ASK YOURSELF: You Really Don't Know Why Some Fags Feel Compelled to Write to You...

...when they have nothing nice to say? Since they obviously don't like you, then why on earth do they bother reading your Blah-Blah-Blog in the first place?

From: Bronwyn Walker-Jackson [email address deleted]
Sent: Tuesday, May 27, 2008 4:21:56 PM
Subject: How can you afford to just drink all the time?

Did writing for television really make you that much money? And really, TELEVISION? Ick. Don't you feel like a whore?

Bronwyn

Why on earth do You think this is?

Please answer by commenting to this post (see link below) so all of us can get to the bottom of this horrible gay injustice!

Here's what some of You have been saying:

You said...
Dear Bronwyn,
Yes. Yes. No.
xoxo You!
May 30, 2008 11:45 PM

Jyr653 said...
Upon careful reading and analysis of my blah-blah-blog, it can be noted that most of my drinks are supplied by friends, parties, acquaintances, hot boy-toys, and such. Really, as if I were an amateur... *tsk tsk*. May 31, 2008 12:23 PM

The Fabulous One said...
Oh, oh! I know what his problem is. He's jealous of You, glorious You! May 31, 2008 2:36 PM

Jesse Archer said...
As for Bronwyn, she is a whore, except a real one that doesn't make as much money as the whores writing for tv. Old fashioned envy. Plus, her name is Bronwyn so she's Irish, dances without her arms, has red hair and is unable to get a tan. Wouldn't you be bitter? May 31, 2008 2:58 PM

secret gaygent man said...
Hey Bronywn! What kind of a name is that, *anyways*?? Stop hanging out with those debbie downer Druids; sounds like you could use a drink yourself! May 31, 2008 4:38 PM

Sancho said...
en·vy - noun - "a feeling of discontent or covetousness with regard to another's advantages, success, possessions, etc." Some 'mos just can't get over the fact that other people might be doing better than them at life. June 1, 2008 2:21 AM

Shane said...
Bronwyn, is it not true that every job needs a worker? Without television writers, your sorry ass would have nothing to do on Friday nights with your dozen cats all huddled around you. Everyone is posting such nice comments to this Bronwyn person. Ill step up....Bronwyn SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU BITTER FUCKING TWAT. have a nice day :) June 2, 2008 2:25 PM

Corey said...
Television is a waste of fucking time. I tend to agree with Bronwyn. You should get a fucking job. And maybe, you know, try to make a difference in the world. P.S. I can foresee the comments, so I'll spare you the time slinging the "envy" word at me, because yes, I'll totally admit it: I am envious of anyone who has as much disposable income as you seem to. Especially someone who pisses it away on "Gay Cocktails." So sad. June 2, 2008 6:24 PM

ATL said...
I think Corey just needs to get laid. A nice big peen up his ass should mellow him out some. But that's just my opinion... June 2, 2008 10:28 PM

Jan said...
"Bronwyn is a whore." "Shut the fuck up, you twat." "Corey needs to get laid." Jesus. Who knew how many unoriginal, rude, totally common and typical gay minds read this blog? I guess now we know. June 3, 2008 12:35 PM

ATL said...
Jan, by commenting on this blog, I hope you do realize that you are also in the company of the so-called "unoriginal, rude, totally common and typical gay minds" that read this blog. Way to make yourself look superior... I hope you caught my unoriginal, rude, and totally common gay sarcasm :) P.S. Yes, I will always stick up for You and his right to a Gay Cocktail! It's one of the ways we deal with people like Jan!!! :D xoxo ATL! June 3, 2008 1:16 PM

Dana said...
Not only are "You" self-absorbed and totally undeserving of your wealth, but your Boy Luck Friends are TOTALLY right -- "You" are desperate. It comes through in almost every post, but most accutely in the one above where you freak the fuck out because your "Swedie Pi" apparently didn't feel like sticking his tongue down your throat on the first date, and then you go begging a STRANGER to assess your chances with him. Jeez! One might think that generating so much verbiage about your own life (and by life I guess I mean drinking and fucking because that's what this blog seems to be about... or drinking and trying desperately to get fucked), "You" might become more self-aware -- but one would be wrong. Sometimes, it occurs to me that the blog must be fiction, that nobody could be as shallow and empty as this. I hope that's true. Anyway, my main point is that I agree with the poster who said that television is a waste of fucking time, and I for one would never be interested in dating some layabout drunk who made a pile of cash helping dumb down our culture by turning people into couch potato zombies. June 4, 2008 9:47 AM

Shane said...
who knew there were so many lonely women out there reading your gay blog lmfao. As for me, I can identify with this blog, as I am quite sure most of the other fags in here. the sad people here are the ones that are reading this blog and sending hate messages. Its kinda like being Jewish, but attending catholic services. FYI http://youtube.com/watch?v=wXBhBDCdiSY June 4, 2008 10:50 AM

You're Not the Best Fag in the World...

...but practice makes perfect, right? Except, of course, when it comes to Softball. When it comes to Pitching and Catching, you, my friend, are an even bigger fag on the Field than you are in the Bedroom. But you've been rather glum ever since The Ex had to have your Kitty Cunt put to sleep, and some of your sporty writer friends have taken notice (mostly for a welcomed distraction from their own procrastinwriting). So somehow the Lit Lot convinces you to turn your frown upside down as they drag you to the East River Park for their weekly Softball game against Heeb Magazine.

Although your recent Creatine diet has definitely added to your sporty look, in actuality you feel much more like Old Spice than Sporty Spice. Your Straight Boyfriend wants you to play Short Stop, but you put an even Shorter Stop to that bad idea and place yourself safely in the outfield. Unfortunately the Pop Up Balls start tracking you down as if they're frenzied Paparazzi and you're Bald Britney sans panties. And if that isn't bad enough, once you've caught the damn ball you are actually responsible for throwing it to someone who is inevitably very, very far away. The whole humiliating experience does absolutely nothing but remind you how you used to feel when you were playing Kickball during recess and all the other Sixth Graders on the field would start moving in to catch your wimpy kick. However, now that you are thirtysomething you no longer have to endure an impromptu game of Schmear the Queer after causing your team to lose the inning. So this time around, instead of trying to impress anyone, you decide that keeping your dimpled smile in tact takes precedence over catching any damn ball that isn't attached to a scrotum. Unfortunately your Straight Boyfriend is not quite as lucky when an evil Ground Ball changes its mind and becomes a Pop Up as it ricochets off a rock and pounds him in his chiseled jaw instead of going into his glove. You, of course, instantly scream in horror, "Not the face!" because, yes, you are that gay, and, yes, your Straight Boyfriend is that good looking.

Luckily your Straight Boyfriend's wound is just as superficial as you are, but you watch it closely, just in case it needs some ice or possibly even a little kiss to make it feel better. After the game you end up on the back patio of a dive bar called Duke's on Avenue C, and you are very happy drinking $3 Stella's. Eventually enough cheap beer turns your seemingly innocuous conversation into a drunken Truth Fest. For some unknown reason, your Home Schooled Hipster friend has decided that you are definitely misrepresenting yourself with the way you dress. And he actually tells you this. You are a bit surprised because, although everything you own was purchased off a Clearance Rack at either Century 21, Filene's Basement or Loehmann's, the Home Schooled Hipster thinks you come off as a Vapid Chelsea Queen. And he actually tells you this. Even though, in reality, he thinks you are a much deeper person than that. You are completely speechless as you nod in awe at the Home Schooled Hipster, mostly because you are kind of secretly thrilled that your minuscule clothing budget somehow can still qualify as "vapid." You end up taking his back-handed compliment as if you were some Gay Jesus turning your other (butt) cheek for another Slap (that Ass!)

