You're Not One of Those Coffee Date Fags...

...but when a boy you've been eyeing on Connexion for years suggests getting together for a Cup o' Joe, you jump at the chance. You've been chatting online all week and although he had an Endoscopy this afternoon, he told you he'd call afterwards if he felt up to meeting. And he has kept to his word, so off pack up your laptop and head over to Joe's to meet your next Blah-Blah-Blog victim. However, as you head down Sixth Avenue the pit in your stomach begins to fill with butterflies, or more likely moths, when you realize that this is the same coffee place where you first met Blonde Beard last January. The idea of possibly starting a new relationship while reminiscing about a failed one seems like a very, very bad omen. Only when you walk up to the place you realize that you are indeed wrong! You have somehow confused Joe's with Jack's and have gone to the wrong establishment! Although you are thrilled, you also realize that you are now late, so you call up your date and explain the situation while you walk the few extra blocks to meet a new boy at a new venue that someday you'll probably have to shun because of painful, caffeinated memories. The Endohottie is waiting for you outside and you apologize for your dyslexic mix-up. He's dressed very well for someone who just had an invasive medical procedure, but that probably has more to do with the fact that he designs menswear and has an outfit for every outlandish occasion. He could, however, use a lesson or two in Accessories as his tortoise shell sunglasses aren't winning any catwalk races against the Hare. If anything, these glasses are more prone to scare the Hare into conceding.

Even though it's beach weather, you end up ordering a hot tea and instantly end up regretting it. Since Joe's is packed, you both decide to go for a walk and head over to Sheridan Square in search of a park bench. You find a nice spot in the shade next to a few Homeless Trannies who are so down and out they aren't even in drag. But you aren't even noticing them because your attention is focused completely on these tiny little metal objects that are stuck all over the Endohottie's left ear. On one hand they kind of look like tiny adhesive electrodes that the doctor forgot to remove after his invasive procedure, but in the shimmery light of Christopher Street, they are definitely giving off a Rhinestone effect that is surely going to invoke some kind of Tranny Jealousy. You almost hear a creepy woman's voice say, "Look away from the Ear, Carol Ann!" but you are quickly distracted from the decorative medical objects as the two of you begin a pissing contest of all your various ailments. You match his endoscopy with your colonoscopy, and he quickly meets your call and actually raises you with a remissive case of Testicular Cancer. Thankfully, you have nothing to compete with The Big C, but you do tell him about your own testicular tribulations, specifically your varicosal veins that you initially mistook for a cancerous lump. Although you are having a fun chat, suddenly you feel like you should be feeding pigeons with what little is left over from your Social Security Check as you reminisce about the golden days of Hollywood before the Talkies took over. Aren't dates supposed to be hot and exciting? So you try to imagine yourself kissing the Endohottie. Only instead of getting lost in his lips, you find yourself drawn back to the adhesive electrodes while wondering if the testicular cancer has left the Endohottie with One Ball in the Corner Pocket?

The Homeless Trannies, however, don't seem all that interested in your little game of Pocket Pool. They're much more interested in screeching at each other about who's Adam's Apple is more feminine. You both decide to leave before you are enlisted into the Tranny Tantrum for an unbiased opinion, but the timing is good because the Endohottie has theater tickets and has to go home and change, where hopefully he'll remember to remove the Rhinestones. You decide to walk with the Endohottie on your way toward the subway, however, as you pass by a pizza place that is mysteriously not named Ray's, you hear your name yelled out from the open window. Although you're slightly worried about the potential disaster of being caught on a coffee date, you are thrilled to look up and find your BFF shoving the last bit of a slice into his mouth. So you say your goodbyes to the Endohottie and run inside to say, "Hi." Your BFF instantly gives you a disapproving look as he points toward the Endohottie and asks, "Who was that?" You haven't even begun to explain when your BFF points to the big dumb cup in your hand and asks, "And what is that?" You look at the tall cup which is now too cold to drink, and before you get a chance to answer your BFF has figured it out, "Ewwwww. Were you on a Coffee Date?" You laugh as you drop the paper cup into the trash can as if it is infected with cooties and say, "Is it Happy Hour yet?" And you both head over to XES to get a real, non-caffeinated adult beverage. Anyway...

HEY YOU! You're Not One of Those Closeted Fags...

...but what happens when the boy you have a huge crush on is still living in a massive Walk-In and using, *gasp* Wire Hangers?

Hey You!

When is outing people OK? If you have a huge crush (he's obviously gay, mostly determined by his lack interest in women, both in real life and according to his Facebook profile and is deliciously cute and somewhat flirty), can you just pointedly ask him out despite being completely closeted to all his friends and family? He's 22 and graduated from college. And there's slim pickin's around these parts when it comes to dateable boys.

I don't want to embarrass him out of the closet, but I really want to get him into my bed. Help me!

Sincerely,
Closet Cleaner

Fagnote #1


Dear Closet Cleaner,

Outing people is never okay! Especially when it comes to outing a closeted Blah-Blah-Blogger who is terrified he'll never get another date if his dirty little secret is revealed to the world! Oh, wait, you weren't talking about me, you were talking about You! Sometimes I get a bit confused when I have to write in the First Person...

You bring up two very interesting points that I'd like to yap about. First of all you ask about Outing a boy. Personally I don't believe in outing anybody. Well that's not really true, as I think people in the public eye have a unique opportunity to change popular opinion on the gays. Or, more specifically, unpopular opinion. If Anderson Cooper and Wentworth Miller and Tom Cruise and Ricky Martin and Clay Gaykin and LesLo ever came out of their closets then the world would be a much gayer place! Not to mention that it would make it much easier for your twenty-two year old college grad to ditch the bitch and make the switch! However, outing someone is a very emotionally violent thing to do and probably has more to do with the "Outer's" shit than the "Outee's." Back in college when I was still in the closet (hard to imagine now!), if someone had outed me, not only would I have vehemently denied it (with a stuttering lisp...), I would've also instantly hated them. And, from my experience, it's always a bit tough to get boys into bed when they hate you. Hell, it's hard enough to get them into bed when they like you! So if your ultimate goal is really to get into his pants, then you might want to leave his Levi's on the hanger in his closet!

However, your letter doesn't sound like you really want to out this boy. It seems like you'd rather just go out with him, and, honestly, I think that's a great idea! If you don't make a big deal about his sexuality then I doubt it will turn into a big deal. Be a bit ambiguous when you ask him out and he won't know if you want to be friends or friends with benefits! Since you aren't closeted then I'm sure his head will be spinning over your offer. He might even proclaim his straightness at the time, but don't let a little case of "The Lady Doth Protest Too Much" deter you. All you have to say at that point is, "It's not like I was asking you out on a date..." and send that homophobic ball back into his court, er, closet. If he says "yes," then you'll have to judge the situation to see if it's cool to start feeling around for some mothballs. Honestly, if he agrees to go out then it wouldn't surprise me if he's the one who brings up the gay thing. In that case you could just act all surprised and, of course, be as supportive as a Jock Strap!

xoxo You!

