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're Not One of Those Church Going Fags...

...but you don't mind putting on your Sunday Best and making your way over to Port Authority to catch the free Ikea bus to celebrate Easter by getting some colorful ideas for your new apartment, which you can neither afford to buy nor furnish. But when your hangover wakes you up at the completely unreasonable hour of high noon (perhaps Daylight Savings happened again?) you wind up being held hostage in your bedroom because you hear your Hobosexual Roommate rummaging around your Home Sweet Hovel doing something noisy that probably involves imaginary Bedbugs. After last night's Twilight Zone incident, you have absolutely no interest in having another insane conversation about drycleaning your underwear or wrapping your mattress in one of those plastic wee-wee pads that are much more popular with Watersport fags then Imaginary Bedbugs.

Eventually you hear the click of the lock which indicates the Hobosexual's departure (hopefully to go to Mass to pray for the safe return of his sanity) and your bladder is about to explode from all the Gay Cocktails you had last night. Only you're way too tired even to relieve yourself standing, so you end up sitting down to pee, and that's when you notice that the Huggies Baby Wipe dispenser (which is designed to function like a box of wet tissues) has been opened and thrown into the corner because it is empty. The fact that the Hobosexual bought you a life supply of these unflushable wipes a mere two weeks ago, in order to replace your Cottonelle Flushable Moist Wipes that he used while you were on vacation. And now the family size box is completely empty! The fact that he's obviously using them isn't even the issue anymore. Is he using them to swat imaginary Bedbugs? Or is he just a Power Bottom? You wonder how many of these wipes the Hobosexual could possibly use to clean his bum, and then you begin to worry about the effect that the unflushable Huggie Wipes will have on the ailing pipes that make up Lower Manhattan's infrastructure? You shudder to think about it, but decide against pulling out the Cottonelle refill pack you have hidden under the sink, because surely the Hobosexual will use all seventy-eight of them up on his next B.M.

You attempt to have breakfast after your shower, but unfortunately you are out of milk and eggs. You briefly consider wetting your CherriO's with Stoli O', but decide against it in favor of holding off for the yummy Ikea Buffet where you can fill up on a delicious Easter Brunch of Swedish Meatballs. Only when you get to Port Authority you are surprised by the amount of fellow Heathens lined up for the Ikea Bus; somehow you thought all the boys would be busy showing off their Easter Bonnets and saying their Hail Mary's over Bloody Marys at the All-You-Can-Drink Brunch at Intermezzo. But as fate would have it, all the gay boys had the same exact sacrilegious Ikea Idea as you did.

You decide to return a $10 Coat Hook rack that you bought but, surprise-surprise, never got around to installing. The idea of expending one more drop of energy or dropping one more dime into your Home Sweet Hovel makes standing in an endless Customer Service line seem completely worthwhile. You pull the number "01" from the dispenser, yet your heart sinks when you look up to the "Now Serving 51" sign. Didn't anybody go to fucking church today?? When you look back down you immediately recognize a very familiar face walk into the store, only you can't seem to produce a name, partly because you're in New Jersey so everything is definitely way out of context in that "I don't think we're in Kansas anymore" kind of way, not to mention the fact that your head is still too busy throbbing from all the Stoli O's to think properly. Luckily your familiar friend seems to be suffering from the same familiar Sunday affliction.

After a few friendly "hey-how-are-you's" followed by some obligatory "what-are-you-doing-here's," your synapses emerge from their early retirement long enough to realize that your familiar friend is actually Half-Share's (who recently upgraded to a Full-Share only in a less glamorous house) Fire Island Housemate's Boyfriend (does it get any gayer than that?) You were actually had your own share the summer that these two boys met, and you remember their relationship going from Zero-to-Sixty faster than two fags in a Saab Convertible (with the top down and the windows up as to not muss their hair). You distinctly remember one of their earliest discussions was whether or not they should buy their summer home in East Hampton or The Pines. Anyway.

