Have you ever fallen in love with an online boy before meeting in person?

38% of You said, "Yes! Forget about his hot photos, his emails alone get me horny. And when we talk I feel like a teenager who can't bring myself to hang up first."

33% of You said, "Are you insane? Although I remain hopeful, I don't invest emotionally into a relationship with someone I've never met. Or slept with."

18% of You said, "Love-schmuv. I've yet to fall in love with an offline person."

9% of You said, "Maybe. I'd like to believe in "Love at first typo," but it has yet to happen to me."

Number of Fags Who Voted: 92

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

...who thinks his pants are too fancy for Cherry Grove. However, you are definitely one of those lazy fags who rarely schleps his way through the Meat Rack in fear of losing his cheap pants on the way there. Actually you're kind of terrified of the Meat Rack, mostly because you know that if you found yourself in some dark, unsavory, sticky situation, you'd just wind up giggling like some nervous nelly and run out with your tail between your legs. You also prefer to actually see the people that you have sex with. Perhaps you're just a bit old fashioned in that way. But it's lunchtime and Rice Queen feels like a walk, so you, Rice Queen #3 and The San Francisco Treat decide to grab a bite in Cherry Grove. Luckily everybody's pants (all of which are much fancier than yours) stay completely buttoned as you pass through the mysterious Meat Rack.

When you woke up this morning at the ungodly hour of noon you instantly began to piece together the events of the previous evening before pulling your tired old ass out of bed . Although your memory is just as hazy and humid as today's weather, you unfortunately remember drunkenly agreeing to go to Aussie Bum's 29th birthday party at 2pm. Only you don't want to go. Although he was kind of cute, he really wasn't you're type. He was more than a bit too intense, more than a bit too young, and way more than a bit of an awful kisser. Even though you really don't want to send the wrong signals by going to Aussie Bum's party, you also hate going back on your word.

You poll your friends over lunch about how you should handle this Aussie Bum situation, and the general consensus is, "If you don't want to go to his party, then just blow it off." Although you know that this tact will send a very clear signal to Aussie Bum, you still feel lame about it. But that's when you receive a text from Aussie Bum that says, "Let me know if you are swinging by, if not, no stress. Cheers." The worst part comes when you notice that the timestamp reads 2:05pm. With all your lollygagging about whether or not you should go to his damn party, you are now officially five minutes late, not to mention more than a half-hour away. But during your past thirtysomething years in the YOUniverse, the one thing you've actually learned is to trust your actions more than your feelings. When it comes to your emotions, you're just a big ol' gurrrl who doesn't want to hurt Aussie Bum's feelings. But if you look closely at your actions, you obviously have no desire to go to his party. Hell, you've been hemming and hawwing all day, you've lost track of time, and now you are about as far away as you could physically be from Aussie Bum. As C + C Music Factory would say, "Things That Make You Go Hmmmmmmm." Obviously you just ain't that into Aussie Bum. So you text him back and say, "Hey. Im in cherry grove for lunch and not feeling so hot. If im feeling better maybe I'll see you @ tea. Happy Birthday!" To which Aussie Bum replies, "Yes, I imagine a lot of people on the. island feel not so hot today.Thanks for letting me know, enjoy the Grove..."

After a delicious lunch you all decide to take a peek in town before you head back, and of course you end up running into Baby Daddy who is, ironically, wearing nothing but an Aussie Bum bathing suit. Albeit last years '07 model, Baby Daddy is filling it out very nicely. His friends are also scantily clad and seem to be irritated as you stop them to say a simple hi and give Baby Daddy a kiss hello. You chit chat for approximately 2.2 sentences before Baby Daddy's friends say, "We have to go now," and drag him away rather rudely. Although it's weird, it's totally fine. The last time you saw him he was busy describing the romantic date he was going to take you on, and now he's too busy to say hello? It's not like he's wearing a Tuxedo and late for a wedding. He's in a skimpy Speedo! Even if he's late for the beach, it's totally overcast! Baby Daddy is an enigma wrapped in a riddle shoved into a fortune cookie sealed in cellophane that you have no desire to unwrap, let alone eat. Next!

The day progresses like any other on Fire Guyland. Beach Cocktails, Pool Cocktails, Low Tea Cocktails, High Tea Cocktails, Dinner with an overpriced bottle of cheap wine, a bit of after-dinner dancing on the dining room table in your underwear, and then, of course, it's off to Slip N' Hurl. Luckily at High Tea you ended up swiping an entire sleeve of Fire Island Pines cups from the bar when the bartender was busy ignoring you. With these special cups, not only do you have a wonderful To-Go cup for cocktailing along the boardwalk without being hassled by the police, but with these particular magical cups you can actually walk right into the overpriced bars because they assume you ordered the drinks from them! Not that you condone stealing, but come on! Would you convict a starving child who stole an apple from a bodega? Of course not. And this is the same exact principle.

As usual, upon arriving at Slip N' Hurl, it's everyman for himself and the Kinsey 8 quickly divides to conquer. You, of course, get sidetracked on the dance floor, but before you can even complete an entire Fruit Loop, your inner Elaine finds yourself flailing, or rather dancing, smack in front of Aussie Bum. You quickly ask, "How was your birthday party this afternoon?" and when he replies, "It didn't happen," you are equally confused and yet completely relieved. You can't imagine showing up to a party for someone you just weren't that into, where you were not only the sole guest, but his only present to boot! But Aussie Bum doesn't seem to care that his only guest was a no-show. Your attempt at a simple, trite conversation quickly segues into how Aussie Bum seems to think you are just the greatest thing since the invention of the Gay Bar. And come on, nobody's that great. Especially you. This boy barely knows you. You chatted yesterday. For a bit. Your signals of disinterest were pretty clear (except for the kissing part, of course). Hell, he doesn't have any clue about who you really are! The fact that he is so interested when he knows nothing about you is kind of a turn off. Perhaps he likes you because he thinks you're playing "Hard to Get," when in reality you are really playing "Impossible to Get"? Actually you're not playing at all. But then again, on the other hand, his enthusiasm for you makes you wonder if you might be turning into one of those boys who is only interested in boys who have no interest in you? Ugh.