PS-Think I'm full of shit? Got some better advice for the Closet Cleaner? 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

You're Not One of Those Fags Who'd Marry His Beard...

...but, as long as he kept it nice and trim, you wouldn't mind marrying a boy with a beard. Of course he'd have to clean up the bathroom sink after trimming those pesky whiskers, because, as opposed to the good kind of dirty, that particular kind of follicle filth is completely unacceptable! Speaking of scruff, after a lovely beach weekend at the Jersey Shore with nary a razor to be found, you return with a serious case of five o'clock shadow. Although this is usually a good look for you, you are slightly disturbed by the gray bits of salt that are pushing their way through your pepper! Some people think it looks distinguished. You, however, would prefer if it was extinguished. You are much to immature to look like a Daddy! But you're even lazier than you are vain, so you choose to remain in denial about your Aging Whiskers and instead meet your friends for a shot of some nicely Aged Whiskey at Niso's.

It's a gorgeous afternoon and after gorging and O.D.ing on children in Straighty McStraightville, NJ, you are definitely ready for a Gay Cocktail! Half-Share is back early from Fire Island and tells you that he'd love to join you but he's waiting to hear back about dinner plans with a boy he's been dating, so you tell Half-Share to bring his new Boy Toy along (after all, you're very curious to meet him). Rice Queen decides to join you for this impromptu Eighth Avenue Inquisition and, after ordering your first round, you all head outside with your elbows out in order to claim some serious Sidewalk Real Estate (location, location, location!) in order to watch the Chelsea Boys parading down the Avenue during their weekly stroll back from Sunday Ab(ternoon) Services at David Barton.

However, on your way outside, you wind up getting segued by some drunks who are very curious about your CBGB T-shirt. You assume they, obviously, must be from out of town as they start tapping on your chest and ask you what the letters stand for. Now, although you bought the damn shirt at Bloomingdale's, the famous club used to be right down the street from you so you really should know what the acronym stands for. But you stutter, "Country Blue Grass...?" And that's when the whole drunken group starts throwing their two clever cents in, "Cute Boy, Good Bottom!" Although you are way too sober for this invasive conversation, for some reason you engage the Drunk Boy and his Buxom Beard and you say, "Just good? Not great?" and then you give the Drunk Boy a wink as you attempt to make a quick exit. Only they don't let you go. They begin to rub your scruff and grab at your shirt as they attempt to pull it up in order to get a look at your abs(olutely off-limit belly). You kind of hate this kind of unwelcome groping (especially since you ate like a pig this weekend), so you reflexively pull your hem back down toward the floor and decisively tell the Drunk Boy, "Not cool," partly because it isn't cool, but mostly because he isn't hot. He backs off and tells you that he hates it when people touch him, too, and although you don't mean to be nasty, your intentions seem a bit debatable when you say, "Don't worry. I wasn't planning on touching you." You quickly flash your dimples and briefly consider amending your sentence by adding, Without your permission... But he's so drunk and completely not your type so you just let it go and walk outside.

You apologize for your tardiness when you finally meet your Gay Posse on the makeshift patio, and you are curious as to when Half-Share's new Boy Toy will be joining you? "He's not coming," explains Half-Share. "Apparently he made other dinner plans between our first and last text message." You are very surprised and are smelling a bit of lame play. Oops, you meant to write, game. You ask, "How long between texts?" And when Half-Share informs you, "Almost a half hour," you all collectively shake your heads and sip your Gay Cocktails in unison. You can tell Half-Share is upset when he retorts, "This is when the Scorpio in me comes out and he ain't gonna know what hit him." Scorpios don't get mad. They get even!

Although you pride yourself in not Playing by the Rules, lately, since nothing seems to be going your way, you've begun to wonder if that could be a mistake? Hell, three and a half years after breaking up with The Ex, you are still single. Lately you've begun to wonder if it is even possible for two gay men in their thirties to have a relationship? Even though everybody you meet tells you they're looking for relationships, nobody seems to act like they are. Is it really that hard? If you really like a boy, then shouldn't you be able to wait a half-hour before going ahead and making other dinner plans? And if you don't really like a boy then why the hell are you attempting to make dinner plans with him in the first place? It's all so confusing and disheartening that find yourself asking your friends, "Why does it have to be so hard to have any sort of relationship in New York?" Half-Share gives the stock answer that you've heard a hundred times before, "Too many shiny objects!" Although you know that sexy gay boys in NYC are a dime a dozen, is everybody really so A.D.D. that they have no idea when they stumble upon an extremely rare and collectible Indian Head Penny? The problem with this theory, however, is that everybody, of course, thinks of themselves as the elusive Indian Head Penny. Even you. Especially you.

Although none of you has an answer for this Gay Boy conundrum, you all are quick to recognize the value of the most rarest of finds in Manhattan: delicious and cheap Chinese food! So you pay your Niso's tab and rush over to Grand Sichuan. Although Half-Share seems to already be over his lame Boy Toy, you can't seem to let go of the conversation and are like a skipping record as you skip past Billy's Bakery on Ninth Avenue. When you shut up long enough to realize that your friends have made a pit stop to chat with someone, you can actually feel the cupcakes adhering to your gut by osmosis. You take deep chocolate breaths while feigning interest in whoever they've stopped to greet. Only you are in shock when Half-Share introduces you to the Cupcake eating a cupcake who turns out to be the Boy Toy! And he's, get this, sharing a cupcake with a much younger, very Shiny Object, who has, get this, a sexy beard. The whole charade is so obviously a date that it pains you to be introduced to the Boy Toys' Beard, mostly because you have to watch your own friend push a pained smile through his own irritated face as he shakes the Cupcake's hand. The whole thing is all so wrong.

You and Rice Queen immediately try to console Half-Share as you walk toward the restaurant, but, surprisingly, Half-Share seems more annoyed than upset. His reaction confuses you, but it can't help but make you wonder, Has this kind of lame gay boy behavior become so pervasive and acceptable in our community that it's merely perceived as annoying? And then, to add insult to injury, that's when Half-Share's phone beeps with a text from his Lame Game Playing Boy Toy, which instantly causes him to guffaw: "Dinner might be difficult this week, but we'll figure it out." Half-Share, of course, doesn't respond. But nobody makes any comment at all, mostly because you're all speechless as you watch the hottest guy walking down Ninth Avenue hand-in-hand with, get this, the The Bearded Lady. And it's at that very moment that you decide you are going on strike and not shaving until you become someone else's Beard! Anyway...

FAG POLE: Are you one of those Fags who would get down on your knees and ask your partner, "Will you marry me ... in California?"

44% of You said, "Yes! But mostly so we can register for gifts at Restoration Hardware and vacation in Palm Springs."

27% of You said, "Marriage? Please! I can't even keep a boyfriend longer than a season of Project Runway."

23% of You said, "Maybe. But my boyfriend better be the one getting down on his knees. And the ring better be big enough for me to say yes."