When you turn around you see his boyfriend's prematurely white hair (a bit fussy and, of course, un-mussed) and Andy Warhol stomps his way over to you and Holly Woodlawn. You offer Andy Warhol a big smile because, really, what are the chances that you would run into the Zero-to-Sixty Couple so physically and seasonally far away from a Low Tea at The Blue Whale? Only when Andy Warhol finally notices you, he returns your dimpled greeting with nothing but a big ol' Stank Eye. You are in shock! Does he hate you? Did you do something nasty to him when you were drunk and then accidentally blacked it out? Eventually Andy Warhol musters up a meek and extremely hesitant, "Hello," as if he is completely sick of saying it to you in particular. Then he informs Holly Woodlawn in a huff that he's going to go search The Factory for some random replacement Ikea part. When Andy Warhol disappears without bothering to say goodbye, Holly Woodlawn rolls her eyes and informs you, "I'm about to fucking kick him in the head!" You immediately conjure up Lily Taylor's character in that indie film, I Shot Andy Warhol, and honestly, given Andy's bitchy attitude, you really couldn't blame Holly Woodlawn for her actions. But you digress.

You instantly realize that you've run into the Happy Go Lucky Zero-to-Sixty Couple smack in the middle of a horrendous, knock-down fight. Although Andy's bad attitude is obviously not directed at you, it definitely gets you thinking as you make your way around Ikea. And you must have misplaced your Beaujolais colored glasses because all of the Happy Gay Couples shopping for cheap European Knock-Offs seem to be a little bit snippier than usual. Although their couple's euphoria usually makes you slightly ill, today all you seem to notice is their couple's discord. And suddenly you are reminded of all the fights you used to have when you were in your Endless Relationship That Eventually Ended, and yet, for some unknown reason, you still find yourself wanting to get into another one. Specifically with Blonde Beard. But will you boys end up fighting like Zero-to-Sixty? Of course you will. And even though the thought of pulling out your claws and having a cat fight with your bearded boy makes you slightly nauseous, you still want it. Somehow the highs and the lows of a relationship still seem preferential to the mediocre consistency of waking up to the reflection of your own clean shaven face every day. And that's when you decide to text Blonde Beard. Just to say hi. Just to say you're thinking about him. Just to see if he might need any kisses. Just to not feel so alone amongst all the bickering couples while you shop for inexpensive things that you can't afford.

But you don't get a response from Blonde Beard. Not while you're shopping. Not while you're checking out. Not even while you're waiting in a forty-five minute line for the free Ikea Bus. He doesn't even respond during your trip back to the city, even though you get caught in a half-hour of tunnel traffic. You're sure that he'll respond by the time you emerge from the signal-less subway, but he doesn't. And you begin to get annoyed. And sad. And scared. Are you having your first fight? Perhaps you upset him in some way shape or form? Perhaps he wants to "fucking kick you in the head" for some silly reason like perhaps he's realized that you're writing about him in your Blah-Blah-Blog? Or perhaps he went to Sunday Mass? By the time you ascend the six flights to you Home Sweet Hovel, you are totally grasping at straws and completely freaking out. You want to know the exact time that you sent the text so you know exactly how long he's had to respond. Only when you finish sifting through your sent texts you realize that your message was never actually sent. And that's when you realize that you've just won your very first fight with Blonde Beard even though he wasn't aware you were having one. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Strung Out Fags Who Hasn't Slept For Days...

...but after last night's Magnum-less P.I. (Penetration Incident), let's just say that you didn't sleep very soundly. You even tried counting sheep, but for some reason you kept imagining a Perv-y Sheppard fucking his livestock raw. Meanwhile, today your feet are definitely dragging (almost as if you were in drag, complete with painful 9" Stilettos). You're so tired that you almost fall asleep during your schlep of shame back to your Home Sweet Hovel. However, after sleepwalking up six flights of stairs (while dreaming wistfully about moving into your new building with one of those fantastic new inventions they're calling an elevator), you walk into a Katrina-esque disaster area that used to resemble a sub-poverty-level kitchen. It seems as if your Hobosexual roommate threw some sort of dinner party (even though the Home Sweet Hovel lacks any sort of table surface to eat off of) and then just threw all of the dishes into the sink, obviously for Alice to clean. However, although you keep reminding the Hobosexual that he can "Kiss your Grits!" he somehow keeps forgetting that he's not one of The Brady Bunch kids and that Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore (and that includes both Alices: Ann B. Davis and Linda Lavin). You practice your Lamaze breathing as you tip-toe through spaghetti stains while dreaming about that dishwasher in your new apartment!