On your way home you swing by Plan B because one of your Blah-Blah-Blog friends invited you to some Eschelon International party celebrating the launch of some Gay Matchmaking Reality Show. You, of course, are solely drawn by the promise of free Vodka, Hors d'Oeuvres and a Gift Bag to boot, but when you arrive you find yourself endlessly amused by handful of the D-List stars. It's so ridiculous that you half expect to find Kathy Griffin roaming around with a camera crew. But the venue is so dead that the Reality TV Stars (and you use this term lightly) might actually out number the few hungry freeloaders that actually schlepped over to 10th Street and Avenue B for the Freebies. You wash down some free sushi with some free vodka as you watch Jill Zarin and her Gay Husband from The Real Housewives of New York City mingle with Ethan Zohn, the million dollar winner of Survivor: Africa. However, the whole Reality Experience ends up being just a bit too real for you, so you grab your gift bag and walk the few blocks home.

Even though it's relatively early, you find yourself crawling into bed with a new book called Band Fags written by one of your Lit Lot friends, however your thoughts quickly turn to your Kitty Cunt who, without fail, used to climb up on your chest and sit on your book whenever you tried to read in bed. And suddenly you feel very alone. Even though the hustle and bustle of screaming drunks outside your window is usually quite comforting, tonight the commotion has an isolating effect. You put down the book and pathetically cuddle your pillow as you try to remember what it was like to spoon your Kitty Cunt and listen to the purr of her unconditional love. And that's when you remember Blonde Beard. Or try to remember. His face is already becoming a bit hazy in your memory. You want to call him. Not because you miss him, or necessarily even want him. All you really want is to not be alone. To be held by someone. To hold someone. Just for tonight.

As usual, you begin to deconstruct the reasons for the demise of your Non-Relationship with Blonde Beard. Although you never seem to come up with any concrete answers, you always come to the same conclusion that the Non-Relationship would never have gone anywhere. You go over the long list of Cons in your head but, as always, these negative qualities all seem to pale in comparison to the overwhelming feeling of loneliness that has taken over you. At this point, even Blonde Beard's herpes don't seem to deter you. You don't want to be alone, yet you don't want to call him. The idea of being turned down during this vulnerable moment would actually be much more unbearable than suffering through it alone. And that's when it suddenly hits you. You never fully understood Blonde Beard's sudden retreat, although one thing is for sure, he began to pull away immediately after your Run-In with his Jealous Roommate (which was more like a Run-Away because the big baby couldn't deal with any sort of confrontation even though he completely fabricated the entire ridiculous fight in his own crazy ass head). However, that next morning was when Blonde Beard told you that he had just found out that he had Herpes. The thought never crossed you head before, but now you are wondering if perhaps Blonde Beard may have thought that you were the one who gave him the gift that keeps on giving?

Luckily you are not drunk enough to actually call, but you are definitely still buzzed enough from the free vodka that you do end up writing an email: "hey, i'm not sure what actually happened between us, but it just occurred to me that you may have been concerned that i might be the one who gave you herpes? anyway, i thought you should know that i was tested for EVERYTHING and came back with a clean bill of health. honestly it didn't even occur to me to pass along this info till now. sorry for that. had a crappy weekend. my cat died of kidney failure in LA so i didn't even get to say goodbye. glad you liked the photo book. i had a lot of fun making it. kind of ironic that our last supper was at supper. i'm telling you, you can't write this shit! hope you're doing well." And before you can second guess yourself, you hit send.

You prepare yourself for a long wait. Perhaps an infinite one where you never receive his reply. But, less than ten minutes after you send it you receive this: "Hey, I hadn't thought of that either, actually, but thanks for offering it up. Glad you got a clean bill of health. I'm truly sorry to hear about your cat. hope you're coping with it okay. Best, Blonde Beard"

Best!? Fucking Blonde Beard actually wrote you, "Best!" You are in a state of complete and utter shock! Someone you thought you loved has just Bested you! It is just so insane! Here you were, feeling all sad and lonely and wishing you were lying in the comforting arms of this boy who turns around and Bests you! You quickly turn off your computer and crawl back into bed with your advance copy of Band Fags and you can't help but chuckle at the very first line, "Friends hold you back." Suddenly it becomes very clear that Blonde Beard was definitely holding you back. Holding your emotions back. Holding your love back. Your vapid, Chelsea Boy love. And just like that you realize that it is Best that you never ever contact Blonde Beard again. Anyway...

HEY YOU! Lucky Lukas is Not One of Those Boy Toy Fags...

...but he's not so sure that his Ex-Bel Ami Boyfriend actually realizes this?

Hey You!

Ok, so I broke up with my Ex, or rather he broke up with me, about a week and a half before Christmas. Apparently he wasn't sure where his life was going, as he had just finished his undergrad, and he was gonna start getting really busy with work and school (he's an Assistant Band Director at a prominent high school program in the area) and he didn't feel that "spark" to keep the relationship going. Fast forward to now; we have kept in touch, letting each other know how our lives are going and what not. But recently I received some text messages from him and I don't quite know what to make of them...

Band Camp Boy: "We need to hang out sometime...I miss seeing you."
Lucky Lukas: "Yeah, we should get a drink sometime."
Band Camp Boy: "We should. Will I see you at KC pride this weekend?"
Lucky Lukas: "Yes, I'm going with a group of friends"
Band Camp Boy: "Awesome...See you there then ;)"

He always struck me as a "nice guy" type, so I don't really wanna believe that he's only doing this cause he hasn't been with anyone since the breakup and is just lonely and looking for a hookup. All of my friends think that is what he's doing, I would just like a little input from an outside source...

Sincerely,
Lucky Lukas

Fagnote #1, To be played while reading Your response...


Dear Lucky Lukas,

It's hard for me to imagine that a Bel Ami Boy could actually find himself in one of these everyday gay boy dating conundrums? But I'm happy to give you my opinion. Hell, I'm happy to give anybody my opinion, whether they ask for it or not!

First of all, being dumped is never easy. At one point or another we've all been the Dumper and at other times we've been the Dumpee. And, let's face it, it's always easier to be the Dumper. As the Dumper, you're the first one to come to the conclusion that the relationship isn't working. For better or for worse, the Dumper reaches the relationship's finish line first, but unfortunately, this is not the case for the Dumpee. Sometimes it's a close race with a Photo Finish and the Dumpee can see how he lost, but most of the time the Dumpee is lagging so far behind the Dumper that he's so busy huffing and puffing that he doesn't even realize that he's already lost the race! But losing isn't the worst part. It's not knowing why you lost, especially when you thought you were running your fastest and doing everything right.

But, Lucky Lukas, this is where your particular situation starts to get interesting. Half a year has passed since you were the Dumpee, and from the tone of your email, it really sounds like you've gotten over the Band Camp Boy Breakup. And oh how the tables have turned! Band Camp Boy has finally realized that the other dorks in Band Camp can't play his Trombone nearly as well as you can. You, my Lucky friend, are now in a very powerful position where you get to choose exactly whose instrument you want to play as you are now leading the whole damn Marching Band!