5% of You said, "No way! Marriage is for Breeders. And when I decide to kick my freeloading boyfriend to the curb I don't want to have to pay alimony!"

Number of Fags Who Voted: 77

This Poll is dedicated to California Shane and his Fiancé who are engaged to be married in early October! Congratulations and, of course, LMFAO! ;-)

IMPORTANT: Governor Patterson has said that NY will recognize same-sex marriages from other states and countries. He's doing a poll on whether people support it. Take 15 seconds to lodge your support... Call 1-518-474-8390. You will talk to a live person from the Governor's office during business hours and you can leave a phone message after that. Simply say "I support the Governor's directive on same sex marriage," then give them your 5 digit (New York) zip code!

Greetings from...

Folsom Street East!

Greetings from...

Folsom Street East!

ASK YOURSELF: You're Not One of Those Fags Who Plays Footsie on the Subway...

...so why is it that Straight Guys are always spreading their legs as wide as a Whore in Labor, while rubbing their knees up against yours?

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:

Shane said...
Because its so freakin [hot] on the subway, their balls are stuck to their leg, so they spread em to air em out. this would be my guess. June 22, 2008 10:14 AM

Jesse Archer said...
Breeders want to take up as much space as possible. A bigger spread attracts a more fertile female. I'm sure it's all very darwinian. Hence the reason I always cross my legs. June 22, 2008 11:41 AM

You're Not One of Those New Jersey Fags...

...but you are definitely a Beach Ho, so when your Gal Pal invites you to her Mom's shore house for Memorial Day weekend, you pull your best gold chain out of retirement and pack up the Bitchen Camero with the rest of your Bada Bling and head down to Seaside Park. The traffic is, predictably, horrendous, and you are trapped in the back of the Overly Affectionate Straight Couple's Bitchen Camero with a large dog named Mr. President who you'd definitely like to impeach since he is hogging more than his share of the bench seat.

As you approach Exit 100 of the Garden State Parking Lot, your Gal Pal turns down her new favorite song "Paper Planes" by M.I.A. from her blown out speakers. Then she casually informs you that her Niece and Nephew will be joining you for the weekend. And suddenly you put a pretend to put a gun to your head while you sing along with the song, "All you wanna do is go Bang, Bang, Bang!" as if you're the Child Catcher from Chitty Chitty Bang, Bang Bang! Now it's not that you hate children, per se, in fact, way back when you were a little boy some of your dearest friends were actually children. But now that you are thirtysomething you find them to be, shall we say, a bit irritating. Now it's not like you hate all children, actually it's mostly the ones you are related to that you can't stand. But you digress. You are in a bit of shock as you utter, "Babies?" with more than a bit of disdain. "No, no, no!" your Gal Pal assures you. "My niece is six and my nephew is thirteen. But he's troubled." "Oh good," you say as you imagine your lifeless, body hanging from a fence along the boardwalk à la Matthew Sheppard. "I hear troubled teenage boys love the gays."

But the kids actually turn out to be cute and the six year old girl is this adorable Mini Pink Fluffy Thing who is so mature that you wouldn't be surprised if she told you she had scheduled her first boob job for next week. She makes you watch Hannah Montana and then flits around the house, walking with her arms up in the air as if she's eliciting applause while giving dramatic sighs every time somebody changes the conversation to a subject other than her. You absolutely love this Little Drag Queen In Progress and, later on at the beach, you spend the afternoon building her elaborate Gay Sand Castles, which, of course, the Troubled Teen knocks down. Actually the Troubled Teen isn't too terrible either, at least not when he's properly medicated. Anyway.

After a delicious barbecue you all decide to take the kids to the boardwalk, mostly so you can beat their asses in Skee-Ball, which, of course, you do. You basque in the pleasure of whipping two whipper snappers, and tease them about how bad they are until they're almost at the point of tears, before you end up bribing their frowns away with the wad of Skee-Ball tickets that you won. When you leave the arcade you notice that the social scene has dramatically changed. The boardwalk has become overrun with Seventeen Year Old Thugs with Pen-Line Jaw Beards. These Future Ex-Cons strut along with their Candy Cotton-eating Ho's who seem to have missed the memo that skintight Lycra went out of style along with David Lee Roth. Only these girls actually look like they may have actually eaten David Lee Roth, because they all have a disturbing Muffin-Top effect where their exposed bellies ooze out in the space between their Lycra and their low-cut jeans. Welcome to Senior Week on the Jersey Shore! Which does nothing but making you feel like a Senior Citizen living in fear of being mugged. You grab the kids and drag them home, stopping only briefly to ride the Go-Karts with a few overly made-up Go-Go-Tarts.

When you get back to the house you immediately send the overly-sugared children back to their grandmother, and that's when the Overly Affectionate Straight Couple begins to fake some yawns. You can't help but think to yourself, Is this what it feels like to be straight? 10pm Yawns after a day of Medicated Children and Pin-Line Jaw Beards? What is wrong with these people? And why aren't they having Gay Cocktails? However, there is only one problem to your conundrum. You are at least forty-five minutes away from the nearest Gay Bar! Not to mention the fact that you have no car! After a brief panic attack, your Gal Pal's boyfriend, The Most Hated Man In New York, generously offers you his jalopy so you can drag your ass up to Asbury Park to get your long overdue daily dose of Gay.

Driving the Bitchen Camero is a chore in itself, but you are happy to have access to it. Until, halfway to Asbury, you realize that you'll have to drive the damn thing home! How on earth are you supposed to do that? All this pesky driving is already interfering with your drinking and you haven't even had your first Gay Cocktail yet! Anyway. You park next to the Empress Hotel and make your way over to Paradise, which, unfortunately for you, will obviously be more of a Dry Desert than a Cocktail Infused Oasis. You do allow yourself to order a Bud Light, and as you are paying for it the DJ puts on some incredible Shep Pettibone-esque mega-mix of "Don't Stop the Music." You quickly pay the bartender and race over to the dance floor where, of course, you jump up on the stage and start dancing because that's exactly the type of exhibitionist you are. You'll show these Jersey Boys how we do it in New York! Only when you look around, there aren't that many Jersey Boys. The club that you just spent forty-five minutes driving to, the same one that you can't drink in because you have to drive forty-five minutes back, is practically empty!

After paying your respects to Rhianna, you do a quick Fruit Loop around the sprawling club and check out the Pool Area. The Sunday crowd is definitely not so cute. At all. Except for one boy who quickly catches your eye and actually says, "Hello," as you pass by. Suddenly your sober evening doesn't seem like such a bust, until the cute boy asks you in a familiar accent, "What are you doing down here?" Your mind begins to race as you try to place him! Suddenly he looks familiar, but you can't remember from where! You have some quick chit-chat while studying his face for clues. His current haircut is rather tragic, and you are sure that's what's throwing you off. But when he mentions that he is at the shore visiting some friends of his who are also from Venezuela, you instantly remember who he is. You actually met this boy at a gay bar in Dublin last summer, and you hooked up once in New York. Although he was incredibly sexy, he was rather rude to your friends and you felt like something was a little bit off. Of course you slept with him anyway, but you never called him back. Cut to 2008 in Asbury Park with a tragic haircut. The Vengeful Venezuelan tells you to come and hang out by the pool with his friends, but you tell him that you're gonna grab another beer and excuse yourself while making a mental note to avoid The Pool area as if it was quarantined.

