, of course, things have been odd, but he's always offered you all of his free time! Which he has next to none of! That's not such a thin spread! But these are things that aren't worth arguing about. You have no interest in someone who spreads himself too thinly for you. You know you deserve more than that. And Blonde Beard knows that, too. And that's exactly why he's saying what he's saying. You, of course, pay the tab and tell him you want to go home.

On your way back to the subway Blonde Beard informs you that he thinks he should go home alone (even though there is no running water) instead of spending the night with you; that he will call you tomorrow. None of this surprises you any longer. The C train comes and you both hop on and sit in absolute silence from 42nd Street to West 4th. You both get off there, since you need to transfer to the F and Blonde Beard needs to race home to his faucet-less apartment. So you find yourselves standing on the A-C-E platform at West 4th and you are unable to move. You know that there is nothing more to say, of course, but you can't seem to break away. You physically cannot leave him. You feel terrible because you're worried that you have both ruined his birthday and are now breaking up. You just stand there, silently, waiting for something to end the awkwardness, when the A train pulls up. It seems like Blonde Beard is trying to get rid of you when he asks if you can take that train home since it's on a fucked up Weekend Schedule. You can't, but the fact that he wants you to hop on the train makes you feel unwanted and really sad. You tell him, "It is really, really hard to walk away from you right now." And then you look deep into Blonde Beard's blue eyes as your brown ones begin to well up with tears, so you instantly avert your gaze and lean in toward him so you can whisper into his ear, "Because I love you." And you mean it.

Then you walk away. You don't look back as you head down the stairwell to the F train because you are scared to. That's when you really begin to ball because you know it will be the last time you will ever see Blonde Beard. All you want is for him to run after you and grab you into a hug and make everything better. But somehow you make it to the downstairs platform and walk the entire length to the front of the train, passing by drunks who stare at you and your girly tears,without hide nor hair of Blonde Beard. You sit down and cry for an eternity before the F train arrives. And even though he said he would, you know in your heart that Blonde Beard won't call the next day. That he was just saying something he didn't really mean because he felt uncomfortable. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Valley of The Dolls Fags...

..."but you have to get up at five o'clock in the morning and sparkle, Neely, sparkle!" Well, maybe not 5am, but definitely 5pm. Usually. Regardless, you've been absolutely loving your Oxycodone that Dr. Mary-Ann-Not-Ginger prescribed you after your Laparascopic Surgery to repair your Hurtful Hernia. Usually you're way too Anal Retentive (literally) to be a fan of pain killers and their constant constipating side effects, but, since your balls have become so insanely large and excruciatingly painful (your scrotum feels like it's doing double duty as a Bowling Bag), you've been popping the painkillers as if they were Wint-O-Green flavored Tic-Tacs. Even though your Generic Percocet Dolls make you a little loopy sometimes (mostly since you take them on an empty stomach for some extra medicated umph, not to mention the fact that you are so beyond Gay Fat mere weeks before Fire Island Season begins...), but luckily, even though you feel a bit wonky, you still have your priorities set (for lack of a better word) straight, so you cram into your loosest pair of Fat Jeans and head uptown to Therapy for Gay Cocktails with the Ski Fags for their end of the season party.

When you get off the E train at 50th Street you receive a text and wonder, perhaps, if Hell Hath Frozen Over, because somehow your BFF has beaten you to the party. And he's on Gay Standard Time. In the Los Angeles time zone no less. So you pick up your limping pace and when you walk into the bar you instantly focus on the grim look on your BFF's face which is confusing, until you notice that he is chatting with two non-Ski Fags. With two of your friends actually. Half-Share (who recently upgraded to a Full-Share in the Pines, only in a less glamorous house) and also Jet Blew. More specifically, these are two of your friends that your BFF has already slept with. You chuckle about the awkward situation to yourself, but since you are feeling no pain (killer) you are also feeling no sympathy (buzz killer). Time for a Gay Cocktail! Or four.

You joke with Jet Blew that he absolutely has to move into your new building (assuming the mortgage gods smile upon you and overlook your bad credit) so you both can have some Melrose Place drama. Of course, you will play Heather Locklear's character, Amanda, and quickly sleep your way to the top of the Co-Op Board, where, once you become President, you will amend the no-pet policy to include a ban on children. And you will redecorate. Everything. And you'll replace the muzak in the elevator with a constant loop of Rihanna, Kelly Clarkson and Madonna. Okay, maybe Britney, too. Her Blackout album is growing on you. Meanwhile, after a few cocktails you realize that your Blackout is growing on you, too. Whereas four Stoli O's would barley cause your kidneys to hiccup, tonight you are feeling like a Hot Tranny Mess. Sort of like Judy Garland's and Liza Minelli's incestuous love child. So, of course, you make the executive decision to order another cocktail. However, since Happy Hour is over, your cheap ass orders the generic house Vodka.