Now I'm going to say something rather drastic right now and some of your Gay Posse will probably vehemently disagree with me. But it's very good advice and I think you should take it (surprise-surprise), so make yourself a nice strong Gay Cocktail and sip it down while you ponder my words: It doesn't matter what anybody thinks but you! Don't listen to your friends! Don't listen to me! Fuck us and all of our silly gay opinions! The only person you should listen to is you! As long as you follow your heart then you will not, I repeat, you will not get hurt. From time to time it may seem like you get hurt, but when you offer someone your heart and they don't want it, trust me, you're much better off without them. If you want to see Band Camp Boy again, then see him again. If you just want to be friends, then be a good boy and don't go play his Trombone again. However, if both of you want to see what it's like to have a Fuck Buddy, then by all means, go have some great Sax! Band Camp Boy's balls are definitely in your court and, this time, you're the one who gets to decide which song the band will play during the big game! You're in a very empowering place, and you should savor this experience because these Do-Over situations hardly ever arise.

The one word of caution that I will offer is, from my experience, people never really change. The problems you had the first time around will probably continue to be problems if you end up resuming your relationship. You may ask, "What if he breaks my heart again?" or "What if he's just after sex?" or "Why did he suddenly change his mind?" These are questions that can only be answered if you choose to explore them. Who knows? Maybe he does just want to be friends, but in that case you have nothing to lose since it seems like you want that, too. If he wants more, then you have to ask yourself, Do you want more? If you do, then pursue it. If you don't, then you might want to cool off the friendship for a while until you both find yourselves on surer footing. Regardless, your heart will surely tell you how to act. But Band Camp Boy does actually seem like, as you say, one of the "Nice Guys." It sounds like he treated you with respect even while he was breaking up with you, so you should definitely treat him equally as well regardless of the outcome. But from how I see it, in this particular situation, it's all up to you Lukas, and that's exactly why you are so damn Lucky!

xoxo You!

PS-Got some better advice for Lucky Lukas? Leave it for him in the form of a comment (see link below)!

Are you one of those Fags with a hairy gay dating problem that manscaping alone will not solve? Want to know how You would handle it? Send an email to: Hey_You [at] 2ndPerson [dot] net

UPDATE: Lucky Lukas said...
well, thank you all for the advice and such. I decided to go with the, "I see you, I'll say hi, and then not talk to you the rest of the time" approach. I saw him a total of 3 times at our Pride this weekend, and was only in conversation for prolly a whopping 5 min the entire weekend. and I think that was the best way to do it, cause now I know that I don't want a damn thing to do with him anymore...xoxo Lucky Lukas
June 2, 2008 1:11 AM

You're Not One of Those Steroid Fags With Bitch Tits and Shrunken Balls...

...but after a two-month doctor prescribed gym hiatus thanks to your Hurtful Hernia, you are feeling a little bit scrawny and a whole lot Gay Fat. And it's just one mere week before Fire Guyland Season begins! So after your morning workout, you actually find yourself wandering into your Gym's Gift Shop and asking the Monosyllabic Muscle Head behind the counter about the Pros vs. Cons (i.e. Muscle Growth vs. Kidney Failure) of Creatine while you swipe your credit card, along with your street cred, as you descend deeper into both financial as well as ethical debt.

As soon as you emerge from your underground Ghetto Gym (which happens to be so far underground that you're more likely to receive a message via semaphore than by cell), your iPhone alerts you to a text from The Ex, “give me a call when you get a chance. the cat is in the hospital with kidney failure - not uncommon for older cats, but the vet isn't optimistic. we'll know more on friday. so sad.” The Ex got the Kitty Cunt in the divorce, but if you could have split him in two, you probably would've. Meanwhile, it's a very strange feeling because you are in NY and the Kitty Cunt is currently in LA with The Ex. Although you inherently broke up with both of them three and a half years ago, you suddenly feel like it was just yesterday as both you and your mood descend into the subway. When you found her fifteen years ago, the Kitty Cunt was just another Pre-Giuliani Homeless New Yorker, abandoned by her owner over a divorce spat. Luckily, your own divorce was much less contentious and the Kitty Cunt remained housed and (over) fed by The Ex until the point of teetering that fine (fe)line between Straight's Fat Cat and Lesbian's Fat Cat. But she was happy. And three and a half years after your divorce, so are you. Or at least you were until you received this bad news.

You call The Ex when you arrive at work in order to get the whole story, and you are surprised at how well he is taking the tragic news because, however much you love that Kitty Cunt, your Ex is way more Pussy-Whipped than your gay ass could ever be. Unfortunately the phone call turns out to be even more upsetting than the text. The Kitty Cunt is currently having her kidney's flushed via IV at the Vet, and they won't know anything until they finish the flush and can conduct some more tests. Your Ex, however, is surprisingly keeping it together even though you expected that he'd be taking blood tests to see if he were a good match to be the Kitty Cunt's kidney donor. You tell him to keep you posted with any news, mostly because you don't want him to go through the horrible situation all alone, but partly because you suddenly feel more alone and single than you have in years. You find yourself wishing you could be in LA with your feline and your fractured former family of three.

Eventually you drown your sorrows in a remarkably tasteless glass of Creatine, and gulp it down while you Procrastinwrite for a bit, but your heart's not really in it. Since you're feeling rather lonely you quickly wind up going online to see if there are any cute boys lurking around on Connexion, and luckily, since it's still relatively early in Sweden, you quickly see that the Swedish Engineer is currently online. Before you know it you're having a chat with your Swedie Pi and you tell him all about your ailing Kitty Cunt's Kidney. Having never had a pet, Swedie Pi is not really all that sympathetic, but honestly you are just looking for nothing more than the potential to not feel so pathetically alone and single. But you are absolutely floored when your Swedie Pi asks for your number because he wants to call. From Sweden. Now you're typically not the kind of fag who likes to put a lot of email/IM/phone energy into any boy that you haven't met offline, but you are feeling particularly vulnerable today so you end up giving Swedie Pi your number. And he calls. Right away. He's got a super sexy voice with a hot accent to boot. For some reason the phone call isn't at all awkward and the two of you instantly develop a quirky rapport and Swedie Pi comes off just as self-assured as he did during your online chat. You like that you can easily notice the integrity behind his playful cockiness. And you really like that your Swedie Pi is confident enough to allow you to see it. But you are absolutely thrilled when Swedie Pi asks you out on a date for the day after he returns from Sweden. You, of course, instantly accept, and decide to figure out the exact date-y details in the next few days.

You don't talk too long, after all it's very late in Sweden, not to mention that it's an expensive international call, so you tell your Swedie Pi to "Sleep tight" before hanging up. Afterwards, you mix up another batch of Creatine and gulp it down while you imagine your kidneys beginning to swell. Eventually, when you return to your laptop you realize that you forgot to sign out of Connexion Chat and notice that a sexy Photo Journalist with a fauxhawk has attempted to initiate a IM with you while you were busy with your Swedish Skype Session. And unlike your Swedie Pi, the Fauxtographer is currently not in Sweden. So you put your Swedie Pi on the back burner (even though, so far, this particular Ikea project has had an extremely easy assembly process) and end up sending the Fauxtographer an email since he has gone offline. Since you and the Fauxtographer are in the same Gay Standard Time Zone, he returns your email in no time and, before you can say, "Say Cheese!" you have plans to grab a drink later this evening. The Fauxtographer definitely doesn't waste any words. Especially not funny ones. He seems as if he may be a bit too intense for you, and after Blonde Beard you could definitely be happy with a little less intensity, but you could also be happy with a little more sex so you decide it couldn't hurt to go out for a quick Fauxto Shoot. You tell the Fauxtographer that you'll be free after 8:30pm and he promises to text you before then so you can make a plan.