That's when you stumble upon another room which is playing '80s New Wave which, of course, draws you in like a Star Trek Tractor Beam. You actually do wind up ordering one more Bud Light (you wouldn't want to break your word to the Vengeful Venezuelan...) and you sit down on a couch while scanning the room for cute boys whom you haven't slept with. Unfortunately there aren't any. So you just pick up some random New Jersey Gay Rag and start flipping through it. You are instantly drawn to a review of your Internet Crush's movie, A Four Letter Word, and you are instantly up in arms because, although it was a fantastic little film, this Critical Jersey Queen has given it a bad review! You seek solace in the fact that the Jersey Queen can't write for shit, and is obviously unable to grasp the deep nuances of the magic, infectious sparkle that is Jesse Archer. That's when some Big Boy sits down next to you on the couch with his even Bigger Boyfriend and they start chatting you up even though the bad review has thoroughly upset you and has left you feeling quite unsocial. The Big Boy asks you, "Is there any place better than this on Sunday nights?" And you look over at the Big Boy rather quizzically and say, half joking, but mostly not, while doing your best Tony Soprano, "Do I look like I'm from Jersey?" And that's when the Big Boy actually says, "Yes." Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Fags Who Has Professional Headshots Taken for his Online Dating Profile...

...as if! Facebook-Schmacebook! When it comes to your blog, you don't even have a Face! But when Half-Share sends you a cute group photo from last weekend on Fire Guyland, you quickly crop out the entire group and post it on Connexion. You've found, for some unknown reason, that posting new photos seems to renew interest in your profile and attract new boys. And now that you've said, "Buh-Bye, Swedie Pi!" you could definitely use a new Milkshake to Bring All the Boys to the Yard. Even though you've got your fingers crossed for a New York Super Fudge Hunk, in the warming weather your Mojo definitely seems to be melting to the point where you'd happily take the Rocky Road and settle for something Half Baked. Moments after you post the cropped photo there's a knock on your bedroom door and you are surprised when your Hobosexual Roommate is standing there with an unidentified perky young girl who you've never even seen before. "I'm sorry," he lies. "I didn't know you'd be home so I scheduled a few potential roommates to come see your room." Although you want to say, If you wanted to know my schedule then maybe you could have... Oh I don't know? Asked? But you are moving out of the Home Sweet Hovel next month and the Hobosexual's next victim is smiling perkily and, although you know you should be screaming for her to, "Run Forrest! Ruuuuuuuuuun!!" you are also ruuuuuning late for an Out Magazine party to preview the Marc Ecko Summer Collection (yawn) but, more importantly, you are late for some free Three Olives Vodka!

While you're in the bathroom doing some vitally important last minute nose hair trimming, you can't help yourself from listening to the inane conversation going on in the living room of your Home Sweet Hovel. The trimmer buzzes away while buzz words like Fung Shui and Generational Discourse grab your attention to the point where you burst out laughing. Shouldn't the Perky Girl be asking more probing questions like, "Do you ever do your dishes?" or "What do you wipe yourself with during the weeks when you run out of toilet paper?" or possibly even a simple, "Do you ever use soap when you bathe?" But no! Instead these twentysomethings are yapping about the Fung Shui of a lumpy futon that was recently plagued by the Hobosexual's imaginary Bedbugs.

You escape and head over to Eighth Avenue & 17th Street in Chelsea to meet a bunch of your friends who have absolutely no idea why you told them to meet you at Marc Ecko, yet instantly dropped their interrogation when you said, "Free Vodka." Actually, you don't even know what this party is for! One of your Blah-Blah-Blog friends, the Non-Party-Boy Party-Boy (aka NPBPB) was nice enough to forward you the invitation because he knows how partial you are to anything free and gay. You walk in off the avenue and when you find your friend Half-Share and you instantly know that something must be gravely wrong when you notice the grimace on his face. When he notices your deep concern, Half-Share shakes his head as he gives you the terrible news, "The vodka is either grape or cherry flavored." That's when Jet Blew takes a big gulp, finishing his glass before informing you expressionlessly, "It's absolutely vile."

Your friends, of course, ask you to pick them up some refills as race to the back of the store to get in the bar line so you can do your own taste test. That's when you recognize someone you know from the Ski Fags, and you quickly realize, now that it's warm and sunny outside, the two of you have absolutely nothing in common. So you wind up in one of those deep, "You look great! -- No, you look great!" Chelsea conversations until you feel an ominous tap on your shoulder. All the Ghosts of Your Dating Past start flashing through your head as you take a big breath of the grape and cherry scented air. However, when you turn around and see the Shoulder Tapper, you have absolutely no idea who the hell he is. Now, although you are terrible with names, you are pretty damn good with faces (unless of course you meet the Faces when you are drunk, which is mostly when you meet the Faces. Okay, okay. So you're terrible with names and faces.) But the Shoulder Tapper just stares at you for a loooooong moment with a big, shit eating grin on his Face. You, of course, don't say anything. You're pretty sure that you've never slept with him. Well, okay, possibly there's a slim fifty-fifty chance. So you smile, just in case. And that's when the Shoulder Tapper tells you his name (which does sound vaguely familiar, yet doesn't quite ring your Tinkerbell) and that's when he says, "You told me to say hi if I figured out who you were. So I'm saying hi this time." All you can do is gulp when he says, "I love your Blah-Blah-Blog."

You are absolutely stunned! You've been so diligent about remaining anonymous and are completely floored that the Non-Party-Boy Party-Boy has somehow easily identified you from at least a hundred Chelsea Boys in what now feels like a Gay Police Line-Up (for the vodka bar, of course). Arrested doesn't even begin to describe the way you feel. Frozen is more like it. You are like a Deer caught in NPBPB's extremely natural-looking Highlights. And that's when he says, "Well, I've got to go now." And this twist in the conversation actually helps you untie the one in your tongue, "That's it? You're not even going to talk to me or ask me anything?" This is when NPBPB informs you exactly where you fall in his gay pecking order, "I've got tickets to see Patti Lupone in Gypsy tonight. Sorry." And with that, the Non-Party-Boy Party-Boy disappears into the crowd, just as quickly as he appeared, and races off to his next Non-Party. Luckily, you have finally reached the bar and it is now your turn to order. And since you are a bit shaken from the Tap-and-Run outing, you tell the bartender (who you somehow recognize from G even though he has his shirt on) that you'd like one Cherry Soda and one Grape Soda, and you complete your own impartial taste test on your way back to your friends.