At the bar you run into your Irish friend, Guinness, who seems to be competing for the world's record of Most Overly Educated While Intoxicated (you still don't understand why he wants to be friends with your illiterate ass...) That's when Guinness suddenly introduces you to the most shockingly handsome foreign boy that you've seen at least since you got off the subway, and the two of you immediately start slurring about something extremely gay and fashion-ating. The Portugese Brazilian is amazingly well built and you try to imagine him in a Speedo on Ipanema Beach until he starts talking about how he's about to relocate to London where, somehow, he'll be closer to his family? Now geography is definitely not your thing, but even after all the pills and booze you are pretty sure that London is not closer to Rio de Janeiro than New York? But you just shrug and sip on your Gay Cocktail while attempting to look pretty. The Brazilian from Portugal (?) fills in your lacking end of the conversation with some non-sequitur how it is impossible for men to have a monogamous relationship, and then, in the same sentence, he informs you about his boyfriend. You vehemently disagree that monogamy is impossible for anyone but him, until he changes the subject and starts telling you about how he really, really wants to have a kid. He even hired a surrogate who ultimately ended up being barren (which strikes you as a very interesting and lucrative career choice). You're about to offer your womb for hire when the Portuguese Brazilian from London hands you his business card and then excuses himself for the bathroom. You attempt to focus on his complicated job title, but it must be too dark in the bar (or something) because it's much too difficult to read. Anyway.

That's when you become aware of a hand *gasp* grasping your Gay Fat mid-section! Which happens to be dreadfully close to your bandaged surgical incision! You instinctively recoil (without, thank God, spilling your precious, Full-Priced, Non-Happy Hour Gay Cocktail). The hand turns out to belong to one of the more Advanced Ski Fags (who you made advances on at the last Ski Fag Party). You skied together in France, and you know he was confused about why your advances stopped, but you thought it was too complicated to explain the whole Blonde Beard situation. He never asked, and you never offered. Advanced Ski Fag smiles a quick hello and then quickly disappears into the crowd of drunken moguls. Other than your BFF, Advanced Ski Fag was really the only boy who you enjoyed on the trip and you are truly excited to see him. Suddenly you have the drunken need to explain the Blonde Beard situation and tell the Advanced Ski Fag about why your sexual advances made such a hasty retreat. So you chase him through the powdered noses sprinkled throughout the crowded bar and luckily catch up to him before he makes his way down the Black Diamond trail which the Bravest Ski Fags refer to as, "The Therapy Stairway."

Anyway. You catch up to Advanced Ski Fag and stop him before he begins his treacherous descent, and you say, "Hey!" while flashing him your dimples in a rather revealing, slightly inappropriate way. He smiles back and it instantly becomes clear that if you weren't seeing Blonde Beard, then you would definitely be making more Advances on Advanced Ski Fag. That's when you reveal, "I was hoping I'd get to see you tonight! I can't believe it's already been two months since we were skiing in France." The Advanced Ski Fag looks at you, puzzled, and says, "What are you talking about?" which is, needless to say, weird. Although it is obvious that some sort of social avalanche has begun, for some reason you continue your Mary Ol' way down the slippery slope. You say, "Yeah, you were the one guy that I really enjoyed hanging out with on the trip." And that's when the Advanced Ski Fag says, "I never went on that trip. Who do you think I am?" You look long and hard as the boy in front of you explains that he is actually Bar Boy who you actually dated a few times last December. The last time you saw him he was so drunk that you ended up walking him home and left him half naked on his bed because, let's face it, he was too drunk to care and it was just much too much work to get his jeans off. My how the tables have turned...

You stare at Bar Boy for a long time before he asks, "Are you okay?" And then you explain that you've just had surgery and probably shouldn't be mixing your Generic Pain Dolls with Generic House Vodka. But you keep looking at him because, even though you know he is actually Bar Boy, he still looks like the Advanced Ski Fag to you. You excuse yourself and look around to find your BFF so you can make him take you home, only when you turn around you see another Ski Fag who you met on your trip to France. Somehow you muster up a "Hello" through your immense embarrassment, and then you say, "How's your dog?" And that's when this particular Ski Fag hits you. In the stomach. On your belly button. Exactly where you just had surgery. You instantly double over in pain as this Ski Fag reminds you that you have mistaken him for his Chamonix roommate.