Regardless, the conversation begins a downward spiral. Aussie Bum's intensity, coupled with his bad breath begin to singe your eyebrows. Even though you are practically mute, he begins bombard you with requests for dates when he returns from an upcoming business trip. But when you politely decline he becomes relentless. He begins explaining how you two got off to a rough start and that he wants to make it up to you. Suddenly you are aware that this boy, for some unknown reason, has completely romanticized you into someone who doesn't exist. Which is more than a bit disconcerting. Although you do believe in love at first sight (okay, lust), you also believe that it has to be a two-way street! And right now Aussie Bum is on a lovely, yet very private cul de sac. So before the conversation gets even more awkward, you decide to be as clear as possible in response to what seems to be escalating into an unsolicited marriage proposal. You say, "I don't think it's a good idea if we go out."

Your honesty, of course, backfires. Whoever said, "Honesty is the best policy," was definitely not gay. Anyway. Aussie Bum is now both slightly mad and probably more-than-slightly embarrassed. But he definitely heard you, so you decide to shut your big trap in order to let your words sink in. Aussie Bum actually begins to argue with you about why you should go out with him and you begin to get freaked out. Being a lawyer, Aussie Bum seems to think he can somehow sway your drunken jury. But his closing argument actually concludes with, "If you want me to go away and never come back, then just say so." How on earth did it suddenly get to this point? You just met this guy last night! Such drama! Unfortunately you realize that you have no other choice but to answer his question, so you say, "I think you should go." Aussie Bum stares at you for an endless, yet incredulous moment, and then he turns and disappears into the crowd at Slip N' Hurl. A sudden wave of relief takes over as you walk outside to find Rice Queen and fill him in on your latest drama.


But two seconds into your recap with Rice Queen you are tapped on the shoulder by none other than Aussie Bum! You are dumbfounded when this relative stranger asks you why you don't like him. Although you would usually say something like, "Does it matter why I don't like you?" but something about this boy is off. Very off. For some unknown reason he is a bit obsessed by yours truly, and images of boiled bunny rabbits begin to dance through your head. So you say as politely as possible, "You are really freaking me out!" Eventually Aussie Bum leaves, and this time you watch to make sure he leaves. At this point you are done. You want to leave immediately, but you ask Rice Queen to walk you home because you're actually freaked out that Aussie Bum might follow you and jump out of the bushes on your way home. On the walk back to Beach Hill Walk you receive a text from Aussie Bum: "Hey – I’m sorry. I’m terrible in siuch situations, but an eternal optimist. I may hit you up in a few weeks, hope I’m not so scary. I’m intense but do think you’re worth a touch of my dignity." Anyway...

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

...but when you get to the Fresh Market in Fire Guyland with the dire need to caffeinate, you are annoyed to have nothing to choose from but Coke products. You stare at the refrigerated bottles for so long that someone actually asks you if you're okay. No, of course you're not okay! There is no Diet Pepsi on this whole damned island which is your new home for an entire week! You usually vote yourself off of Temptation Island after a measly three-day weekend, but since you and your Lovely Lady Mumps are between apartments (a.k.a. homeless) you are stuck on the Isle of Guy for a full week. Thank the gay gods for your share house. And thank the gland gods that your Lovely Lady Mumps seem to be getting a little bit better. Anyway.

You finally decide on Coke Zero, which turns out to be infinitely better than Diet Coke and as you are paying you start scanning the extensive crowd on the dock which has gathered to watch the Invasion. Every year since the Dawn of Gay Man, the Cherry Grove Drag Queens descend upon The Pines in droves and paint the town red with way too much lipstick and blush. There's some sort of beachy, Stonewall-ish historical significance, but you've long since forgotten. Hell you've forgotten last night already. Until, of course you are reminded of last night when you see him standing amongst the crowd wearing nothing but a skimpy little Speedo. True to his word, the day-tripping Baby Daddy has come back for another gay day. Actually, today is the gayest day. Anywhere. Baby Daddy doesn't notice you through the store's window, and you briefly consider knocking on the glass to say hi, but your run-in with him last night was so odd that you decide to just let it go. If he's really as interested as he said he was, then he's got your number. And if you're really as uninterested as you think you are, then you've got voicemail.

It's hot and muggy and there's absolutely no breeze so you wind up watching only a smidgen of the festivities before you, Half-Share and Fat Albert decide to rehydrate with something more refreshing than some second-rate, poor excuse for a Diet Pepsi. You all head into the Pavilion and your boys need to hit the bathroom before the bar, but you wait outside since your Coke Zero hasn't made it's way south to your bladder yet. You futz with your phone until Half-Share comes out and informs you that you must take a peek at the show going on inside the Men's Room. You, of course, don't need to be coaxed more than once so you pop your head in and indeed there are two boys pressed up against the urinal, making out as if it's not actually one o'clock in the afternoon with plenty of other much cleaner places to get it on. That's about when their zippers get yanked down and the circle jerk, party of two, begins.

Later on, you end up losing your friends so you decide to wait for them at the bottom of the steps which lead up to Slip N' Hurl, which ends up being a great spot because it's the final destination for all of the fabulous D.Q.'s so they all end up sashaying past you along the runway as if you're Michael Kors (but luckily not as Gay Fat). Unfortunately all the Straight Looky-Loos who came out for the day have found the same primo real estate as you have, and they're all a bit drunk and obnoxious. It kind of feels like you're at some bizarre gay Hooters, until one Bad Breeder grabs a hold of Marilyn's famous white dress in an unwelcome attempt to blow it up as if she were standing on some explosive sewer grate. Needless to say, Marilyn is pissed and instantly turns into the Seven Year Bitch and goes postal on the The Misfits, because it's more than obvious that Something's Got To Give.