Half-Share and Jet Blew instantly see the look of horror on your face and they shake their heads in agreement while continuously sipping their flavored vodkas, "Isn't it absolutely vile?" But you explain that you've just been Outed! Half-Share quickly quips back, "Honey, did you really think people would think you were straight in that outfit?" "What?" you ask, "Is my T-shirt too tight?" To which Half-Share responds with a silent, yet dramatic eye-roll. You say, "Oh come on! It's more Straight-Tight than Gay-Tight." And then Half-Share says, "What do you expect when you shop from the Baby Gap clearance rack? But don't worry," he says. "It looks good on you." You laugh as Half-Share rolls his eyes again.

After a couple more trips to the bar, even though you have actually grown partial to the Welch's Wodka, your friends, who obviously have more mature palates (combined with more mature wallets), decide to go around the corner and head over to XES to pay for the privilege of not having to drink Cherry and Grape flavored Vodka. XES is absolutely packed to the gills with Sauced Sardines because they are apparently having a Genre Magazine party. You look around aimlessly for the Genre Gent you met over the winter (yet lost touch with), hoping you can, once again, hit him up for some freelance work. But the bar is way too crowded and you quickly give up your search when you run into your BFF and his co-worker, Pussy Galore, as they're ordering drinks at the bar.

At 8:30 Half-Share and Jet Blew decide to go grab a bite to eat at a restaurant you can't afford, so you all kiss goodbye and the next thing you know you are dancing on a platform, singing passionately along to the new Madonna vs. Justin Timberlake song as if you were the one who only had Four Minutes to save the world. That's when a Columbia Photographer from Colombia starts snapping his flash all around you. You, of course, camp it up for him as if he's your personal strobe light, and you are the Last Model Standing. Afterwards the Columbia Colombian actually says with a completely straight face, "I want to do a session with you." You instinctively roll your eyes and he says, "No, seriously! I need new shots for my website and I think you'd be perfect." You stare at him for a long time, waiting for Alan Funt to emerge from behind the wall and say, "You're on Candid Camera!" but he doesn't. After a beat or two you realize that the Columbia Colombian is being serious and not just feeding you a, for lack of a better word, line. You actually believe him when he says, "I just like your energy." And that's when you are immediately embarrassed by the situation which is simultaneously flattering yet equally objectifying to the point where you have no choice but to giggle and cover your mouth like a Japanese school girl wearing too much Hello Kitty. Although the Columbia Colombian is not typically your type, you find yourself drawn to his unexpected compliments in the form of a kiss. And it's absolutely amazing.

After what feels like a half hour, you look at your watch and feel like someone is playing a practical joke on you when you realize that it is now midnight and you have that awful realization that you still haven't had dinner. Although the Columbia Colombian asks you to come back to Astoria with him, you are feeling unsure. You tell him (and you actually believe yourself in the moment) that one night stands are no longer your thing. That's when the Columbia Colombian gives you his business card and says, with all seriousness, "I'm really serious about doing a photo shoot." You kiss him good night and put his card in your pocket. And when you wake up the next morning and find yourself thinking about the Columbia Colombian in some of your earliest hungover thoughts, you end up Facebooking him a message which says, "All right Mr. De Mille. Facebook is ready for my new close-up." Anyway...

You Can't Be One of Those Alcoholic Fags...

...if you're in denial. Anyway...

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

...although the smell of brewing coffee makes you a little bit ill, you definitely get a bit surly if you haven't had your two liter daily quota of Diet Pepsi. So after a lost weekend on Fire Guyland (where there was nary a Pepsi product to be found), it's probably not the wisest idea to email your Swedie Pi about getting together. You had a few back and forth emails over the weekend, but any information he offered up seemed a bit unnecessarily vague, especially since he never suggested getting together. However Swedie Pi definitely did mention the fact that he was leaving town for Mallorca in a few days. Although his signals are definitely mixed, you did have a fantastic first date so you decide it's worth sending a casual email to test the waters: "hey, i've returned from the gayer island to the merely gay island. i'm exhausted and need a vacation! how was your weekend? got any time for a libra before you jet away to mallorca?"

While you wait for Swedie Pi's response, the Libra in you begins to weigh all the different scenarios of how this Dating Don't email will come back to haunt you. You decided long ago that Mixed Signals were just as irritating as Mixed Bars. You don't take it personally anymore, because you know that even if Swedie Pi is unsure of the way he feels about you, Mr. Right, on the other hand, will be very clear. The reason you know this is true because, after years of dating, you've learned, first and foremost, to always trust your own feelings. When you feel ambivalent about a boy, you tend to act ambivalent. And when you're really into a boy, you are always willing to prioritize and clear your busy dating schedule around spending time together. But Swedie Pi seems to be playing his Tarot Cards ridiculously close to his smooth Nordic chest. If He's Just Not That Into You, then why does he keep sending emails? Or on the off chance that he is into you, then why wouldn't he suggest getting together before he leaves for Spain? And you're even more confused when you receive his reply, "Want to meet up for lunch or coffee early afternoon? I can come to your hood."

Lunch or coffee? For a second date? Before he leaves the country for two weeks? Not to mention the fact that you receive the lunch offer at 12:51pm... Now you may be wrong (even though you're not), but you really don't see the possibility of having sex arise after lunch or *gasp* coffee. You don't even want to think about kissing Swedie Pi's Coffee Breath. Ugh. And although you don't (typically) mind playing it a bit Gay Slow and waiting for the third date to have sex, the fact that Swedie Pi is leaving the country on Wednesday seems to make the possibility of a third date seem as remote and foreign as Mallorca itself. But here's what really confuses you: Why does Swedie Pi want to get together at all? Why doesn't he just tell you he's too busy? Does he just want to be friends? Ugh. Honey, you have too many friends as it is! Anyway. You reply a bit tentatively, while passive-aggressively fishing for a date that could involve a cocktail or possibly bottle of wine over dinner: "just got your email. not sure if you meant today, or if there's just a delay in your email? regardless, today won't work for me. tues or wed would be okay though. not sure when you leave." There is no delay in his next response, however, and you are shocked to receive this: "Yeah today. Tomorrow I work all day and evening, wednesday it's Chelsea gallery day with a friend. But why don't we get a nice breakfast somewhere wednesday morning? You up for that?"

A nice breakfast?! How do you go from having one of the best, most romantic first dates you've ever had, to some lousy breakfast date? Ewwww! No thank you! Unless, of course, you're being served breakfast in bed, you have absolutely no interest in going on that date! How could two people have such a completely different take on each other? You begin to feel like you may finally be losing your mind until you remember the adorable waitress at Cafe Gitane who thought that you and Swedie Pi had been dating for months! Even she noticed the chemistry! But you are actually more intrigued than ever by Swedie Pi's bizarre retreat and you are curious to see how this one plays out, so you decide to make yourself a bit more available: "i've got a doctor's appointment at 11am on wednesday, so breakfast might be cutting it too close. maybe i could make tonight could work. i've got an event at 6:30 on west 48th but maybe i could meet you beforehand? i know a few bars in that area but, since i don't drink coffee, i never know any coffee places. do you know of any place nearby?"