After work you head over to Callen-Lorde to get your second of three Hepatitis Vaccination shots. Miss Hot Tranny Meds is, of course, looking fabulous and she seems genuinely happy to see you, but unlike your last visit where you got tested for absolutely everything, this time she just pops a needle in your arm as she quickly goes over all the vital organs that Hepatitis will ruin before sending you on your Mary way. But this is when you realize that, besides your HIV- status, the doctor never called you back with the other results from the various STD tests you took last month. Although you usually consider No News to be Good News, Miss Hot Tranny Meds looks into her database and, as she is telling you that, "Everything is Fi..." she quickly seems to reconsider her words and then promptly leaves both you and your pounding heart to go find the doctor. You, of course, are absolutely positive that you have Herpes, because (although you chose not to write about it in you Blah-Blah-Blog because you eventually began to censor yourself when it came to all things personal with Blonde Beard) during one of your last conversations while he was still your Non-Boyfriend, your follicle faced friend informed you that he had tested positive for Genital Herpes and that his doctor had put him on Valtrex. But now that he dumped you, you have little concern about sharing his messy secrets, so you are completely prepared for the bad herpetic news as Miss Hot Tranny Meds returns to the office. She sits down and looks at you with her heavily made up eyes while she informs you that, "You have tested positive for Herpes Simplex One." You instantly throw your hands up and are absolutely beside yourself. She continues to blah-blah-blah and eventually you return from your narcissistic downward viral spiral, and start listening to Miss Hot Tranny Meds as she explains that you may experience a cold sore around your mouth every now and again. And you definitely shouldn't be kissing any boys during a breakout. "Oh!" you exclaim, relieved. "That's it? I've known about that for years." And you practically skip out of Callen-Lorde, absolutely thrilled to experience your next oral outbreak.

You race home to mix up yet another batch of Creatine and then get primped for your date with the Fauxtographer. However, when 8:30 comes and goes with absolutely no word from your tentative date, you decide that the film in this particular Fauxto-Shoot has obviously been under-developed, so you go ahead and make quite an elaborate dinner for one which consists of Tilapia, grilled vegetables, tomato soup and a big heaping glass of skim milk. And then you eat your three course meal. Leisurely. And then you wash all the dishes. Slowly. And just as you sit down to watch a little TV because you are exhausted and a little sad about your Kitty Cunt, that's when the Fauxtographer texts you, exactly one hour and seven minutes after he said he would. Now there is such a thing as Gay Standard Time and then there is an Hour and Seven Minutes Late for a First Gay Date. You're already over him, but the Fauxtographer informs you that he is actually on your block, “Where u at what u doing, on 1st and 1st. Would be up for 1 very cheap quick drink somewhere if u up 4 it.” Even though u are definitely not up for it, you decide that, between your Herpe scare and your Kitty Cunt's Kaput Kidney, you could really use a drink. So you text him back, "Ok I live right there. Where should I meet you?” but you are annoyed to receive, “U know somewhere cheap and Chill? If so, then there.” The last thing you want to do is put any thought into this outing, because, if you do, you know that you will surely reconsider and quickly blow it off. Not to mention the fact that you also absolutely hate making last minute plans via ten thousand text messages, so you put zero thought into it and give him one option in your terse one-word response, "Urge?"

Five minutes later you are walking West on East 1st Street as some weird guy headed toward you tries to violently jam some flyer into your hand as you pass by, and you sort of jump out of his way while pretending to ignore him because you are absolutely not interested in whatever he's selling. But when you look up you realize that this particular crazy man has a giant cardboard box on his head with two small holes cut out for his eyes. You begin to laugh nervously at the Box Head as he mumbles something about Jesus and the whole bizarre situation actually puts you in a better mood, which is good news for the Fauxtographer because you were really going into this Fauxto-Shoot with all the bad attitude and blank expression of a starving Supermodel.

Although it's dark inside the bar, once you're inside Urge you don't see anybody who's nearly as cute as the Fauxtographer should be, and this is when it hits you. Of course he's going to be cuter in his photos! He's a Fauxtographer! Ugh. So you look around a bit and find an older looking, semi-cute guy, and you say his name in the form of a question as the guy looks at you like you are insane and says, "That's not me," in a high pitched squawk which gives you a short-lived sense of relief until he starts to laugh at his own non-existent joke. You instantly feel like an idiot during the first two seconds of your humorless date, and you just sit down and listen patiently while the Fauxtographer tells you about what a funny guy he is. You hide behind your Absolut Mandarin and Soda and suppress a yawn so big that it almost produces bubbles through your straw. Whatever the reason, you just don't feel at all engaged by any of his stories, however, you suffer through the date like a gentleman and don't even bother answering your cell when a call taunts you by vibrating in your pocket.

After your "1 very cheap quick drink," which, unfortunately, turns out to be a not-so-quick 2-4-1, the Fauxtographer walks you home with the not-so-ulterior motive of going upstairs with you. But you say your goodbyes on the corner and are very vague about which actual corner you live on while being not-so-vague about the fact that your Hobosexual Roommate is waiting for you at home. You reach out your hand for a nice, formal shake, but the Fauxtographer somehow pulls you in and plants one on your unsuspecting lips. During your six-flight ascent to your Home-Sweet-Hovel, your phone vibrates with a text from the Fauxtographer which says, "you, my friend, are the fountain of youth ... was nice getting out and talking about writing and relationships - i had a good time ... thanx - text / call anytime ... xo." Which is nice, but obviously never gonna happen, but that's when you notice the voicemail indicator on your iPhone and dial in to see who called. By the time you reach the top of the stairs you are out of breath and in absolute shock as you unlock the door to your apartment and listen to the dire message from The Ex who wants you to call him back immediately. You instantly know what has happened before he even answers your return phone call, and you are uncharacteristically speechless as The Ex tells you about how he had to put the Kitty Cunt to sleep. He tried to call so as to include you in the difficult decision, but when you didn't answer he had to decide all alone. Both of you are in tears as The Ex explains the sad story of your panting cat, ultimately unable to catch her breath even though she was in an oxygen tank, and The Ex tearfully describes how the Kitty Cunt was licking his forehead as she drifted off peacefully to sleep as the Vet put the shot of drugs into her tiny IV. You're unbelievably sad and feel very, very alone as you lay in bed and listen to the story which sort of sadly signifies the absolute end of the relationship that the three of you started fifteen years ago. And right then, in a sort of bizarre homage to the Kitty Cunt's failed kidney, you decide that you will stop taking the silly Creatine because there is more to life than having big fake muscles on Fire Guyland. However, since it was rather expensive and you hate to waste, you decide that you'll stop taking it after you run out of it. Because, really, how much kidney damage could one little jar cause? Anyway...

FAG POLE: Are you one of those Facebook Fags who initiates a Facebook Faceoff with the new boy you want to date?

30% of You said, "Yes! I always Facebook the boys I want to date. If they accept my Facebook Friendship then I know there's potential.