As usual, cocktails flow all afternoon until it's time for The Dance on the Bay which is a fundraiser for the Gay & Lesbian & Bisexual & Transgendered & Eunuch & Asexual Community Center. You watch the sun begin to set as the cocktails really flow (mostly because they're free) and that's when your inner-Elaine starts to, um, dance on the bay, until eventually, yadda, yadda, yadda, the next thing you know it's 1am and you're surprised to find yourself back at Slip N' Hurl. You cross your fingers hoping that one of your missing Yaddas included dinner as you stumble into the busy boy bar.

Almost instantly you meet an Aussie Bum who just turned 29 today, and, get this, feels old. You roll your eyes and inform him that, "Well, here's the good news. You're still too young for this ride," as you gesture toward yourself. It's actually a bit hazy (surprise, surprise), but somehow the conversation quickly turns and suddenly you feel like you're on a date with a 38 year old woman who's eggs are reaching the end of their shelf life. Just like Baby Daddy from last night, Aussie Bum starts talking about the future. Or more specifically, your future together! Like when he gets back from his business trip, blah-blah-blah. Or when you meet his family in Australia, blah-blah-blah. The whole conversation becomes even more surreal when he actually says aloud, "Since today's my birthday I deserve to have you go home with me." Did you skim over the part of the script where you agreed to jump out of a cake? Well, actually, you are about to jump. Right down the stairs. So you tell Aussie Bum, politely, that since you are turning into a pumpkin that it's time for you to go home. Unfortunately, that's when Aussie Bum insists on walking you back. You're too exhausted to decline so you just give in reluctantly.

When you finally get back to the Kinsey 8 house on Beach Hill Walk, you try to say goodnight politely, but Aussie Bum insists on a kiss. Although you're not feeling it, you're not feeling like dragging out the uncomfortable moment either, so you give into his birthday wish, yet quickly wish you hadn't. It's one of those Jackhammer Kisses which instantly makes you feel like a Jackass for agreeing to the whole preposterous situation. You're too old to be bulldozed by a 29 year old, but when Aussie Bum asks you if you'll come to his birthday party tomorrow you find yourself reluctantly saying, "What time?" Aussie Bum stutters until finally he says, "What time do you want to come?" And since you don't want to come at all you end up answering with a snarky, "When the party starts." The whole thing is so weird that you begin to wonder if there is even going to be an actual party, but you say, "Just tell me when to come," because you are cranky and tired. The indecisive Aussie Bum tells you to come at 2pm and you say goodnight. But not before he Jackhammers your one last time. Anyway...

What do you do when you get a Facebook Friend Request from, *gasp*, your Parents?

27% of You said, "I decline the friend request, because, after all, they're my parents, not my friends!"

25% of You said, "I sit my parents down and explain that they are much too old and frail to be on Facebook. And then I buy them a CB Radio to keep them busy. 10-40, Good Buddy!"

24% of You said, "I develop a Facebook app that censors everything that's not G-rated from going to my parents feed. Then I make a mint and retire."

13% of You said, "I accept the request, but immediately send out an email to all my friends and plead with them not to tag me in any more scandalous photos."

8% of You said, "I realize that Facebook has finally jumped the shark and immediately deactivate my account."

Number of Fags Who Voted: 86

Greetings From...

the Christopher Street Pier! All is well on the gay riviera.

xoxo You!

You're Not One of Those Fags on the Rebound...

...but you do bound out of bed in the morning and race to the bathroom to inspect your teeth. As you laid in The Ex's bed inspecting your Lovely Lady Mumps (which haven't shrunk one tiny bit since they mysteriously appeared five days ago), you suddenly realize that perhaps an infected molar might be causing your Jabba the Neck-like glandular swelling? Although you floss twice a day (you are a Dentist's wet dream, perhaps you should date one?), you've had some mild irritation since your last cleaning. Suddenly you feel like your gums are receding around that particular tooth and before you know it you are on the phone making an emergency dental appointment. Since your homeless ass is moving into your share house on Fire Guyland for the next week, you want to have this tooth looked at before you end up needing to be airlifted from Low Tea for a root canal.

By the time you arrive at your dentist's office you are absolutely positive that the tooth needs to be extracted and that everybody you date from here on out will think that you have Meth Mouth. But after some digital x-rays, your dentist informs you that there is nothing at all wrong with your tooth. She concurs with your doctor that your Lovely Lady Mumps must be a stress-related condition due to your recent move as well as your current situation of homelessness. Ugh.

Later that afternoon, you and your Lovely Lady Mumps decide to schlep out to Jackson Heights so you can check on the progress of your new apartment renovation and then hop on the Fire Island Fag Express in Jamaica. Luckily, when you see the apartment they are actually painting it! Your whiny Real Estate Broker, Annette Weining, informs you that it will be finished next Wednesday so you'll need to schedule an appraisal. Suddenly you start to see an inviting porch light at the end of this hellish homeless tunnel! Then you race over to the LIRR station in Jamaica and, as usual, meet three of the Kinsey 8 in the second car of the train. They've scored one of the social, six person banquette seats but right after you sit down, a hefty middle-aged woman squeezes her way through your He Man Woman Haters club and plops herself in the middle seat between Fat Albert and Rice Queen. Although everyone is irritated by the intruder, Fat Albert actually says aloud, "American trains need bigger seats because everybody in this country is fat." Your jaw drops, as does the Middle Aged Heffer's, and she says, "I will choose not to take offense to that." And with that the train continues it's way down the tracks of Denial.