Swedie Pi slowly returns your emails throughout the afternoon and eventually he suggests you meet him at Coffee Pot on Ninth Ave & 49th Street at 5pm. He is waiting for you when, of course, you arrive five minutes late. The place is a dump. Zero atmosphere. And when you get there, something seems a bit off. There's no enthusiastic hello. At all. And you're not sure why, maybe it's because of the harsh florescent lighting combined with the bright sunlight streaming through the window, or possibly it's because you are drinking plain Iced Tea instead of your preferred brand, Long Island, but Swedie Pi looks older. Much older. The lines around his eyes seem to scream "I lied on my profile!" But regardless of this unexpected wrinkle, there is one thing that is absolutely for sure: All of the magic from the first date is missing. Without a Trace. The whole time you are annoyed because it just seems like Swedie Pi has agreed to meet you to throw you a fucking bone! Without throwing you his bone! As if you don't have better things to do than to fill an hour and a half of your day with conversation about his retired mother! But honestly, at this ridiculous point in the date you realize that you will never see this boy again so you just go through the motions. Suppressing yawns and irritation and substituting them with more and more questions, mostly to evade having to answer anything probing that he might ask, because, honestly, you have shut down. How can you go on more and more of these ridiculous dates? You'd love to ask Mr. Owl "How many dates does it take to get to the center of a Charm(less) 'Mo Top?"

When you look at your watch you are shocked to see that it's only 6pm! You already told Swedie Pi that your next party began at 6:30, and since your BFF isn't going to show up until then, you pull some more questions out of your ass just to keep the conversation going for another half hour. At this point you can't help but be shocked by the fact that your last date lasted five hours and you were actually bummed when it ended! But after an hour and a half of Swedie Pi's monologue you remind him that you must get going, and just as you begin to put on your jacket he throws you a doosey that you weren't expecting. You are practically heading out the door when Swedie Pi asks, "So what's the title of your novel? And what's it about?" You feel like the Meryl Streep character from Death Becomes Her after she gulps down the anti-aging potion and her Voodoo doctor says, "And now for a warning..." You almost scream out, "Now a question?!" but you don't even have any interest in being funny at this point so you just tell him, "It's called The Convertible Life." And, although you are annoyed by the immense question that Swedie Pi has casually asked just you as you are literally walking out the door, you give him a brief synopsis about how it's about an adoption search that completely changes the protagonist's life. But you are absolutely shocked when Swedie Pi has the gall to say, "That sounds too serious." You really can't believe the inane direction that the conversation has turned, but you are on the street so you just smirk and roll your eyes as you say, "Well I'm a very serious guy." Swedie Pi gives you a double euro kiss goodbye and you head over to Wired Magazine's 15th Anniversary Party with your BFF at Highbar and get wired on anything but coffee while you peer over the roof deck and wave Buh-Bye to your Swedie Pi. Anyway...

FAG POLE: What will you be running out to buy for the 2008 Summer Swimsuit Competition?

45% of You said, "Four inch Board Shorts! I'm a Sensible Shopper and I can wear these on Fire Island or at my Cousin's Pool Party in Greenwich."

32% of You said, "Eight inch Board Shorts! I like to let my boys Hang Loose!"

12% of You said, "Snap Shorts! I'm all about the Easy Access, baby!"

9% of You said, "A Speedo! I worked all winter for this ass, and now I'm gonna let it work for me!"

Number of Fags Who Voted: 31

Check out all these cute suits and more at the Gay Bathing Suit Mecca better known as Parke & Ronen! Or leave a comment with a link to your favorite nylon place to hang your boys this summer!

HEY YOU! You're Not One of Those Closeted Football Fags...

...anymore. But you're still in training and need a lots and lots of Gay Practice before you graduate from Bench Warmer to Bun Warmer.

Hey You!

Although I'm more of a Football Fan, a couple of weeks ago I met this Soccer Player who I thought was really cute.

Since I was just beginning to break into the gay community (I've been out for only a couple of months), I was just kind of desperate for a connection. With every new day of flirting with him via text message, I realize I could do so much better than this guy. We've even gone on a few dates, but after going to a club with him I realized he's really not my style, and I'm not even attracted to him anymore.

Unfortunately, I've been leading him on for two weeks now. A simple friendship would be nice, because I'm likely to see him around at various parties and gay events around town.

So I'm wondering, "What's the best way to put a stop to this avant-relationship that has gone on for two weeks too long, when I've been shining the green light for two weeks?"

Yours,
Football Fanatic

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


Dear Football Fanatic,

I have two words for you. David Beckham! But that, my friend, is the extent of all my sports knowledge. Thank God he married Posh Spice or I probably would never have even heard of him! Meanwhile, your Dating Dilemma reminds me of that scene in Risky Business where the Tranny Hooker shows up at Tom Cruise's house and tells him, "When you buy a TV, you don't buy Sony if you want RCA..." But honestly I don't think you should be buying anything at the moment. You should definitely be going down the Rent-To-Own route for quite some time before you decide which gayborhood you want to settle down in. The good news is that I think you already realize this!

Here's the other good news: the Soccer Player probably realizes this, too! Just like the Rebound Rule where everybody knows to steer clear of someone freshly out of a relationship, it's kind of an unwritten gay law to stay far away from boys when they first come out of the closet. The Breeders have it easy since they are actually bred to be straight and encouraged to learn the Ins and Outs of dating as early as Middle School! But us fags have it a bit harder. We pretty much pretend we're straight until we come out of the closet, and then, when we finally do admit to ourselves and the rest of the world that we're gay, we don't have a clue about what it really means! Although we somehow innately always know which grooming products to use, which designer jeans to buy, and which Carbs to avoid so that we don't end up becoming Straight Fat, most of us have not had parents who sat us down during puberty to tell us all about the Birds and the Birds. And instead of encouraging our compulsive need to dress and accessorize our little sister's naked Barbie Dolls, our parents forbade us from setting foot in Malibu Barbie's Dream House (even to give Gay Ken some redecorating tips)!

The good news is that, now that you've come out of the closet, you get to do all of this, and more! How are you gonna know if you're a good kisser if you settle down with the first Soccer Player you make-out with? Remember, practice makes perfect (see fagnote #1, above). Meanwhile, you've just learned a valuable lesson. If you're just not that into a boy, then don't send out all those signals (or texts). Your change of heart might be confusing for him initially, but you have the best excuse and it's not even a lie! You just came out of the closet and you're not ready to get serious with anybody. Think about it. How many of your seventh grade Gal Pals settled down with the first boy that asked them to hold hands during the Couples Skate at Rollerama? I'm guessing NONE! And if on the off chance I'm wrong, then I'm guessing the poor Gal Pal in question has a really shitty sex life.