You're so tired that your only accomplishment is futzing around on the internet trying to decide whether or not to change your Connexion profile from "Single" to "Exclusively Dating." Although you haven't had that particular conversation with Blonde Beard (yet), you kind of feel compelled to change your status not only because you want to be exclusively dating, but also because it helps you to imagine that you would only do the Magnum-less P.I. with a boy that you were in an exclusive relationship with. Ugh. You were so fucking stupid last night, but you try not to beat yourself up because, after all, you are only human.

Later that afternoon, you end up dragging your BFF out to Jackson Heights because you have to drop off a $100 check to the Real Estate Agent who reminds you of Benning's famous character from American Beauty, only a bit more Jewish and lot more whiny: Annette Weining. Only when you get to the office, it's an absolute mad house. Or more specifically a mad Open House. Everybody and their unemployed Uncle wants in on the cheapest real estate east of the Mississippi. While you're filling out your check you over hear one of the agents talking about your friend Jet Blew who has apparently gotten lost in the Bermuda Triangle of the Receptionist's inept attempt to transfer his call to Annette Weining and you wonder if he'll be moving into Melrose Place too? You, of course, will be playing the Heather Locklear role.

The whole ordeal takes way longer than you expected so you end up racing back home to change into something cute because you have a plethora of evening plans that begin with a 5:45pm dinner (yes, you realize that it is absolutely ridiculous to schedule anything smack in the middle of Happy Hour, but The Ex wanted to get a Blue Plate Special and since he's paying, you do your best not to complain even though you are failing miserably). However, The Ex is pissed (rightly so) when you arrive at DB Bistro on Gay Standard Time, which today happens to be thirty minutes late. But The Ex used to live with you so he probably assumed you'd be late and subsequently lied to you about the ridiculously early reservation time. But when you arrive, the fancy restaurant is packed with Pre-Theater Diners munching on $32 Hamburgers. When you place your order, you briefly consider asking the waiter how much extra it would cost to add a slice of cheese, but decide to stick with what's on le menu. You and The Ex have a really nice time catching up, and you listen sadly while he tells you about his father, Jerry the Hugger's funeral, which happened while you were hemorrhaging euros and gallivanting around Europe. He also tells you all the gossip about the movie he's currently directing in Texas with half the cast of High School Musical (which sounds dreadful, but ultimately much less painful than the train wreck of a musical that you end up seeing in Previews: Cry Baby).

You certainly want to Cry, Baby, but that has as much to do with the Mid-Western Giant Breeder that's kicking your seat in time to the horrendous score, than it does with the horrendous show. Somehow you make it through the ghastly Broadway remake of the dreadful John Waters film (trust me, this one feels more like Jeri Curl than Hairspray). Meanwhile, you're busy mentally decorating your new apartment while the ridiculous show drones on, and you count down the moments till your post-theater escape. Afterwards, just like trained seals, the Broadway audience jumps to their feet and gives the poor actors a standing ovation (which is fine, because it's not exactly their fault that they were cast in this dreck. Unlike the audience, at least the actors are being paid for their nightly humiliation).

You pummel over Blue Haired Old Ladies With Walkers and even stomp on a Toddler's Tootsie because you can't get out of the theater fast enough since you are definitely Jones-ing for a Gay Cocktail. Outside, you air-kiss The Ex and shudder as you wish him a safe trip back to Bush Country. Then you race over to The Ritz to meet your anorexic friend, Fat Albert, and a crazy Russian boy (who, of course, you used to date). The Soviet Dicktator (who recently moved to London) is back for a visit and has arranged a Boys Night Out. The Dicktator notices you as you walk into the shockingly empty bar and his expression immediately elevates into one of the warmest stoic frowns you've ever seen. You congratulate The Dicktator about some new Comrade you've heard he's dating back in London to which he immediately begins an interrogation, "Who told you that?" A bit embarrassed, you begin to backpedal, "I'm sorry. Are you not seeing him anymore?" But The Dicktator quickly begins to use his old Soviet-era interrogation tactics as he backs you into a corner beneath a dimly lit "Exit" sign that somehow suddenly floods your retinas with a blinding surge of wattage that seemingly doubles as a truth serum. Eventually you submit to The Dicktator's probing question, "Fat Albert told me!" And with that, The Dicktator relinquishes you to hunt down your anorectic friend to further his investigation.