After a semi-awkward ride to Babylon, you all have to switch trains and for some unknown reason the new train is much too small and it's a chaotic mess so you all get split up. You wind up lucking out and actually get a seat sitting next to a very cute boy, however, the two of you can't even chat due to a very loud, extremely cellfish phone conversation directly behind you. It actually becomes comical when the poor girl starts bawling and says way too loudly, "It's just harder to be with you than without you!" The whole train stifles a collective schadenfreude giggle. However you literally burst into tears laughing. You feel bad for the poor girl and her public break-up, but you have absolutely no control over your sick sense of humor.

Once you boys reconvene at the house the Kinsey 8 decides to pretoxicate before Low Tea, and, really, who are you to judge? The vodka is flowing through your veins by the time you begin to circulate through the throngs of boys at the Blue Whale. Collectively you all ignore the beautiful sunset in favor of much prettier Tequila Sunrises that you're drinking. But suddenly the sunburned boys part like the Red Sea and you find yourself catching eyes with Baby Daddy. You both smile awkwardly but you decide to be the bigger person and go over to actually say hello. Honestly (not that you really care), but the way he blew you off was rather strange and you're sort of curious as to what the hell happened so you figure chatting for a bit will be a nice way to smooth things over.

Only when you start talking, the conversation quickly turns all deep and weird (his doing, of course) and you're a bit confused about what the hell is actually happening? Is he into you or isn't he? And ultimately does it really matter because, honestly, you're just not that into him. But the mystery sucks you in and the next thing you know Baby Daddy pulls you out of Low Tea and walks you down to a quiet space on the dock so you can "talk." You are actually so confused by the elaborate romantic gesture that you quickly confess that you assumed that he just wasn't interested in you. At all. And then since it's one of the rare occasions in your life where you have absolutely nothing to say, you end up listening intently to everything Baby Daddy tells you. He starts yapping about how he isn't over his Ex and about how he wants to go out with you again. You can't help but think "Rebound!" as he apologizes for his sudden disappearing act, yet he explains that it had nothing to do with you. You appreciate the gesture, even though you thought that you both kind of mutually disappeared by choice. Baby Daddy then makes a bold promise that the two of you are going to go out again and that it's going to be a great date! After that Baby Daddy starts using the future tense about how "We'll do this," and "Then we'll do that!" You're so confused. It's almost like he's planning your whole relationship which you assumed never even began. The whole thing is so weird that you begin to wonder if he might be on something? But you play along just because the conversation is so bizarre that it feels best to not make waves. Luckily Baby Daddy is going home tonight on the last ferry with his friends, but he informs you, with a kiss, that he's returning (or possibly rebounding) to Fire Island tomorrow for The Invasion. Anyway...

Greetings from...

...the Funny Gay Males 20th Reunion! You laughed till you cried (even during the token lesbian's set...)

xoxo You!

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

...but as you're sitting on The Ex's stoop, homeless, surrounded by everything you own in the world that wasn't just carted away into storage, as you sit there with the wrong set of keys, you start to obsess about your Lovely Lady Mumps and begin to feel like your lymph nodes have become so swollen that you are actually having trouble breathing. Or perhaps it's just your hysteria? You begin to leave frantic messages for The Ex and his friend who left you the wrong set of keys, but, of course, nobody is taking your calls. That's when, smack in the middle of your homeless dilemma, a party boy you kissed years ago walks by and looks up at your Sesame Street Stoop and asks you, all impressed, "Is that where you live?" and you are just so irritated by his sudden interest in you that you respond, "No, actually I'm homeless." And with that Ms. Fair Weather Fag turns up her nose and keeps walking down the picturesque block.

When your cell finally rings you realize that your battery is almost dead, but luckily it's The Ex who feels terrible for your situation. Unfortunately he's in LA and he informs you that there are only three copies of his apartment keys, one of which is in your hands and doesn't work. One of the remaining two is in the possession of his Co-Op Board President, but she's apparently on a Straight Cruise (not to be confused with a Tom Cruise). Just in case, you try to buzz Mrs. President's apartment but there is no answer. The last person happens to be your Ex-Niece, only she's busy moving today too, so even if she has the keys they are probably lost in an unmarked box somewhere between Manhattan and Brooklyn. But you leave her a frantic message anyway, just in case her move has been less chaotic than yours.

And then you nervously inspect your Lovely Lady Mumps while waiting for your cell to ring, hopefully before either you or your phone dies. Luckily your Ex-Niece gives you a rescue ring and she is so adorably sweet and offers to interrupt her move and drive her U-Haul back from Brooklyn just to bring you the keys. But this is when someone who lives in the Co-Op finally walks up the steps. You practically hang up on your sweet Ex-Niece as you accost the man walking into the building. Luckily he believes your gay-ass Saab story and allows you into the building so you can store your defrosting Tilapia and other random stuff in the hallway until you can track down a key. He also tells you that Mrs. President is actually back from her cruise and that they are having a Co-Op board meeting right this very moment on her glamorous roof deck. He says to stay put and that he will try to find her. You call The Ex while you wait, because really, if he doesn't speak to Mrs. President directly, then why on earth would she ever hand over his apartment keys to some homeless stranger who has moved onto her front stoop.

Eventually the whole mess gets worked out, but Mrs. President turns all Mrs. Kravitz on you when you realize that she's only given you a key to The Ex's apartment. So if you ever decide to leave the building, you'll have no way to get back in through the front vestibule door. You ask if perhaps you can borrow a set of front door keys from her so you can make a copy, but for some reason this scenario turns out to be a big fucking deal. Apparently Mrs. Kravitz has no problem with you living inside her glamorous Co-Op, however if you ever want to leave then you'll never be able to get back inside. Perhaps you should place an ad in HX and start turning tricks in there so you won't have to ever go out? Or maybe just leave the gas stove on? Or spray paint her common hallway with gay graffiti? This woman who runs your Ex's life is really not thinking anything through, but eventually you somehow convince her to hand over her keys and you promise that you'll make copies tomorrow morning as all the locksmiths are surely closed now that it's 9:30pm. Although you are initially relieved when you finally get inside of The Ex's apartment, that's when things actually really go from bad to worse.