Okay, so here's my advice. And it's really, really good advice that took me at least thirtysomething years to figure out. If you don't want to make a big deal out of an issue, then don't make it a big deal! If you don't like the boy, then don't lead him on with smiley faced texts! If he gives you a booty call, then call him back, the next day! If you just want a simple friendship, then treat him like a simple friend! Make sure your actions send out the correct signals (that you just want to be friends), and you may not even need to have the awkward conversation at all. Gay Boys are vapid, not stupid! However, if you really do want to be friends and keep him in your life (and I think it would be really smart for you to start making a Gay Posse of Friends Without Benefits), then you should really just tell him how you feel. But do it simply! If he has a big crush on you then, as Elton John would say to Kiki Dee, Don't Go Breaking His Heart. Tell him you like him, but you see him as more of a friend. You don't need to make a big deal out of it either. I think it's something that would be best said in person, but I'd only enter that scrimmage game if the Soccer Player in question has passed you the ball. Think of yourself as the Goalie who has to Cock-Block his big Soccer Balls without letting him score any more points, because, after all, this game is definitely over. Now it's time to start playing the field, but always remember, just as with Football, Soccer or Rollerskating, when it comes to Gay Dating, Practice Makes Purrfect!

xoxo You!

PS-Think I'm full of shit? Got some better advice for the Football Fanatic? 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

You’re Not One of Those Fags Who Publishes His Cell Number…

...but you are always happy to stumble upon some quality reading material to keep you occupied while you’re on the can. Even on the Long Island Rail Road. You are actually a bit skeptical, however, about John’s outlandish claims that he will, ironically, meet you in this particular John on the 5:09 pm train to Babylon (Monday through Friday no less) for some “Hot Man on Man Action!” Although you are pretty sure that John-John would probably not be your type, you are a little bummed that you are, unfortunately, on the 3:21pm to Sayville, because it would certainly be entertaining to watch some suburban commuter hovering around his personal little Meatrack on his way home to his wife and kids. You, of course, rush back to tell your own little Fire Island Fag Family all about John-John, mostly so you can enlist them for help to remember which exact train to take in June when you have your next Quarter Cher week on Fire Guyland. Luckily, one of your more prompt Housemates arrived to Penn Station early enough to secure a spacious six-person banquette, so you and five of the Kinsey 8's you share a beach house with can all sit together and shield yourselves from the unsettling number of Kinsey Zeros who could really benefit from an episode or seven of Queer Eye for the Long Island Guy.

Since this is your first weekend of the Fire Guyland season, you are initially a bit confused by the 22 year old Columbia Student from Hong Kong who, although much too young, seems way gay enough to be part of the Kinsey 8. For some reason, although it appears that his hair consultant is Christian from Project Runway, this gay boy does not seem at all interested in participating in any of your convergaytion. Eventually, when you can’t stand the suspense anymore, you decide to ask one of the three Rice Queens about their not-so-Ancient Chinese Secret? You aren’t at all surprised to learn that Hong Kong Boy Toy is Rice Queen #1 and Rice Queen #2’s Exchange Student for the weekend. You immediately feel like Molly Ringwald in Sixteen Candles as her grandparents introduce her to the “Weird Chinese guy in Mike's room,” a.k.a. Long Duk Dong. Even though The Donger is nowhere near as social as the one played by Gedde Watanabe, he certainly is young enough to make you feel old enough to be Grandma & Grandpa. Which, in and of itself, is enough reason to instantly hate The Donger.

Luckily, this is when Rice Queen #2 pulls his weekend bag from the luggage rack, which clanks like a noisy wind chime and confuses you until he opens it up and reveals a nice travel sized unopened bottle of Knob Creek. Although you prefer clear alcohols for the same caloric reason you prefer Diet Pepsi, you quickly decide that beggar alcoholic buggers can’t be choosy, and you happily accept a big swig which instantly fills your esophagus with warmth and good cheer, almost as if it was a well endowed good queer. Since Rice Queen #1, Rice Queen #2 and Rice Queen #3 are all busy fawning over The Donger, you start chatting with Rice Queen #3’s Boyfriend who is a lovely Vietnamese boy from California. And since this San Francisco Treat has been in a relationship for several years, he seems to be quite interested in hearing all about your recent date with the Swedish Engineer that you've been fancying, Swedie Pi.

Although the Knob Creek is long gone by the time the Fairy Ferry docks at Fire Guyland, all of the usual Harbor Hob Nobbers start jumping impromptu Creeks that have formed along Fire Island Boulevard thanks to the monsoon that developed during your Escape From New York. You race to the Real Estate Office with the rest of the Kinsey 8 because you need to pick up the House Key before heading over to your house on Beach Hill Walk. The Donger walks along the path, umbrella-less, but Rice Queen #1 and Rice Queen #2 both sacrifice their own dryness, while selflessly choosing to shelter the Hong Kong Donger with their umbrellas as if not only his feet are bound, but his hands are too. Meanwhile, you wish that The Donger’s mouth was bound because everything that comes out of it just makes you feel as old as The Last Emperor.

Considering the downpour, your first night on Fire Guyland is a total washout, but luckily you wake up to a Sunshine Day that’s so gorgeous it’s worthy of a Brady Bunch song. After a leisurely breakfast you and the Kinsey 8 are surprised by an impromptu visit from a few Gentlemen Callers, who turn out to be some boys that share a beach house with your friend Half-Share (who upgraded to a Full-Share this season, only in a less glamorous house). It’s not long before you and all the rest of The Marys are sipping some Bloodies by the pool, however the real bloodbath begins when you all begin to crucify all of the poor gay boys unfortunate enough to be out of earshot. But you digress. The sky is blue and the vodka is Skyy and when the latter ends up being as clear as the former, you all decide to head over to Half Shares house for $90 worth of Tuna Fish sandwiches (purchased from the Grossly Overpriced Grocery) and you wash them down with a few Coronas (Light, of course, as Speedo season has officially begun), and sit by Half Share’s pool, boozing away the afternoon until Cocktail Hour finally arrives.

You race home and change into a scandalous pair of New Religions and decide to top them off with a politically correct, yet inappropriately tight, “Marriage is so Gay” T-shirt. After all your Gay Cocktailing, the fit is a bit too Gay-Tight, even for Low Tea on Fire Guyland, but black is always slimming, and considering everything going on in New York and California you decide that it’s an excellent conversation starter to begin your annual summer Husband Hunt. Low Tea at the Blue Whale is absolutely overflowing, and although you are just beginning your Senior Year of Camp Camp, some liver spots on certain Senior Citizens’ bald heads make your overworked liver feel as if it were the liver formerly known as Prince. So you, of course, decide to Party Like it’s 1999. You and the San Francisco Treat ditch The Donger and the Three Rice Queens and head over to the outdoor bar to order some drinks. Since the San Francisco Treat has never been to Low Tea before, you give him a quick education about the best value on the Island and revise his drink order with a round of Planters Punch that are so strong they seem to put more hair on your recently manscaped chest.