Luckily, you find Fat Albert before The Dicktator does, and you immediately apologize for passing along his benign non-gossip to the KGB. But while the two of you are talking, some random boy makes a bee-line for you and interrupts your apology as he extends his hand,"I don't think we've met." You are a bit taken back by the formal introduction that feels much more Ritz-Carlton than Ritz Gay Bar, but you introduce yourself because, after all, he's cute. And although you thought he was just some random patron, The Cute Interrupter turns out to be part of The Dicktator's little group of Comrades who have gathered to toast his triumphant return to Amerika with generous shots of Stolichnaya.

A few Stoli O's later, the tears you shed during Cry Baby have long since dried up and you quickly find yourself yapping about The Cute Interrupter's boyfriend (all the good ones are always taken...) as well as the various places that you've both lived. You even attempt to play the Lame Name Game, but he doesn't seem to know any of the same Left Coast Fags that you do. But then he asks the inevitable question, "What do you do?" Ugh. This question always makes you squirm because you hate talking to anyone who receives a weekly paycheck about how you are a Starving Writer (on a diet of course) who's living off his savings in order to write the Great American Govel (Gay Novel). However, not only do The Cute Interrupter's eyes not glaze over, but they actually seem to light up as he tells you that he works for Genre Magazine. "What a coincidence," you laugh lamely, "I read Genre Magazine! Now if only I could write for it..." And then The Genre Gent reaches into his wallet and produces his business card and hands it over, to you. Your eyes almost pop out of your cartoon head when you see his high powered position, and then you instinctively bow toward this Gay Rupert Murdoch Publishing Czar, much like a Japanese Geisha would, and you accept his gracious business card as if it were your most coveted possession. And then you do something you've never done before. You tell The Genre Gent all about your anonymous Blah-Blah-Blog which has really started to take off (oh come on, if you don't sell yourself nobody else will!) And the Gay Cocktails really start to kick in as you begin embellishing the truth with heaps of relentless networking about how your Blah-Blah-Blog was recently written up as one of the Best Gay Blogs, yadda, yadda, yadda.

After your shameless self-promotion you are absolutely famished so you grab another celebratory Gay Cocktail and head downstairs to dance. The KickAss DJ has got the whole floor up on their feet, but when he plays MIKA you find your big Gay Fat ass ascending to the top the banquette so you can really let loose. You sing along to your court of young adorable boys as you inform them, "Big Girls, You Are Beautiful!" and you, of course, are The Biggest Big Girl as your arms flail around in time to the music... And that's when it suddenly hits you, or more like scrapes against you like a recently groomed Blonde Beard. None of these delectable drunk boys, no matter how young, hung, hairy or smooth, absolutely none of them are even remotely on your Gaydar. Even though you are Out and About, grinding amongst a sea of P.Y.T.'s on the dance floor, the only place you really want to be is lying in Blonde Beard's arms on his overly soft mattress (which definitely needs to be upgraded; sooner than later) as you tell him all about the amazing new contact you made at Genre.

So just like that that you decide to say your goodbyes to Fat Albert, The Dicktator and, of course, Genre Gent before you hop on the subway to go back to your Home Sweet Hovel. Although you'd rather go to Blonde Beard's, it's late and your boy is definitely making Z's. Luckily the subway arrives almost as if on cue which makes you feel like you've just picked up a Monopoly Chance card which says "MTA Error in your favor! This weekend the A Train is Running on the F Line! Advance immediately to Second Avenue without transferring!" However, your luck instantly runs dry when you get back to your Home Sweet Hovel and you find your Hobosexual Roommate sleeping on the little couch. Again. Unfortunately he wakes up as you tip-toe through your Lifeless Living Room, but he doesn't just wake up. He's so strung out that he actually jumps up and shrieks. You apologize for waking him, but you take the opportunity to ask him why he's sleeping in the Living Room. Again. To which he responds, "The bedbugs are everywhere. They're on the futon couch now, so I have to sleep on the little couch." You want to ask him why he doesn't just sleep in his own damn bed in order to keep the infestation in his bedroom, but he offers you an explanation without you having to ask, "I haven't slept through the night in months. I even threw my mattress away last week."