His apartment is full of your things. Things you bought together. Your couch. Your photos. Your TV. Your rug. The kitchen is full of your Fiestaware. The hand-blown wine glasses you bought together in Venice. The picture frames are full of photos of your lives together. But it gets really upsetting in the bedroom when you have to sleep in your old bed. The bed you shared for over a decade. You lie there, remembering how amazing it felt to be held every night before you went to bed. What it felt like to have The Ex spell "O.J." on your back because he was thirsty and it was too tired to speak. But what really gets you is the afghan sitting at the base of the bed which your Ex-Aunt knit for you boys eons ago. Only now it's covered in cat hair from your Kitty Cunt who suddenly just died a few months ago. This was your life. You shiver, not from the overly powerful central air conditioning, yet from the feeling of being so uncomfortable surrounded by all the homey things that gave you nothing but comfort for years. Will you ever be that comfortable again? Anyway...

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

...yet. But when you wake up with a Pride hangover that is absolutely nothing to be proud about, you aren't even worried about your impending move nor the fact that you have no place to move. All you can think about is your Lovely Lady Mumps which are the lumps formerly known as Lymph Nodes. When you look in the mirror it's like you're just one giant Jabba the Neck. Even though you know your new beard is the only thing that is visually separating your chest from your chin, you decide to shave off your beard while you're taking a shower. Once the beard is gone you are both appalled and terrified. So you call your doctor for an emergency appointment, only to find out that he has retired and someone else has taken over his practice. Luckily she can fit you in before your movers show up.

Unfortunately, your new doctor seems more like an actor who only plays a doctor on TV. She giggles a lot. And plays with her hair. And she leaves her white coat open so you can see that she's probably spends more time shopping than she does prescribing. But she gives you a blood and urine test and writes you a few precautionary prescriptions since you're about to be homeless on Fire Guyland where the only doctors on the entire island are the ones who are self-medicating at Low Tea. Then you race home to finish packing your Home Sweet Hovel and meet the movers.

When you get back home you are kind of shocked to see that your Hobosexual Roommate has told his new victim (whoops, you meant roommate) that she can move in on the last day of your lease. While you are moving out. On the day before her lease begins. The whole situation is just so irritating and surreal that, when she begins to talk your ear off while you are frantically packing, you decide to actually tell her the truth when she asks you questions about the Hobosexual rather than sugar coating it. "He's filthy," quickly segues into, "He doesn't clean up after he manscapes," and before you know it, the conversation quickly dissolves into, "He doesn't use soap when he bathes." And with that your movers buzz your doorbell and you excuse yourself from the Hobosexual's new victim.

When the movers finally arrive in your Home Sweet Hovel, huffing and puffing from the six flights of stairs, they begin to freak out when they see the sorry ass state of your apartment. A vein in the Foreman's forehead actually begins to twitch as he looks around. However, the only thing the Ex-Con says to you, slowly and deliberately as if he's Dirty Harry, is "This was supposed to be a little move." And he says it in such a way that it seems like he might actually be considering murdering you just so he can go back to jail and not have to deal with carrying your shit down six flights of stairs. You quickly explain that, "Most of this crap is not mine," while glaring at the Hobosexual's New Victim who isn't paying any attention because she still seems to be stuck on her new living situation which is equally hopeless and soapless.

Since you and your Lovely Lady Mumps are extremely organized, your move actually goes rather quickly. And, since you're now officially homeless, once the Ex Cons finish loading their truck they just leave because, until your new place is ready for occupancy, all your shit will be kept in storage. Which means you actually have to pay for two moves plus one month of storage as you couch surf around Manhattan. Your first stop happens to be The Ex's apartment. Since he's in Los Angeles he has graciously offered up his apartment for you and your homeless tranny ass for the next three nights.

Between you, your roller bag, two back packs, a giant blue IKEA bag and a several bags full of groceries and frozen meat, your cheap ass decides that it's best to hail a cab. So you stand at the corner of Houston and Allen and you wait. And wait. And wait. During rush hour. With everything you own stuffed into Trader Joe's bags that are beginning to defrost and leak onto the busy summer sidewalk. You briefly consider hiking your baggy cargo shorts up and sticking your leg out into traffic with a sexy pose, but luckily a cab finally stops. After you load what's left of your life into the trunk, you explain to the cabbie (who not only doesn't speak a lick of English, but also is busy yapping away on a phone call which is obviously much more important than any of your directions) that you need to make two stops so you can first pick up The Ex's keys from a mutual friend's doorman.

Luckily everything works out and the keys are waiting for you so you hop back into the cab and head over to The Ex's brownstone apartment on a Sesame Street-esque, gorgeous tree-lined street in Chelsea. You swipe your credit card even though the Cabbie informs you that the machine is broken (funny how suddenly he speaks perfect English when his tip is involved), and you schlep your soggy groceries and various bags up the steps of the gorgeous brownstone. For a moment you feel like breaking into song and singing the theme to The Jeffersons', "Moving on Up!" until you attempt to put the key into the keyhole. Then suddenly it ain't nothin' but Good Times in the Projects, "Temporary lay offs! Good Times! Easy credit rip offs! Good Times!" That's when you look down at the keys and realize that they are for the old apartment that you and The Ex lived in together. The one he sold before he moved here. Two years ago. Anyway...

What Kind of Fag Are You?

25% of You don't like to define yourselves by gay stereotypes.

22% of You are Twinks.

10% of You are Guppies.

8% of You are Club Kids.

7% of You are Jocks.

6% of You are Bear Cubs.

3% of You are Closeted.

2% of You are Bears.

2% of You are Gym Bunnies.

1% of You are Rice Queens.

1% of You are Fag Hags.

.5% of You are Radical Fairies.

.5% of You are Circuit Boys.

.5% of You are Sticky Rice.

.5% of You are Bi.

.5% of You are Ex-Gays.