29% of You said, "No way! And when random tricks try to become my Facebook Friend I ignore their requests leave them in Facebook Limbo!"

22% of You said, "Sometimes. Instead of putting a notch in my belt I just Facebook my sexual conquests so I can keep an accurate pictorial tally."

18% of You said, "If I do, I always remember to de-Facebook them as soon as we break-up because I don't need them reading my feed and become my Facebook Stalker."

Number of Fags Who Voted: 99

ASK YOURSELF: You Have No Idea Why Some Gay Boys Will Go Out of Their Way to Ask For Your Number...

...and then never bother to call?

Why on earth do You think this is?

Please answer by commenting to this post (see link below) so all of us can get to the bottom of this horrible gay injustice!

Here's what some of you have been saying:

The Fabulous One said...
The positive, hoping-in-homo-humanity idea: maybe they're just fucking careless and they lost it? Hopefully...Or, they're just hoping to get in your pants tonight and when it doesn't happen, *delete*. May 23, 2008 11:43 PM

Shane said...
hmmm Ive never had this problem, I don't ever give out my number. But I think The Fabulous One is right, they ask hoping that you will take them home that night, its kind of a foot in the door kinda thing. May 24, 2008 10:33 AM

NPBPB said...
I hadn't considered the ploy of hoping it's a "tonight" kind of thing. That's an optimistic thought. When single I never liked giving my number out because I am too much of a control freak and don't like the idea of random calls from strangers I met when drunk. My guestimate of why this happens in singledom is based more on straight guys doing the same to my women friends - the number TAKER is just not that into the number GIVER, and it's a simple way for the TAKER to feign interest and to ultimately give the brush off without seeming like a jerk. It's like instant gratification for the GIVER but never amounts to much. Oddly, I'm curious why the GIVERs of the world continue to place expectations on the TAKERS ever calling? Why don't the GIVERS ask for the TAKERS' number as well? May 24, 2008 11:34 AM

Not Yet Famous said...
I'm going to be a bandwagon person and agree with both The Fabulous One and NPBPB. Though, I think NPBPB's contained a few too many caps... May 24, 2008 1:51 PM

Anonymous said...
I always assumed it was because people like me exist in the world: the majority of the guys who ask for my number are not at all attractive to me, physically or otherwise, so I give them a wrong number. I'll probably never see them again and I won't IMMEDIATELY seem like an asshole. It usually works. May 24, 2008 5:05 PM

Justin said...
Guys give me their numbers. I don't want them b/c I get so caught up in the rules of when I should or should not call that I end up not calling at all. I'm just so nervous that I'll be calling at the wrong time so I won't. So what do I do instead? I text. :-P May 26, 2008 1:54 AM

Sancho said...
More often than not I've found that when I get a number when I'm out I'm usually pretty drunk. Therefore once I recover the next day I either 1.) Have no idea who this person is that I met or 2.) Realize "My god, was I really talking to HIM?! "So in the end I don't end up calling the numbers I come back with after a night of debauchery (sometimes, in rare cases, I do). I then just assume if I have given out my number (and remember giving it out) and don't receive a call, then they had the same reaction. Just my 2 cents on this issue... May 26, 2008 7:31 AM

Anonymous said...
More importantly why do some guys FORCE their number on you when you're clearly not interested, and then you're bored one day so you figure you might as well text them and never hear from back from them? May 26, 2008 11:33 PM

You're Not One of Those Meth-Mouth Fags...

...however you do grind your teeth and clean your apartment incessantly, but these behaviors have more to do with your particular combination of TMJ and OCD (Temporomandibular Joint Disorder and Obsessive Compulsive Disorder) than with your Crystal habit (which has absolutely everything to do with Waterford and absolutely nothing to do with Tina). Unfortunately today you have a massive headache which definitely has something to do with the combination of clenching your jaw while inhaling that glorious smell of ammonia as you cleaned your bathroom after a bit of Manscaping. Okay, more than a bit. You had let that chore go a bit too long. But according to your friend Half-Share, Hairy is the new Smooth. But, as usual, you digress.

You overdose on generic ibuprofen that you buy on your biannual trip to the Brooklyn Target because you want to be in a good mood for tonight, mostly because there is drinking to be done! You have plans to get together with the Kinsey 8; your extremely gay Pines Posse which consists of you and your seven Fire Island Housemates (four of whom you have yet to meet), and you worry that you and your tension headache might send off a bad first impression to these unknown boys who make up your Quarter Cher in The Pines. But luckily that's when you receive a text from your Gal Pal who tells you to pack up your laptop and head over to Flatiron for a Book Launch Party for one of your fancier, published buddies in your Literary Lot of writer friends. The idea of taking your bad mood out on your straight friends while simultaneously replenishing your good mood with free alcohol seems like an absolutely brilliant idea! So you instantly head uptown to meet the Lit Lot.

The party is downstairs and the bar is packed with people you know but you ignore everybody and instantly make a bee-line for the bar. However, there's only one problem. There is no bar. But you look around and notice that people are drinking beer and wine and your Gal Pal quickly surmises your persnickety expression combined with your empty hands and says, "They have cocktail waitresses." And then she adds, "And they're all lousy." And if that wasn't bad enough, she amends her statement one last time, "Not to mention it's a cash bar." Doh! Since your generic Target Ibuprofen is far from working, you do your best to flag down the elusive Cocktail Waitress (who definitely puts the "Wait" in "Waitress"), until finally she dawdles over and takes orders from you, your Gal Pal, and your Gal Pal's Gal Pal. You're definitely not in a beer mood until you see the wine list, which starts at $11 a glass for bar swill, so you quickly hand the menu back to the Waitress and order a pint of Stella. Your Gal Pal orders a beer too, and her Gal Pal orders a glass of wine (but she's in Real Estate so she can afford to be fancy like that). And that's when the Cocktail Waitress asks for your Credit Card to start a tab. Only she doesn't ask for each of your cards, she asks you for your card. Now if there's one thing you have no interest in, it's starting a tab at a bar for anyone other than yourself. After all, you are your own favorite charity. So you kind of hesitate for a moment before you actually hear the completely foreign words coming out of your mouth that somehow string together into a bizarre sentence that you've never uttered before, "But I'm only going to have one drink." The Cunttail Waitress is noticeably irked as she rolls her eyes and informs you that, "It's just easier for me to put everything on one bill." Now, you and your throbbing headache are literally about to have an aneurysm as you prepare to say, Easier for who? It's not my job to make your job easier! Especially since it took you a half hour to come over and take our damn drink order! But luckily your Gal Pal's Gal Pal beats you to the punch and informs the Cunttail Waitress, calmly and collectively, that she will put this round on her card and we can pay her back in cash. But the Cunttail Waitress can't seem to be satisfied and leave it at that. She would prefer that you leave the tab open. And she actually argues about it to the point where you almost find yourself asking, Don't you work for tips?