And that's when the light bulb above your head starts to flash uncontrollably because you realize that your Hobosexual Roommate has officially gone insane. Either that or you are the only fag on earth who is immune to Bedbug bites. Even though you've never once been bitten, you've definitely scoured the apartment for signs of the alleged infestation and found absolutely zero evidence. You begin to wonder if the Hobosexual has caught a bad case of crabs and is in denial? But you begin to lose both your patience as well as your Stoli O' Buzz as he tells you, complete with big saucer-sized pupils, that you will have to have all of your clothes drycleaned and then put away in storage. The Hobosexual's Imaginary Bedbug situation was all fine and dandy, but if he thinks you're actually going to spend a dime on his delusion, then your sleep deprived roommate better prepare himself for a rude awakening. So you inform him, in the nicest possible way, that you'll be happy to do whatever it takes to get rid of the Bedbugs, but you will definitely need to see a Bedbug before you start paying for their extermination. And that's when the Hobosexual begins to groom his sweater as if it were his baby Gorilla, and you are in shock when he actually produces several pieces of, get this, lint, and attempts to convince you, in all honesty, that the wool he pulled from his pilling sweater is, indeed, a Bedbug. You begin to wonder if he might actually be sleepwalking and having a simultaneous dream, or if this bizarre dialog is actually coming out of your nightmare? But you just politely say, "Goodnight," and tell him that you will discuss it in the morning. And then you go straight (for lack of a better word) to bed and spoon your pillow while delusionally imagining that it is Blonde Beard instead of a Bedbug. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Fags Whose Closet is More Impressive Than His Résumé...

...but you do have way too many clothes for your closet-sized hovel of an apartment. So to kill time while waiting for your Blackmailer to go online so you can IM him about getting your laptop back and/or catching the fucker, you decide to start rearranging clothes in your closet. Your sweaters are still in a big pile on your bedroom floor and it's almost February, so you start removing piles of tank tops, skimpy gay bathing suits and camouflage cargo shorts that are hogging up valuable sweater space. You put all that summer stuff into a large suitcase and promise yourself that you'll buy some Mothballs and schlep it all over to your storage space in Queens sometime before Memorial Day. The sweaters take up way more room than your Speedos but somehow you make it all fit. Meanwhile, the Blackmailer never signs on so you climb over your overstuffed suitcase and go to bed as visions of Blonde Beard's Crack Pipes dance in your head.

The next day, when your Lazy Blackmailer still hasn't signed on to AIM, you decide that you're just gonna text your oppressor back. You T9 him, "Who is this and what do you want?" and begin a Text-fest where he explains that he was hired to crack the password on your laptop's login screen. Luckily, being a paranoid fag, you used your phone number for a User Name just in case something ever happened. You were also clever enough to squeeze the word "Reward!" into the login and now this Lazy Blackmailer obviously thinks he's gonna extort some extra cash before selling your stolen Dell on eBay. After a few irritating texts the Lazy Blackmailer valiantly offers to sell your stolen hard drive back to you for $250, almost as if he's some geeky Robin Hood 2.0. Luckily, since you use a free online backup service, your entire hard drive has been completely backed up so you could give a shit about it, but you really want the laptop back, and you definitely want to catch the fucker, so you, of course, call the police.

The Detective handling your case tells you that if you can get the Lazy Blackmailer to agree to meet you somewhere and make the exchange that they will arrest him at the scene of the crime. You immediately have this retarded, yet exciting image of being a gay Johnny Depp in 21 Jump Street, so of course you agree to it (see fagnote #1, below). Meanwhile you have a Doctor's appointment because your right nut hurts and you are absolutely sure you are dying of testicular cancer. Unfortunately, when you get to the Doctor's office, you realize that the waiting room is buried deep in a Post-War monstrosity and you have no cell service (Get More with T-Mobile!) so your text-fest quickly grinds to a signal-less halt (see fagnote #2, below) as you wait to drop your pants so the specialist can inspect your recently manscaped testes.