Number of Fags, Fag Hags and Ex-Fags Who Voted: 105

Meanwhile, all you boys who chose "OTHER," please let us know what kind of fag you are in the form of a comment! We're all very curious!

Greetings From...

...Shea Stadium! Although you hate football, you're having fun with the Lit Lot.

xoxo You!

You're Not One of Those Lip Syncing Fags...

...no matter how inappropriate the song is, you're the type of boy who'll sing your little heart out in the shower as if you were trying out for American Idol. When you're done, you and your boombox prance across the living room wrapped up in a towel as your Hobosexual roommate looks up from his Sex and the City rerun to scowl at you. He is definitely Simon to your Kelly Clarkson. But you're not letting him bother you today. Hell, you're not even letting your Lovely Lady Mumps rain on your parade today. Especially since it's the Gay Pride and you're running late for the parade! The party you wind up at ends up being at a fabulous Fifth Avenue apartment, with a balcony! While catching up with a Medical Student friend of yours, you decide to ask him about the lumps in your neck that feel as if a mother Robin has laid a couple of eggs and decided to hatch them in your throat. He feels them and is visibly shocked. But not as shocked as you when the Mockter Doctor asks, "Have you had a lot of sexual partners lately?" You gulp as you say, "Not really," even though of course you have. Whore. The whole thing just freaks you into having another cocktail or three and you and your ice clink your way out to the sheltered balcony and watch it pour on the poor gays because of some freak thunderstorm.

After the Parade Party, you and the Boy Luck Club head over to the West Village for a Pre-Pier Party on Greenwich that one of your Kinsey 8 Fire Guyland roommates is throwing. This place is also gorgeous, and although his first floor loft has no balcony to the outside, his ceilings are so high that it actually has a balcony on the inside! Unlike the last few parties you've attended, everybody is super chatty and friendly and you wonder if perhaps that has something to do with the fact that you're at a daytime party? You follow Fat Albert's footsteps as he seems to be a magnet for the cute boys, and since he's already got a boyfriend, you don't mind chumming for his sloppy seconds. However there is nothing at all sloppy about the Emergency Room doctor that Fat Albert introduces you to. And unlike Fat Albert, you actually have an emergency! You apologize profusely in the same breath that you begin to describe the symptoms of your Lovely Lady Mumps. And then something wonderful happens. Your temperature rises as Dr. McSteamy reaches out to examine your neck. Softly. Thoroughly. Even though you're so swollen you can't help but swallow a bit of anxious excitement as Dr. McSteamy lifts your shirt to feel what appears to be your kidney as he asks you if it hurts. You reply with a simple, "No," as right now it is impossible to feel pain. Dr. McSteamy instantly informs you with authority that you have nothing to worry about. He's sure that your Lovely Lady Mumps are stress related due to your impending move. The two of you continue your chat and everything in the background seems to fade away. Without all the static it suddenly seems easy to spot the one simple truth that you've known all along: This is how it's supposed to feel when you meet someone special. Although you've been hung up on Blonde Beard for months now, he never made you feel this comfortable. Conversation was never this easy. Dr. McSteamy is exactly the type of guy you could fall for. That is, if you haven't fallen already. He's laughing at your jokes. But more importantly, you're laughing at his.

You begin to fantasize about how you'll finish each other's sentences whenever someone asks the two of you, "How did you guys meet?" You'll both say, "Gay Pride," in unison as you beam with pride and continue your Happily Ever After story with lots and lots of wonderful "We's." Things are about as splendid as they could possibly be when Dr. McSteamy starts chatting with Fat Albert about what a catch you are! So cute, so funny, etc. Yes, you actually hear him say this! And then it's suddenly like someone scratches a record player needle across your fantasy with one horrible screeching word that comes out of Dr. McSteamy's mouth: "We." And, unlike your daydreams, this "we" isn't referring to you. You immediately interrupt their conversation and say with extreme disappointment, "Who's 'we'?" That's exactly when you have your Alanis Morris Ironic moment as Dr. McSteamy introduces you to his beautiful wife. Or busted husband. Whatever.

The Busted Husband immediately takes his cue and swoops into the conversation. Your conversation. You want to say, "Shut up, I will wreck your happy home!" but instead you just smile as you swallow a bit of throw up as the Busted Husband tells you his nauseating "Love at first sight" story. Of course your mind wanders as you try to find the silver lining of this extremely disappointing experience. Ultimately, however, you realize that there are boys out there that you can have a magical moment with. And hopefully one of these days one of them will be single.

Between your Lovely Lady Mumps and your imaginary break up with Dr. McSteamy, the Pier Dance ends up being mildly annoying yet extremely sweaty. Surprisingly, you don't recognize anybody. And honey, you know a lot of New York boys. Hell, you've dated most of them. But the pier seems like it must be full of Circuit Queens who have flown in for the "Event," which everybody seems to think will be either Madonna or Jennifer Hudson. But as the evening wears on, the DJ seems to be having a Madonnathon with all the songs from her new album. And since Madge needs to promote it, and since she's living in New York since she filed for divorce, and since she has never ever done the pier dance before, it seems perfectly viable to you that tonight will be the night! So you squeeze past the Tweekers and push your way as close to the stage as you can physically muster! You are sooooooo excited, not to mention convinced that Madonna is about to pop onto the stage when the MC comes out to introduce this year's surprise guest! Your heart palpitates and your Lovely Lady Mumps throb to the drum-roll as he finally introduces..........Jennifer (I just swallowed the) Hudson. And if this isn't enough of a buzz-kill, the American Idol bitch actually has the gall to lip-sync. Needless to say, you are less than impressed. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Fags Who's Into Water Sports...