And then you wait. And wait. And wait. In fact you wait sooooooo long that you actually find yourself in the precarious position of having to depend on the kindness of bitchy Cocktail Waitresses. Eventually you pull a Marlon Brando and scream, "Stelllllllllllllllaaaaaaaaa!" through the crowd of Straight Writers who luckily chuckle at your Tennessee Williams reference. In fact, you are practically Jones-ing by the time the Cunttail Waitress returns with your order and she offers your detoxing, shaky hands the Stella Artois that you ordered yesterday. You literally haven't been this sober since you were nine years old. But you are happy to have a nice frothy glass of your headache elixir (okay, okay, perhaps it is a hangover after all). But the Hair of the Dog instantly improves your foul mood and you start to do some Network-y Chit Chat with whoever will listen to your yappy crap. And wouldn't you know it, just like that you find yourself empty handed. Again. Your Gal Pal begs you to order from one of the other elusive Cocktail Waitresses, but you don't have time to be choosy. After all, there is drinking to be done! You tell your Gal Pal that you'll place an order with the next Cocktail Waitress who passes. And, of course, that's when the Cunttail Waitress pops out of nowhere, almost as if she's some damn Groundhog re-emerging from a winter of hibernation. Meanwhile, she's just as grumpy as the damn shadowless Groundhog when you ask her for another Stella. This time she actually scolds you, "This is why I wanted you to open a tab!" However, even though you want to say, Listen honey, I'm sure you can get away with pulling your crap on the straight boys, but, trust me, I have absolutely no interest in fucking you, but you actually end up saying something much more diplomatic, "If it's too much trouble then I can happily go somewhere else." And then the Cunttail Waitress disappears in a huff, leaving you confused as to whether or not she will actually return with another beer.

Eventually she does return. With a heap of bad attitude and a bottle of Amstel Light. As she hands it to you, you happily remind her that you ordered a Stella Artois on draught. Although she practically gives her two-week notice over this ridiculous situation (that she created) and almost retires from a job that, although not rocket science, she is completely under-qualified to hold. Meanwhile eventually she returns with your Stella, and venomously spits out the words, "It's on the house!" (probably right after she venomously spit into your pint). You graciously accept the most ungracious gift you've ever received and quickly put your beer money back into your pocket. Your Gal Pal pleads and begs with you to give the Cunttail Waitress a tip, and eventually, against your better judgment, you concede and give the Cunttail Waitress $2 before running for the hills and getting your gay ass the hell out of this bizarre place that the Lit Lot refers to as a "Straight Bar."

Just like the Village People, you Go West and make your way over to Chelsea to meet the Kinsey 8 at, get this, View Bar. Surprisingly, there is a gay bar in Manhattan that you've never been to, and when you arrive you instantly realize that there is a reason why you've never been. Although it's conveniently located on Eighth Avenue and 22nd, somehow it feels more like you are on Twenty-Second Avenue and Eighth Street, which, if it existed, would probably be located somewhere in Weehawken, NJ. Or maybe even in the Hudson River. Something is just off about this has-been bar, which is actually, to your surprise, quite crowded. However everything becomes clear when you get to the bar and learn that they are having a $2 Frozen Drink Special all night long. Twenty Dollars later (not including your tipsy tips) your headache is finally gone! Meanwhile, the Kinsey 8 turns out to be a fun group and you are very much looking forward to spending one week of every month with them in your ridiculously over-priced Quarter Cher.

As usual, once you are completely lubricated, you decide that you'd like to have your tires rotated, as well. So when the Kinsey 8 packs up to leave View Bar, you, my friend, text your BFF to see what kind of Gay Shenanigans he's gotten himself into. You are quite confused when you receive a response that he is actually at a lesbian bar called The Cubbyhole sharing beers with a lesbian who he actually shares a cubbyhole with at work. "A lesbian bar?" is all you can muster as you quickly stumble your way toward the West Village to yet another gay bar that you've never set foot inside. You're actually a little bit nervous walking into the crowded girl bar, mostly because these girls tend to be on the large size and could probably snap you like a twig, one-handedly, while pounding a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon with the other. But you keep an open mind and are pleasantly surprised to find that these svelte Lipstick Lesbians have the good sense to order low-cal bottles of Bud Light and, in turn, are far from Lesbian Fat! In fact, they're not even Straight Fat! And some of them (well, a few) aren't even Gay Fat! Somehow you've stumbled into the TwiDyke Zone and when you find your BFF he introduces you to Pussy Galore, his lesbian Cubbyhole Mate from work who happens to the Belle of the Ball-less Ball! She's absolutely gorgeous, smart, thin, and has all the Cubby Ho's whipped up into an Estrogen Frenzy because she is recently single to boot! Your BFF quickly informs you of your new Cubby Role as you both make yourselves useful by fending off some of the less-worthy Cubby Ho's who all seem to have turned into over-zealous Zombies as they try to get past Pussy Galore's Gay Gatekeepers.

After a few hours of Fending off the Female Faggots, you all decide to call it a night and, since it's raining, you duck into the 14th Street subway instead of walking a few extra blocks to the West 4th station where you'll eventually have to transfer. Only something is very, very wrong with the MTA. You wait so long for a train that you begin to wonder if perhaps you may have ordered one from the Cunttail Waitress? And when an E train finally shows up, you take it one stop to West 4th Street Station where you end up waiting literally forever for the F. Two trains actually come, but from what you can discern from an unintelligible message on the P.A. system, both have been re-routed toward somewhere like New Jersey or maybe even Pennsylvania? So you wait and wait for a D train which never bothers to show. Eventually, you give up and decide to walk the rest of the way home. Luckily, when you emerge from your underground Purgatory, you instantly notice a 24 hour McDonald's where your cheap yet hungry ass spends it's last seven dollars on seven items from the Dollar Value Menu. You munch away during your wet walk home, but by the time you arrive at your Home Sweet Hovel it is somehow 4am! You somehow lift your Lesbian Fat Dollar-Value Ass up the six-flights of stairs so your overworked liver can recharge during its eight hour liquor-free respite. Only when you plug in your iPhone so it too can recharge, too, your iCal reminds you that you have, get this, a dentist appointment at 9:30am. Ugh. After what feels like four minutes of sleep, somehow, although you wake up feeling like you were run over by that elusive F train, you make it to your dentist appointment even though you know you must smell like a brewery. And during the most painful, bloodiest cleaning of your entire adult life, you begin to actually wish that you were a toothless Crystal Meth Addict, instead of just a lowly alcoholic. With another massive headache to boot. Anyway...

HEY YOU! I'm Not One of Those Bossy Bottom Fags...

...but I have recently started dating a guy who I really like, and even though I've always thought of myself as Versatile, for some reason when I'm around him I turn into a total bottom! Honestly I can't seem to get enough of him banging away on top of me. I'm recently out of a two year relationship, and although the sex was never earth shattering, both of us definitely liked to mix it up. Believe it or not, I was probably more of the Top in that relationship! But that may actually have had more to do with my ex's dick of death than anything else...

When I first started talking about sex with the new boy (what we liked to do, etc.) we were both pretty pleased to find out that we each considered ourselves Versatile. However, we're now three months into it and I still haven't topped him. And trust me, I'm not complaining! It's not that I don't want to fuck him, per se, it's just that when he's fucking me the sex is so amazingly good that I kind of don't really care about being on Top anymore. This all sounds great, right? Ok, here's the problem. When he told me that he was versatile he said it was mostly because he thought doing the same thing over and over again got boring. Now, there's no way that I'm at all bored in the bedroom, but I'm starting to worry that he might be. Something seems different lately. Any suggestions?

Sincerely,
Vaguely Versatile

Fagnote #1, To be played while reading Your response...


