FAG FORWARD! You're Not One of Those Dirty Fags...

...but your apartment has become one giant mess of boxes filled with old crap you need to get rid of and new boxes filled with Ikea crap that you need to put together. But after finishing your work, you decide to blow off all the boxes and wander around your new 'hood to check out the dirty gay bars in Jackson Heights.

Being a very organized and very thirsty boy, you, of course, create a list of all the local gay watering holes. Although you've always heard that Jackson Heights was very gay, you're kind of shocked at how many bars are within stumbling distance. Although a far cry from Chelsea or Hellsea, you're rather pleased to realize that you now live in the fabuloso Latin Gay Ghetto of Jacksea. Your first stop is at a place called The Music Box, which is literally less than a block away from your new home. The drag show is a bit tragic and since you took français you only understand the 'lish half of the Spanglish performance. As usual, the bartender is cute (luckily there are some things in this gay world that you can count on regardless of language barriers) and is nice enough to go over your list. He crosses out a few of the bars and sends you directly to Friends Tavern, assuring you that it'll be busy on a Thursday night.

Friends is packed and the boys are Latin and the music is Latin and the language is Latin and you are not. Honestly you feel like you are very, very far away from home, like somewhere in South America, even though you live just a few blocks away. In fact you feel so out of place that you decide to go home after you finish your beer. But that's when some hot, shirtless, Latin guy in his early thirties introduces himself. Although nobody else seems very interested in hable inglés to your cracker ass, this Latin Potato Queen is a different story. He's actually extremely sexy, and the next thing you know you are kissing him. Hey, it happens. Unfortunately he's an extremely bad kisser (talk about the kiss of death), so after two or three hours of terrible kisses you decide you must go home. But the Latin Potato Queen doesn't want you to go yet. He obviously wants more kissing lessons. And he obviously needs them. But you are tired and when you look at your watch you want to die because somehow it is now 3am. He makes you give him your number and when you go home you make yourself a frozen burrito (wonder where you got that craving...) and the Latin Potato Queen calls you make sure you got home safe. Which is kind of sweet. Anyway.

That weekend while you're hanging pictures on your bare walls, you get a text from Rice Queen telling you to meet him at Pieces which sounds a little tragic since it's usually full of Bridge & Tunnel types, but let's face it, you are now officially a Bridge & Tunnel type! So you go to Pieces (pun intended) and the place is absolutely packed! The music is great and since your inner-Elaine needs a lot of space to dance, you quickly gravitate toward the empty stage. Soon after that the GoGo boys start to encourage you to join them on the pool table, but little do they know that how much dancing space Elaine needs... It's not long before those GoGo boys are GoneGone boys and some straight girl is trying to put money down your pants. Of course you are happy for the cash, but this girl makes you work for it by taking off your shirt before she agrees to pay up. You're a bit shy, but it's hot and you are having a blast so what the hell. When you wake up in the morning you have enough money shoved down your tightie-whities to pay for brunch . Anyway.

During your third or possibly seventh trip to the Gayest Place on Earth (Brooklyn Ikea), you realize that you are definitely being checked out by an Asian guy. You're a bit surprised when he actually walks up to you and says, "Excuse me," but you are in absolute shock when he asks, "I'm sorry to bug you but I just wanted to tell you that I love your blog." You are floored to a state of muteness, kind of like Cindy Brady when she was on that TV quiz show: "Baton Rouge, Cindy! Baton Rouge!" And then the guy asks, "You are Andy Towle from Towleroad, right?" You just smile with relief and inform him that, no, you are not Andy Towle. But this is the second time that some stranger has thought you were him. Weird.

Later that night, while you're putting together Ikea crap, you get a call from a Private Caller, and even though those unknown calls terrify you, you end up answering it because you are expecting a call from an old high school friend. Unfortunately you are wrong, and you are more than a little freaked out when the man identifies himself as an L.A.P.D. narcotics detective. The nice D.E.A. agent asks if you might happen know a guy who just happens to have the same exact name as The Ex. Your jaw drops as you curiously inform him, "Yes," while images of The Ex being arrested in a South Central crack den dance through your head. But the officer informs you that he has located The Ex's stolen computer during a recent drug bust and he's trying to get in touch with him. Then he asks if The Ex works in the entertainment industry? You tell him, "Yes, he does. Why?" The Detective says, "I was just wondering because there are lots of famous people in his address book. Like Lisa Kudrow and Danny Devito..." So you say, "And you decided to call me?" Obviously not a gay cop! Anyway.

A few nights later you and your BFF end up at The Eagle where they make you take off your Polo shirt before letting your preppy ass up to the roof deck, which is packed like leather sardines. Since it's not your typical crowd of boys, you are a bit surprised to hear your name called from across the thick crowd. You look up and see an old buddy who used to be one of your straight supportive friends in college, but is now a big ol' fag DJ whose daily whereabouts actually get written up in HX and Next. He's standing on a platform as he motions you over to join him, so, of course, you do. It's not until you get up on the platform that you can actually see what exactly is riveting the crowd of Bears. Basically there's one guy with a whip and another guy getting whipped. Only the guy getting whipped is bleeding profusely and although you really want to call 911, you just stand there and watch until you start to throw up in your mouth a little. Anyway.

Somehow you get your new apartment all put together well enough to throw your BFF a goodbye party before he moves to Rome. So you spend the day running around buying liquor and party cheese and cheap munchies at Trader Joes. The first guest to your early cocktail party arrives over two hours late and by midnight your little, early-ish party is far from over. The Karaoke Nazi takes over DJ duties and every time you turn down the stereo so your 87 year old neighbor won't call the police (please God let her be hard of hearing), someone else turns it up. Louder. The party is fun and at some drunken point during the night you decide to make a toast to your BFF. You tell the story about how you met three years ago volunteering at the Gay & Lesbian Center and how knowing him has changed your life for the better. You wrap up your drunken diatribe by blah-blah-blahing about how you love him very much and you don't know what you are going to do in NYC without your partner in crime. That's when your BFF comes over and gives you a hug and the two of you begin to sob, holding each other while you blubber uncontrollably in the middle of your drunken party.

Around 2:30am when everybody finally leaves, you decide to leave your messy apartment too, and race over to Club Atlantis to meet the Latin Potato Queen who has been texting you all night long. You're kind of hoping for a hook up, but when you get there he's really drunk and immediately attacks you with his bad kisses. And he's wearing this tragic pair of shorts which you which can only describe as lederhosen. However, when the Latin Potato Queen asks if you'd like a drink, you, of course, say, "Yes," and the two of you head up to the bar. But when the bartender comes over the Latin Potato Queen looks at you and says, "I only have ten dollars," and proceeds to put his money back into his pocket as if you are now somehow supposed to pay for the round of drinks that he offered. So you look at the bartender and say, "I'll have one Bud Lite," and pay for it with a ten.

You gulp down the beer and somehow escape but not before a few more tragic kisses are jackhammered into your mouth. When you get home your feet literally get stuck on the sticky floor just as you pass the red wine stain on your brand new white rug. You abandon the shoes and ignore the filth and all the uneaten food and half-empty cups as you climb into your bed and dream about being dirty in bed rather than sleeping in it. Anyway...