...but somehow during your quest for packing tape you wind up in the water sports section of K-mart. You immediately get sucked into all the fabulous kids toys which now seem so gay that you begin to wonder if they sell them at The Blue Store in Chelsea. Of course there's a trusty old Slip 'N Slide, but it's a very slippery slope after that. You're especially drawn to both the Disco and Rainbow Fountains. But think of the wonderful 8-some that you could have on Fire Guyland if you purchased the Octopus Fun Float for your pool? Anyway. Eventually some disgruntled employee directs you to the correct aisle where you finally find some packing tape and head over to Express check out which takes forever and seems to be making all local stops.

When you finally get back to your Home Sweet Hovel, you begin the daunting task of packing up your shit for your impending move. It's more than a bit distressing, however, because, although the movers are coming on Monday, not only is your new place not ready for you to move in, but nobody has any idea of when it will ever be ready. And the best part is that no one but you seems to care about your impending homelessness. Anyway. You choose an invigorating packing playlist on your iPhone and you sing along as you place everything you own into little Fresh Direct boxes that you've been hoarding like a hibernating Hampster ever since you decided to move. You are a packing fiend of the fudge packing variety (which means everything is packed extremely well).

Only, as you pack, you begin to wonder if you might be getting sick because your throat begins to feel swollen. Although it doesn't hurt, you can feel the glands around your neck as if you are not only a gay variety fruit, but a very ripe one at that. And when you go to the bathroom and get a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, you are absolutely shocked. Even through your newly grown beard, you kind of look like a no-neck Barney Rubble. When he had the mumps. Of course your first thought is that you're dying. Of course. You always seem to be dying on a summer Saturday when all doctors are busy spending their hard earned co-pays on the golf course. All your recent whoring around has finally caught up to you and you are seroconverting from the neck down. You and your Lovely Lady Mumps will surely die homeless on the streets of New York (or perhaps a friend's uncomfortable, yet stylish couch), and you'll never get to enjoy the truly finer things in life, like decorating your new apartment. Nor will you ever know what it feels like to rule Eighth Avenue with a six-pack of washboard abs that you've always planned to locate some day beneath all of that Gay Fat that you've always intended to lose.

You do as much packing as you can handle, given your latest, dire prognosis, even though you know that tomorrow will be a lost day since it is Gay Pride and you and your Lovely Lady Mumps intend to be very proud. So you hop in the shower, neck first as your lymph nodes seem to be making all your Gland Entrances today, and you get ready to meet the BLC for some Pretoxication before a Pre-Pride Party. And honey, if you can somehow bring yourself to swallow, you definitely need a drink.

The Ritz is buzzing with lots of healthy-necked people, and your worst fears are realized when Half-Share asks, "What's wrong with you? You look awful." You explain about your mysteriously swollen jugular and after everybody touches your Lovely Lady Mumps they all have different diagnoses. Especially Fat Albert who assures you tenderly, "Of course you aren't seroconverting. You simply have some kind of aggressive throat cancer..."

Eventually you wind up at a friend-of-a-friend's Pre-Pride Party and you are Absolut(ly) thrilled to be self-medicating with some delicious Mandarin-flavored eliquzor. In fact you're feeling no pain as you're heading back to the bar until you find yourself literally bumping into a boy you dated last summer, but broke up with before Labor Day: White Pants. Although you have no hard feelings (actually you have no feelings at all) this boy is always so irritating and dramatic when you have the misfortune of running into him. At this point you'd much rather run over him, but you give him a big, dimpled smile and say, "Hey, how are you?" But White Pants is a TV reporter and he just stares at you so melodramatically that you feel like it's 9/11 and that your symmetrical neck lumps are the Twin Towers. There's this loooooooong, ridiculous pause which is so pregnant that you suddenly feel like you're at a Straight Pride party, and that's when White Pants eventually says, "I'm goooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooood," with about seven different syllables and five different irritating nuances. Then White Pants doesn't say another word. You briefly consider giving him a big infectious kiss on the lips, but ultimately decide that after all his weirdness, you have nothing more to say. So you just roll your eyes and head over to the bar where you, surprise-surprise, find a bunch of your closest friends. You quickly pour yourself a potent drink as you say a quick little prayer, "Are you there, Vodka? It's me, You!" Luckily Judy Blitz hears your plea and the Cranberry Sea parts so White Pants can model his summer wardrobe far away from you.

Unfortunately this is yet another party where everybody is just way too cute to commit to anything more than a schmoozy, yet vapid conversation, so you end up yapping with your friends all night. The highlight is when one of Half-Share's Fire Island housemates starts to bombard you with compliments like, "I used to hate you because you didn't have to have a real job, but now I'm very impressed with your blog. You're actually a very good writer." Even though it's been swollen shut for hours, somehow your jaw slackens and you are at a loss for words as the backhanded compliments start to pour in. "I actually liked you when we first met even though my boyfriend didn't at all. He thought you were shallow." Although you know that Backhand means well, it's perhaps the first time in your life that you are completely at a loss for words, so you actually just seek comfort in your Gay Cocktail as Backhand continues his barrage of friendly fire.

Eventually, when you can't take being on the Frontline anymore, Rice Queen rallies the troops and the Boy Luck Club hops into a cab and head downtown to the Meatpacking District for some dirty, Daniel Nardicio D-List Pride Party. Although the previously gay neighborhood has been overrun by Bridge & Tunnel Breeders, you are escorted from the street directly into a time-travelling elevator which quickly whisks you back to Village as it was during the sexual revolution of the '70s. Avec Meat, sans underwear. It becomes quickly obvious that you and your Lovely Lady Humps are no longer in Kansas. You actually see things that you've never seen before; even some things that you never wished to see. There's more Grade A meat in this building than back when they used to pack it here. Half of it is hanging out. Some of it's being sampled. Most of it is constantly being inspected. But all of it is completely shocking. In a good way. It makes the Fire Guyland Underwear Party seem more like a cute little Panty Party starring Doris Day. This party, however, features an entire cast of Whorish Gays. And you, of course, begin to make a Fruit Loop under the guise of looking for the bathroom. Only you never find the bathroom. Instead you wind up in some line which you assume is for the bathroom, only when you finally get a turn it's actually a pitch dark Janitor's Closet with no light and no window. As you pee in the dark you really, really hope that you're peeing in the sink and not on some dirty boy who has been rumored to be hiding amongst all the janitorial filth. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Fags Who Leads a Double Life...