Dear Bossy Bottom in Denial,

Although typically in the gay community, Anything Goes, let's face it, Cole Porter practically wrote this famous song for you to serenade to your new beau during Gay Karaoke, "Baby if I'm the bottom, You're the Top!" (see fagnote #1, above). We're all a bit surprised that your last relationship lasted for two years because, let's face it, it doesn't sound like you were all that sexually compatible with the Dick of Death (meanwhile, you talk about D.o.D. like it's a bad thing...?) But good for you to move on and find a boy that lifts your spirits as well as your legs!

Although, in Gay Years, you and your new beau are practically married, three months isn't such a long time to figure out all the intricacies of a gay relationship (Does he like Bette or Barbra? Judy or Liza? New Madonna or Old Madonna?), but it is definitely long enough to have flipped that boy over and had your buggery way with him no matter which Damn Diva was crooning on his iPod's Playlist. But honestly it sounds like you really don't want to flip this particular boy over and have your gay way with him. And as Seinfeld would say, "Not that there's anything wrong with that," butt (notice the two T's?) it does sound like your boy wants to be flipped over. He already told you that he gets bored doing the same old thing, so perhaps this boredom has triggered his A.D.D. and is ready for you to give your full Attention to his Deficit which you've obviously been Diss'ing lately. You might learn that you actually enjoy giving him the same type of Prostate Pleasure that your boy has been giving you. However, if you don't ultimately enjoy taking Luke over to the Dark Side, then you shouldn't be surprised when Princess Lay(a) starts searching the Gay Galaxy for other Light Sabers and sending R2D2 and his trusty gay sidekick, C3PO, out with desperate messages like, "Help me, Obi Schlong Kenobi! You're my only hope!" Seriously though, if you're both not having a satisfying sex life, then the sex can't be that great. Which, loosely translated, means you very well may be better off searching the Gay YOUniverse for another Storm Pooper!

xoxo You!

PS-Did I mention that I was single? ;-)

Are you one of those Fags with a hairy gay dating problem that manscaping alone will not solve? Want to know how You would handle it? Send an email to: Hey_You [at] 2ndPerson [dot] net

You're Not One of Those Fags Who Thinks He's Da Bomb...

...in fact, when it comes to online dating you actually *gasp* tend to be a bit shy. You really kind of hate contacting strangers to say something witty and clever that will hopefully prod them to check out your profile and write you back. However you tend to get really annoyed when you actually do take the time to contact them and they don't take the time to write you back. What's up with that? Do these boys really think that they're that special? You tend to think that the whole Gay Courting Dance always plays out so much better in a bar situation, when you can get all the information you need in one simple glance. With a Gay Cocktail in you hand no less. If the boy is interested, you'll know. If he's not interested, then you haven't wasted all that time and energy sending out ridiculous emails to boys who obviously must just be overwhelmed by your clever e-banter, because what other reason could there possibly be for these boys not to write You back? Just because he paid some silly cinematographer to create a dramatic shadowy effect to enhance his six-pack for an online dating photo shoot during magic hour does not make him Burt Lancaster in From Here to Eternity! Do his rock hard abs really make him Da Bomb? Or just Da Dumb Blonde Bombshell? But, as usual, you digress.

You have long ago stopped writing Da Dumb Blonde Bombshells and have taken a much more passive-aggressive, yet very successful approach to first contact on Connexion. You visibly bookmark these boys. It's less hostile than a Match.com wink, yet somehow it seems to work. If the boys like you then they tend to write back. If they don't respond, then, although they are obviously missing out on a grand dating opportunity, for whatever reason it doesn't really irritate you. And less irritation in your life, although rare, is definitely a good thing. So you go ahead and bookmark the hot Swedish Engineer that has just caught your eye, and even though he doesn't have any gratuitous ab shots, you still kind of think he's Da Bomb. And then you do something that you are very, very bad at. You wait.

Luckily, you don't have to procrastinwrite for too long before your Inbox dings with, surprise-surprise, a message from your Swedie Pi! And he's actually writing you during his trip to Sweden! You email back and forth a couple of times before you take your relationship to the next e-level and begin to chat via Instant Message. You're a bit worried that your Swedie Pi's English won't be quick enough for a back-and-forth IM session (yet it will obviously be much more comprehensible than your Swedish would be), but the Queen practically speaks the Queen's English better than you do. Not to mention the fact that he gets all your jokes and references. You're really rather impressed. And let's face it, you're pretty tough to impress. Well, tough to be impressed by a boy without any professional abdominal shots. You tend to find rock hard abs infinitely impressive since you've been searching high and low for your own elusive six-pack for the past thirtysomething years. But you digress. The conversation is thoroughly enjoyable and you absolutely love it when you complain about something or other and Swedie Pi actually has the balls to call you whiny! You know you can dish it out, but you like to pride yourself on being able to take it, too. You're very versatile in that way (among others...) Unfortunately, most of the boys you date might find you, how can you say this diplomatically, a bit blunt. Bordering on caustic. But, having worked previously on a sitcom, you're always in search of the joke and pretty much everything and everybody is fair game. You never intend to hurt anybody's feelings, but from time to time there are definitely casualties. This is why you love it when some random Swedish boy gives you a taste of your own medicine, in your own language no less, and you suddenly find yourself cast in your favorite Elizabeth Taylor role: The Taming of the Shrew.

You actually lose track of time while chatting with Swedie Pi and are shocked when your anorexic friend, Fat Albert sends you a text saying "Hey, Hey, Hey! What time are we Splashing?" Although you have thoroughly enjoyed chatting with your Swedie Pi, you still have your gay priorities set, for lack of a better word, straight, and there are Gay Cocktails to be had at some (unfortunately named, yet extremely well-priced) free Blat Vodka event. So you wrap up your e-conversation with Swedie Pi and head over to Splash for the Immaculate Consumption party where, since you RSVP'd and are on the list, you are the lucky recipient of a bracelet which entitles you to drink impurity-free Vodka for two impurely free hours!

As soon as you walk through the door you notice your Fire Island friend Half-Share (who upgraded to a Full Share this summer, only in a less glamorous house) and he is, as usual, holding court smack in the middle of the bar. Half-Share is surrounded by all his Summer Housemates, which is typical even though it is still early Spring, and these boys welcome you with open arms and squeeze you and your glorious VIP bracelet up to the bar for some free Impurity Free Blat. While you wait for one of the many busy bartenders, you get into a conversation with one of Half-Share's prematurely gray housemates, Andy Warhol, and he tells you all about how he plans to replace the hideous art in their Summer House because the rental crap just doesn't cut it. You enjoy listening to Andy Warhol's uptown problems and all is good until you realize that the gorgeous bartender who looks exactly like the Ben character from Queer As Folk (except for the fact that the bartender is much younger and wearing nothing but an extremely flattering pair of Calvin Klein briefs). It's a bit awkward since, about a year ago, Queer As Ben actually gave you his number while you were imbibing at Splash. You, of course, slaved over whether or not to actually use the number and give Queer As Ben a call, but ultimately decided that you would inevitably fall helplessly and hopelessly in love with the gorgeous man, and getting heartbroken by a man who goes to work in his underwear was just plain unacceptable, so you winded up never calling. And since you are probably the only boy to ever turn down an opportunity to date Queer As Ben, it's always rather awkward to order drinks from him (even though it's highly unlikely that Queer As Ben actually remembers you at all).

