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

...but you have certainly enjoyed your Blah-Blah-Blogless month. Sigh. But now you're back. And rather than dwelling in the past, you've decided to skip ahead to the present because you actually think that part of the reason you were dreading the blog was because you had fallen so woefully far behind in reporting all of the immensely pedantic details of your ridiculous life. Anyway.

You were very pleased last week when one of your published friends from the Lit Lot invited you to a big gay party to celebrate his friend's promotion to head of a very well known gay publishing house. Although you're not one of those fags who revel in social networking, you're also not insane. It's a party. With gay boys. And vodka. The fact that it'll be filled with the Gay Literati is just icing on the cake. So you gleefully RSVP that you'd love to attend. And then, since you know gay boys always judge a book by it's cover, you yank out your most skin tight book jacket from your closet and pray for good reviews.

After a day of procrastinwriting, you pull your bleary eyes away from your laptop and meet the Gay Literati at your writing space before heading over to the party on 22nd Street between Ninth and Tenth. Along the way, your friend, The First Openly Gay Comic, asks you if you'd like him to get you a book deal. Apparently he's recently gotten all his other friends book deals, so, he jokes, "If you'd like a book deal tonight, then just say the word." You say, "Sure. Why not? But I'd also happily settle for a kiss."

You arrive early and are heartily introduced to all of the Gay Literati. Not only do you meet, but you get into a lengthy and spirited conversation with one of your favorite authors: The God of Monsters! Although he's a bit uncomfortable in his own book jacket, you can't help but monopolize his time yapping about all the wonderful books he's written.

The party is fun and the vodka flows (thanks to an adorable Barracuda Bartender who makes sure that your cup always overfloweth), however by the time the cocktail party is wrapping up, in lieu of finding yourself with a book deal, you and your liver find yourselves in dire need of a cooked meal.

You slur your goodbyes and thank your humble hosts before hitting the streets with one of the boys you met early on in the evening. You both decide to grab a slice before heading home. The Freelancer immediately starts flirting with you, but even better, he ends up paying for your Freeloader's pizza! The conversation somehow turns to filth and about how he loves being a dirty boy. Although you're not quite sure how to process this information, you are certainly not the type of boy to ignore such a detail. However, when pressed, the Freelancer does not divulge any further information. He does, however, divulge his phone number and you share a lovely kiss on 23rd and Eighth before descending underground to catch the E train.

Although he's eight years older than you, and even though he lives an hour-and-a-half upstate, somehow you find yourself quite captivated by lingering thought of licking the Freelancer's lips. You end up texting him when you're at home in bed plugging in your cell for its nightly charge. You write, “I’m in bed reading Catcher In The Rye. That was a really nice kiss. Hope you caught your train and are almost home. sweet dreams.” And he responds quickly, “On my train now, but I’d rather be in bed reading CITR to you. Love the end when he explains how he wants to save all the kids running through the rye. That was a very sweet kiss. I hope I get another one of these days.” And as you drift off to sleep and think about all the filthy things that the Freelancer could have texted, and even though you never got your book deal, you are somehow comforted by the extremely sexy idea of someone else holding Holden and reading him to you in bed. Anyway...