...hell, everything about your life is single, single, single!  Seriously though, at twenty you came out to your parents after your college boyfriend dumped you (single, single, single!) and although you called them for emotional support, after you came out you wound up being the one who had to console your hysterical mother.  But from that moment on, you've pretty much lived one single, single, single solitary life where everybody knows that you're a big ol' fag.  However, what everybody doesn't know is that you're a big ol' fag with a Blah-Blah-Blog. 

Some people do know.  Your close friends.  Their close friends.  And so on.  And so on.  And so on.  If you could do it over you wouldn't have told anybody.  Not a soul.  But now you live in fear that eventually you're going to hurt someone who you really care about.  Like when you were dating Blonde Beard.  To this day you're not sure if he dumped you because he found out about the online chronicle of your dating life.  And honestly, this is probably why you can't seem to get over the hairy cheeked non-boyfriend.  The idea that you might have jeopardized your chance at a meaningful relationship because of your narcissistic online endeavor is really just too much to process.  Even three months after he left you crying your girlie little eyes out on the West 4th Street subway platform.  Cue the violins and grab yourself a hankie.  

Anyway.  Enough about Blonde Beard.  Back to you and your relatively new brown beard.  Tonight's a busy night.  You've got a fancy birthday dinner with the BLC at Cipriani Dolci.  In Grand Central Station of all places!  And then if the BLC feels up to it, you've been invited to yet another birthday party for yet another Blah-Blah-Blogger who somehow figured out who you were.  You have no idea how these Hardy Boys are solving the mystery of You!

As you're getting all dolled up for the fancy-schmancy dinner that you can't afford, you remember to check out Zee Blogger's evite to get the 411 on his birthday party.  Although you've already changed at least six times, as you pop your head out from an old, yet dressy blue Armani shirt from your fancier days, you can't help but sigh when you realize that Zee Blogger is having a, get this, Pink Party.  Ugh.  You're already running late and, let's face it, unlike Molly Ringwald, you are not so Pretty in Pink.   Eventually you decide that the Calvin Klein underwear you have on will have to do.  Although it used to be white, you ruined it while washing it with a red towel while doing a free load of laundry out on Fire Island.  Pink underwear is what you get for being cheap.  But you digress. Even though you're running late, now that you're looking at Zee Blogger's invitation, you suddenly get curious about who's on the guest list.  You are immediately thrilled to find your Internet Crush's name at the top of the list!  Of course he's also figured out who you are, however you've never actually met and your cheeks instantly flush at the idea of meeting your favorite Gay Movie Star in person!  It's all very exciting as you continue to scroll through the pages and pages of RSVP's (yes, Zee Blogger is that fabulous), but your heart literally stops on the third of five pages when you notice that, gasp, your Hobosexual Roommate's name on the fucking guest list!  Suddenly you have this paralyzing fear that you'll run into him and the BLC boys will start calling him the Hobosexual to his face!  Or worse, what if the Hobosexual asks Zee Blogger how exactly he knows you?  If they have a conversation you know that it will inevitably contain the term "Hobosexual!"  And if somehow neither of those doomsday scenarios play out, then surely your Internet Crush will out you after a few cocktails have been thrown down his neck.  After all, you've read about his drunken shenanigans on his blog.  Meanwhile, are there any gay boys who don't have a blog?

Although dinner at Cipriani Dolci is absolutely fantastic, you spend the entire meal sweating about filing for Chapter 11 after they swipe your credit card.  And if that's not bad enough, you are terrified that the BLC will end up wanting to go to Zee Pink Party where they will inevitably meet the Hobosexual!  So you end up doing what you always do when you're nervous.  You order a Stoli O' and Soda and boldly tell the waiter to "Keep 'em comin'!"  Inevitably this makes the check less affordable, but it will also make Zee Pink Partee much less awkward.  And, typically, it would also have the added benefit of making the sticker shock of the steep check more palatable when it finally arrives.  However, you are shocked into a state of girly giddiness when Fat Albert grabs the check and generously pays for all of you!  On his birthday!  Hell, had you known you were going to win Restaurant Lotto you would've ordered a flock of Grey Geese!  And an appetizer.  Made of Goose Liver, of course.

After the lovely dinner the BLC wants to go to Zee Pink Partee, so you make them promise, under no circumstances, that the word "Hobosexual" will ever fall from any of their bitchy tongues!  Even though, of course, you know they'll revel in torturing you all night long just because they love to see you squirm.  When you finally arrive, not only is everybody wearing pink, but everybody cheeks are flush pink because there is something wrong with the air conditioning.  Apparently there are just too damn many Hot Boys at Zee Pink Partee and the A/C just can't handle it.  So you and your blue pit stains begin to mingle amongst the pinks as you wait in fear for the Hobosexual to jump off his freight train, complete with his bindle hanging from a stick, which, after learning his Internet nickname, he will certainly beat you to a pulp with. 

Maybe it's because you're trembling with fear, or maybe it's because everybody is just way too cute, or possibly it's because it's about seven degrees hotter than hell in Zee apartment (and you're talking Celsius), but you don't really talk to anybody other than a boy you went on a Revenge Date with who's name you can't remember.  However, Zee Blogger is glad to see you, and you wish him a Happy Birthday and compliment his beautiful apartment which is like a little slice of Hell('s Kitchen).  Of course you ask about your Internet Crush, but Zee Blogger says he came early and has already left.  What's up with that?  And although you practically have to bite your tongue not to ask about the Hobosexual, you decide it's best to keep your big mouth shut and just live your rocky double life while sipping on your double Absolut on the rocks.  Anyway...