That's when Fat Albert shows up directly from work in a Hey-Hey-Handmade British suit which probably cost more than settling a Britney lawsuit ever would, and he squeezes his anorexic little butt up to the bar to put in his Blat order with Queer As Ben. A Gay Old Time is had by all during this constant cyclical process of ordering, drinking and then ordering again during the two deliriously free Blat hours. However, just as the free Blat Timer is about to expire, an extremely drunk man with a unibrow attempts to rudely push his way through your friends so he can reach the bar before the Blat altogether disappears. Only Unibrow attempts to push Andy Warhol out of his way by throwing around a ridiculously large knapsack (which is so huge that you begin to wonder if he perhaps Unibrow might have packed a few outfit changes for a Weekend White Water Rafting Trip at Splash?) Anyway. Unibrow has definitely picked the wrong fag to fuck with, and Andy Warhol informs Unibrow that he is not moving. And that's when Unibrow informs Andy Warhol that he better move because he has, get this, a bomb in his gynormous backpack.

Always the Good Samaritan, Andy Warhol reconsiders his stance and quickly moves out of Da Unibrow Bomber's way. However, while Da Unibrow Bomber attempts to order his last free Blat from Queer As Ben, Andy Warhol informs the doorman about the Unibrow Bomber's Bomb Threat. Moments later, Da Unibrow Bomber is forcefully ejected by a few burly Splash bouncers who have absolutely no interest in finding out whether or not the Drunk Boy Who Cried Terrorist is actually bluffing about Da Bomb. The whole scene is rather dramatic, but this is mostly because Da Unibrow Bomber is extremely vocal about the fact that he is thoroughly entitled to his last free Blat before his bomb goes "BLAT!" and reduces Splash to a pile of overpriced Barney's rubble. This drama continues as the Unibrow Bomber starts protesting his ejection, even as his ass hits the curb, until eventually the Police show up, followed closely by, get this, the Bomb Squad. You and your drunken Gay Posse watch incredulously out the window as 17th Street is blocked off from all traffic. Including pedestrians. And that's when Queer As Ben makes an announcement over Splash's P.A. system informing everybody that, "Since nobody is allowed to leave the bar, Splash has extended the free Blat Vodka for another hour!" The crowd cheers and rushes the bar as your Gay Posse giggles your way back to the bar to get Bombed on Blat. Anyway...

Post Script-A big thank you to the Non-Party-Boy Party-Boy (NPBPB) for sending You to "The Immaculate Consumption" Party, and, of course, an extra big thank you goes out to da Unibrow Bomber!!

FAG POLE RESULTS: Are you one of those Fags who's pickier when choosing a roommate than a boyfriend?

46% of You said, "Yes! Boyfriends come and go, but Roommates come with a one year lease!"

36% of You said, "No! I'm equally picky about any fag who I may have to lay eyes on before 8am."

15% of You said, "Are you kidding? I'm much too fussy for either a roommate or a boyfriend! I prefer the Hairless Cat."

Number of Fags Who Voted: 113

ASK YOURSELF: When it Comes to Online Dating, You Don't Understand...

...why the same trolls who would never have the balls to ask you out in person, somehow seem to muster up enough iCourage to harass you online for a date?

Why on earth do You think this is?

Please answer by commenting to this post (see link below) so all of us can get to the bottom of this horrible gay injustice!

Here's what some of You have been saying:

Not Yet Famous said...
Online makes it safer for them. If you say no, they've put absolutely no *real* effort into you, plus there's no public embarrassment. Or maybe they're simply too lazy to get off their fat asses and hoof it to a club...or any other meeting place.
May 15, 2008 12:41 AM

Justin said...
I wonder that myself...I suppose it's because they feel they can deal with the rejection better online than in person.
May 15, 2008 12:51 AM

Anonymous said...
It's probably like buying things with a credit card vs. cash...while deep down you know it's real and that you're accumulating some sort of debt (in the case of the resilient trolls, rejection)you have grown accustomed to the quasi-nature of it all.Also, emails, texts and such can be interpreted in any number of ways, so unless a rejection is spelled out, perhaps the troll just doesn't realize his pursuits are a waste of his time.-NPBPB
May 15, 2008 9:24 AM

Sancho said...
This is a pretty common phenomena in all areas of interaction over the internet. One popular website has defined it as "John Gabriel's Greater Internet F*ckwad Theory". It was recently cited in an Advocate story about online homophobia. Basically the "formula" is: "Normal Person + Anonymity + Audience = Total F*ckwad".While being rather graphic, it is accurate. The internet provides a medium of complete anonymity where a person can be whoever they want. In the "online dating" realm the rule still applies, just in a slightly modified format. Assuming the person is using their own pictures (let's not even consider imposters), then some degree of anonymity is lost. The portion at play here is that this isn't true human to human communication/contact. This person is just typing words into a keyboard to transmit them to a digital representation of someone else. There is an enormous chasm of "human contact" missing compared to making a connection with someone in a bar or other physical social situation.Online dating is nice, but I'm always wary of depending completely upon it to meet people. Nothing beats ACTUAL human contact and socializing.
May 15, 2008 10:05 AM

patrick_atlanta said...
There may be some return-on-investment strategy at play. Think about it from a time aspect - by having an online profile and a few canned lines, you could hit on a hundred guys in the same amount of time that you could maybe hit on 5 at the bar. That being said, instead of actually reading your online profile with the far-fetched hopes of seeing something like "I love short, obese, semi-closeted gentleman that are 20-years my senior", Mr. Troll can instead just scatter his flirts across every attractive guy on the internet and pray that there is at least one that is just that lonely... or just possible into short, obese, semi-closeted gentleman that are 20-years their senior.
May 15, 2008 9:32 PM

Anonymous said...
You've given this a lot of thought, and decided in the end, you secretly appreciate the troll fags who hit on you, because you know that the alternative would be too damaging to your ego.Yes, you are annoyed when you go online and instantly get winks and chats from repulsive, toothless fags whose profile pics remind you of something out of a B-horror movie. But sometimes that's all you get, which is at least something.Just think if even the hideous troll fags didn't hit on you! And deep down, you know it's kind of fun to reject 10 fags in an hour... even if they are repulsive.
May 16, 2008 12:43 AM

Benjamin said...
I think we have this fictitious belief that somehow the guys we talk to online are more (their profiles usually state) "down-to-earth", "laid-back", "chill", etc, etc. We feel a sense of security from reading these adjectives and thus feel more inclined to put our so-called "similar" personalities out there. In reality, most gay-guys aren't "chill" nor "laid-back"...cmon, give me a break. We're stressed out, overworked, sleep deprived fags who struggle just to make it in this intense city. How the f can a person say their chill in NYC? Sorry, unless your made out of mucho $$, you're struggling and therefore often "not-chill." This already is a red-flag for my online dating mantra. Does that mean all gay-guys are lying on their about me sections? (not always, but stretching the truth sure seems easy in the homo world) It's all about reading between the "iLines." Meanwhile as Samantha puts it, "You gotta get online honey. If only for the porn."
May 16, 2008 8:39 AM

Shane said...
Ha ha ha. I missed this yesterday cause I was celebrating the gay marriage thing here in Cali but......after reading the responses I had to laugh at the fact that almost all of the guys that responded kept saying "they" as if referring to other guys which makes me think....

Only GQ models were replying to your poll. LMFAO
May 16, 2008 1:02 PM