You decide that you have obviously long ago turned into a pumpkin, and now, Cinderfella, you have actually begun to ferment. So you ease your way down the Black Diamond rated Stairwell and you glance around the downstairs bar for a nanosecond, mostly so you can claim that you looked all over the bar to say goodbye to your BFF, but that's when the Portuguese Brazilian from London walks over to you with a fresh cocktail. "Leaving already?" You are terrified that you might actually be mistaking his identity too, so You explain that you had much too much to drink and that it doesn't seem to be agreeing with that handful of pain killers you took earlier today. That's when the Portuguese Brazilian from London actually starts to quote Valley of the Dolls, "Broadway doesn't go for booze and dope. Now get out of my way, I've got a man waiting for me." And then he reaches over and gives you a kiss which you find yourself readily accepting, yet ultimately wishing that you hadn't. Because, even though things have been getting a bit odd, you are seeing Blonde Beard. On your way back to the subway you find yourself feeling so immensely guilty about the kiss that you are so immensely happy that you're going to black out this entire evening. Anyway...

POLL RESULTS: What type of fag are you when you meet your new boyfriend's close friends for the first time?

54% of You Clean Shaven Brunette Fags would make sure that everybody in the room knows how wonderful you are, even at the risk of your own comfort.

23% of You Blonde Beard Fags get so nervous about making a good impression that you end up making a bad one.

17% of You Maverick Fags could care less what your new boyfriend's stupid fucking friends think of you!

4% of You Fags in Denial said, "What are you talking about? My new boyfriend has no time for his boring-ass friends because he's too busy worshiping me!"

Number of Fags Who Voted: 105

You're Not One of Those Carb-Free Fags Who Won't Eat Bread...

...but after your laparoscopic surgery to repair your Hurtful Hernia, you are absolutely shocked at the havoc it has caused on your abs. Hell, during the brief period you were lying on the operating table you somehow went from Gay Fat to Circus Fat (apparently skipping Straight Fat altogether). What the hell did Dr. Mary-Ann-Not-Ginger do while she was mucking around inside the crevices of your belly button? Did she accidentally misplace her Pocketbook in your abdomen? Regardless, you can absolutely forget about ever wearing your Skinny Jeans again since your Fat Jeans are actually, get this, too fucking tight! Not to mention the fact that you haven't eaten in days! Meanwhile, it's not only your belly that's expanded into Straight Fat territory; but sometimes bigger is better. The Silver Lining of this whole humiliating experience turns out to be that your balls have actually doubled in size. And honey, they weren't that small to begin with. However, between your Second Trimester-Sized Belly and the Square Patch of hair that was mysteriously shaved away from your Treasure Trail, it really ain't so pretty down there anymore. But you desperately want to look pretty tonight because you have a date with Blonde Beard at a restaurant in your neighborhood with the unfortunate name of, get this, Bread.

You limp down the six flights of your Home-Sweet-Hovel a bit early so you can go swing by The Bowery Ballroom to buy tickets for the Calvin Harris show, and then you slowly hobble your way over to Bread on Spring Street. You'd really like to pick up the pace in order to burn some extra calories, but, thanks to your gargantuan balls, it's a bit hard to move at a reasonable pace on a Manhattan sidewalk. Somehow you actually get to the restaurant on time even though Old Ladies with Walkers are actually lapping you. Ever prompt, Blonde Beard is there waiting for you outside of the restaurant and he hands you a cute little Get Well present which instantly warms your heart, until you realize that it is actually a Get Fat present full of *gasp* cookies. You attempt to smile and thank him for his thoughtlessness (oops, you meant to say thoughtfulness), but it's difficult for any actual expressions to squeeze past the fleshy folds of skin that used to resemble your face. You are really happy to finally see your boy for the first time in three days since your belly-button went under the laparoscopic robotic knife. You were kind of wishing that he'd swing by on his lunch hour, or pop in after his night class, just to say hi. Perhaps to check up on you. But you realize he's been super busy.