Once you have your drink in hand, you quickly ditch the San Francisco Treat so you can do an unencumbered Fruit Loop around Low Tea, as it's time to play your favorite game that you like to call,“Who Would You Sleep With?” Although the pickins’ are a bit slim (and not so slim in many cases), you eventually decide to talk to a boy who’s t-shirt begs you to “Take the Pepsi Challenge!” Although you are a Die-Hard Diet Pepsi fanatic, you definitely lose the Pepsi Challenge so miserably that you may actually have to wake up and nurse your hangover with a *gasp* Diet Coke tomorrow. But all you really want is a kiss. It feels like forever since your lips have been graced with all the possibility that a boy’s lying lips seem to promise, and tonight you feel like a Lip Syncing Missile as you mouth the words to some Disco song that’s even older than you.

Low Tea ends just when the sunset turns the western sky a lovely shade of Planter’s Punch, and you and the Kinsey 8 drag the San Francisco Treat down the dock and up the stairs for his first High Tea at the Glow Lounge. Luckily the music is a little more M People than Village People and you and your Planters Punch quickly Hustle yourselves over to the DJ booth where people are actually dancing without the aid of a ‘70s line formation. You are Mercifully drawn to the one Real Girl who is shaking her Fake Tits to Duffy and the two of you start to tear up the Pergo. There’s nothing you love more than dancing, and there’s nothing that Real Girl loves more than shaking her Fake Tits, so the two of you make a fantastic pair, flitting around without ever spilling a precious drop of your respective cocktails. It’s almost like an episode of Dancing With the Bars. But that’s when you see him. Leaning against the wall. Staring at you. Smiling at you. You flash him some dimple and abandon your Real Girl for the promise of a Real Kiss from a Real(ly) Cute Boy.

You quickly ingratiate yourself and are quite surprised when the whiskered boy puts down his Scotch Whiskey and introduces himself with a thick handshake and an even thicker Scottish accent. The talking quickly disintegrates into kissing, and you find yourself mashing against the wall between the DJ booth and the dark harbor sky which pours in from the open window. It’s really, really nice. You try to convince yourself that Hairy is the new Smooth as your clean-shaven face scrapes up against his unshaven one, but even you can see through your drunken denial as you can’t help but compare Scotch Whisker’s kiss to Blonde Beard’s. But he’s tall. And foreign. And available. God knows how many songs or how many kisses go by before The San Francisco Treat taps you politely on the shoulder to remind you about dinner, even though your intense appetite is no longer hungry for food. Scotch Whisky informs you that he, too, must head home for dinner and the two of you share one of those awkward “Where do we go from here?” moments. You assess the situation, and then decide, instead of asking for his number, to find out if he’ll be going out afterwards. When he says, “Indeed,” you smile and tell him, “Good. Then I’ll see you at Sip N’ Twirl later on.”

You get one last taste of the Dewar's on Scotch Whisker’s sweet breath before he leaves you standing alone on the dance floor. Although, you should probably be racing home for chicken that The San Francisco Treat has soaking in Red Wine for at least as long as you’ve been soaking in your own Vodka marinade, instead you find yourself pleading along with Rihanna for the DJ to “Please Don’t Stop the Music.” This moment is yours and you are floating with the evening’s new potential. You could give a shit that you are the only boy in the whole bar dancing. After all, it’s not the first time and it definitely won’t be the last. And you just Keep on Keepin’ On even when Half Share yells from across the bar, “Come on, Elaine!” as he throws his thumbs out, mimicking both you and Elaine Benes’ disturbing dance moves as he leaves the bar for another $90 Tuna Fish dinner. You just smile and wave goodbye, thumbs and all, until a small statured acquaintance who’s (allegedly) into fisting, locks arms with you and begins to drag you (fist first) and your good mood off the dance floor. You try to imagine a man’s hand rammed up your little friend’s bum as The Muppet pulls you away, showering you with patronizing tidbits like, “Come on honey, it’s really time to go home.” And you are instantly annoyed because, although you are, of course, drunk, you’re not that drunk. You’re just happy. Or at least you were until The Muppet had to go shackle your buzz. So you send The Muppet back to Sesame Street for a three way fist fuck with Burt & Ernie as you make your way back to dinner.

Dinner is on the table when you finally get home and the San Francisco Treat has really outdone himself tonight. Everything is made from scratch and there are no empty Rice A Roni boxes to be found anywhere. Even though it’s absolutely delicious, you find yourself racing through dinner so you can get over to Sip N’ Twirl and meet your Scotch Whiskers for another reassuring round of razor burn. You even, *gasp*, pass on the wine because you don't want to be too sloppy when you meet up with Scotch Whiskers. By the time you get to Sip N' Twirl you are relatively sober, especially for a person who started drinking twelve hours ago. Although you are tired, you are a man on a mission, specifically to be in the missionary position before the night ends. So you circle around Sip N' Twirl, over and over. And over. Even though it's dark and packed with boys, you search that gaystack from Tops to Bottoms for your lost needle, but you never find your Scotch Whiskers. By 2am you are practically falling asleep so you decide to call it a night and head home, alone, for a no-night stand with your right hand. But as you head out you notice The Muppet headed your way. Even though he's not dancing, per se, he is convulsing in such a disturbing way when he makes his way over, and his pupils are the size of frying pans as he traps you on the dance floor and shudders with a stutter, "Hey! Wanna dance?" You force a smile for the tweaking Muppet, and although you feel like you should probably call 911 and have him airlifted to a nearby hospital, you decide to let someone else lift him with their bare fist as you say, "No thanks," and head home.

The next morning you wake up bummed, wishing you had given Scotch Whiskers your phone number because now you fear you will never see him again. Eventually you pull it together and end up walking to town with Rice Queen #1 to pick up a dozen $8 eggs. Since #1 stayed in last night to Dingle the Donger, he's curious about what ultimately happened with Scotch Whiskers. And just as you're telling him your sob story of being stood up, guess who passes by on the boardwalk and calls out your name? Scotch Whiskers seems as genuinely excited to see you as you are to see him, even though he is walking with a boy who may or may not be his boyfriend. You decide to play it safe and introduce your friend first with the hope that Scotch Whiskers will introduce his friend sans moniker like, "This is my boyfriend." Which he does not. So then you say, "I looked for you at Sip N' Twirl last night, but couldn't find you." Scotch Whiskers explains that he was there, late, but he didn't see you either. You almost want to say, "I was the one running around all night looking for you," but then he says, "It was so crowded. We should have exchanged numbers." To which you find yourself responding in an unusual, yet appropriately pushy way, "Would you like my number?" Usually you never, ever offer up your number without being asked, but Scotch Whiskers, of course, says yes (what else is he going to say?) as he taps your number into his iPhone. You're kind of unsure about the impromptu interaction as you walk away, but Rice Queen #1 seems to think it went well and goes on and on about how lucky you are and "What are the odds of ever running into Scotch Whiskers again!?" You tend to think that the odds should have been higher for running into him last night at Sip N' Twirl, and you end up winning the bet (or perhaps losing it) when you never, ever receive a call from Scotch Whiskers. Anyway...