You end up ordering a Green Salad Appetizer and a Salmon with Root Vegetables Entrée even though you really should be ordering Liposuction with a Side of Anorexia-Nervosa. Since you're still not feeling quite like your normal self, you decide to order a glass of red wine, because, let's face it, your normal self is rarely this sober! The wine hits the spot and the salmon is nice until Blonde Beard offers you a ravioli from his plate. After the carb-tastic pasta goodness, your salmon simply sucks ass. And not in that OMG, rimming kind of way. But the conversation is nice. Nothing earth shattering, just a Post-Op Catch-Up. You talk a lot about Blonde Beard's upcoming Grad School projects which you try to seem interested in, even though you're feeling a bit uncomfortable and crabby. You're slightly surprised that Blonde Beard doesn't ask you much about the operation, nor about your recovery, but, between his surgical squeamishness and the fact that you've chatted on the phone the last two evenings, you wind up letting it go.

After three glasses of wine you are feeling so much better that cheap old you actually picks up the check! However, when you stand up and gravity pulls your expansive belly downward, you instantly feel extremely full. You assume that since everything is so swollen down there, that there's not much room left over for a tiny little salmon to swim downstream in your previously-herniated digestive system. Anyway. When you hit the street, Blonde Beard wants to wander around SoHo and look for a new Spring Jacket since it's still relatively early. Even though you're feeling much too Circus Fat to be shopping for anything that doesn't involve orthopedic flip-flops, for some reason you agree to tag along as long as Blonde Beard doesn't mind walking at your snail's pace. You hit Bloomingdale's, H&M and Uniqlo, but after those three pit-stops you find yourself as winded as a One-Lunged John Goodman on a Stairmaster. After that, Blonde Beard walks you home.

As you unlock the vestibule door to your Home-Sweet-Hovel, Blonde Beard makes a lame crack about not believing that your apartment actually existed. "What are you talking about?" you ask, and he explains that you've never invited him over before. You're annoyed because you have definitely invited him over several times. In fact, you've thought it was rather odd that the boy you've been seeing over the past (almost) three months has shown zero interest in seeing the poverty stricken conditions that you live under. You just assumed that Blonde Beard preferred hanging out in his neighborhood and sleeping in his own uncomfortable bed, but now that his Jealous Roommate has banished you from ever visiting their apartment again, he's decided to slum it over at your place. Although you actually find his wise crack to be a big deal, you decide to not make a big deal about it and instead concentrate on your endless ascension up the six flights of stairs.

You introduce Blonde Beard to your Hobosexual Roommate and they both grunt an unintelligible greeting to each other, which seems kind of strange to you. Even though Blonde Beard's Jealous Roommate hates your guts (which was inevitable since he's obviously in love with Blonde Beard), you definitely went out of your way to be polite and friendly to him since, after all, you were a guest in his overly renovated home. Obviously Blonde Beard doesn't seem to care to give The Hobosexual the same kind of investment. Anyway. Eventually you excuse yourself into your bedroom and ease yourself into the least painful Post-Op position where you can still enjoy making out with your hairy-faced boy. As usual you get lost in his eyes, and then, yadda-yadda-yadda, you are amazed at how far your spunk can shoot even though you feel like you've practically been neutered. Thank God for Laparoscopic Silver Linings!

And that's when Blonde Beard gets out of bed and starts getting dressed. Although sleeping is still extremely difficult, and you were wondering about how exactly you were going to share a bed with him, you are kind of shocked when spending the night together isn't even going to be an uncomfortable option. "It's after midnight," you inform him. "Are you really going home now?" Blonde Beard explains that he has tons of work to do on a school project which is due next week, and he wants to be done before his Birthday on Sunday so he can actually have a few cocktails and enjoy his big day. All of this is, of course, true, but you begin to wonder where his head is really. All along you've felt like you were on the same page, but something seems to have shifted recently. Perhaps it was the ridiculous fight you had with his Jealous Roommate? Or maybe he's just disgusted by the way you look in your Circus Fat Jeans? But he's got to realize that all of that is just temporary, right? But as his hairy face pops up through his V-Neck sweater, you begin to wonder about what isn't temporary? Suddenly almost everything seems to feel a bit ephemeral. Is it possible to be in a successful relationship with someone who is so fundamentally different than you? Are you getting too old to compromise? Or even worse, is Blonde Beard? You walk him to the front door and kiss him goodbye before you instinctively dive head first into the bag of carbolicious Get Well cookies that Blonde Beard gave you earlier. Except, after eating absolutely all of them, you don't feel any better. At all. Anyway...