The Ball Doctor asks you a few questions and then sends you away to give a urine sample, and then you are sent back into the waiting room. Eventually your name is called (and mispronounced) three times by a man who not only looks like Wallace Shawn, but also shares his speech impediment, which is somehow coupled with an impenetrable Russian accent (see fagnote #3, below.) You follow Wallace into a little room overflowing with medical equipment, and the next thing you know you are lying down with your pants yanked down to your knees, as Wallace mumbles, then gestures for you to hold your penis out of his way. You gulp when it dawns on you that you are actually having a, get this, Scrotal Sonogram, which you are not at all happy about it. At all. You try not to think about the ugly little straight man rubbing his electronic wand around your junk so, of course, your mind quickly turns to Blonde Beard. But the mere thought of the sexy boy actually arouses you, so you immediately start thinking about bad, penis-softening things. The recent Crystal Pipe incident comes to mind and that's when you remember that Blonde Beard kind-of-sort-of smelled like Moth Balls when you were covering him head-to-toe with kisses. It was so weird that it really stuck with you, and it wasn't like he was wearing some old sweater because he was absolutely naked at the time. Anyway.

You leave the Doctor's office with an antibiotic prescription to cure your, get this, epididymitis (try saying that three times fast...) and your phone instantly begins to beep with lots of anxious texts from the Lazy Blackmailer. After the two of you agree to meet at a Starbucks on 14th Street, you immediately inform the Police about your rendezvous. The Detective tells you that he'll meet you ten minutes beforehand to discuss the plan of action. You're pretty psyched about starring in your own private episode of Law and Order, but, even though "You're ready for your Close-up, Mr. Demille," you end up going back to your office to try and get a little work done before your 8pm call time. Only when you get back to the office the first thing you do is google: "crystal meth moth ball smell." The number one result is entitled "How do you know if your son is using crack?" and as you search through the answers you are shocked when you stumble upon this one: "One tell tail sign that you can not miss, people who smoke crack smells like moth balls. A really putrid smell that if your not used to smelling it you will catch on anyone." (See fagnote #4, below) Your heart instantly drops and you don't get any more writing done before the Sting Operation because you're too busy wondering if Blonde Beard is really a crack head or are you really just a Nervous Nelly Olsen? Then, of course, loads of suspicious things start flying into your head. For instance, if Blonde Beard doesn't smoke and doesn't have a cold, then why the hell does he have a hacker's cough? Anyway.

Eventually the Detective calls you and you mope your single ass downstairs to meet him on the street, only your broken heart is no longer into this Sting Operation anymore. All you can think about is how it's hard enough to meet someone who you even like, not to mention feel connected to on several complicated levels. Unfortunately, you know you'll never be able to connect to Blonde Beard on the Crack Level, even though you're sure it's very slimming. When you hit the street you hop into the Detective's unmarked, yet completely obvious, squad car, and he and his partner inform you that they'll get to Starbucks first and promise to arrest the Lazy Blackmailer as soon as you make the exchange. Then they drive away down the block, letting you walk the rest of the way so the Lazy Blackmailer doesn't get suspicious of you showing up in an tragically unmarked police car (see fagnote #5, below).

Only, as you're jay-walking to the south side of 14th Street (what, are they gonna arrest you?) you hear your name yelled out from behind. Something tells you not to turn around because you are sure it must be the Lazy Blackmailer, especially since you know that the Plain Clothes Detectives are already inside Starbucks. So you pretend you don't hear the Lazy Blackmailer and run inside to tell the Cops in a panic, "My Blackmailer is across the street!" Then you cleverly call the Lazy Blackmailer and tell him that you're in Starbucks but can't find him. He says, "I'm double-parked across the street. Didn't you hear me yelling your name?" So you go outside to meet him and he's actually super nice. Not so cute though. He starts blah-blah-blahing all about some Freelancer's Union Health Insurance PDF he saw on your hard drive and segues into how you both have freelancing in common. You almost ask, "Since when did Blackmail become freelancing?" (see fagnote #6, below), but the Detectives have him cuffed up against his car and are reading him his Miranda Rights as soon as he hands you the hard drive. You kind of run away and hide behind the subway entrance because you think it's probably not the best idea if this criminal remembers what you look like.

Eventually one Detective takes the Lazy Convict back to the tragically unmarked squad car as the Other Detective informs you that they will definitely search his apartment with the hope of retrieving your stolen laptop. You take the hard drive home and all you want to do is lie in bed and wait for the Bedbugs to bite while feel sorry for yourself because you're afraid you're never gonna find someone to settle down with. Without settling. But when you get home you almost trip over that damn suitcase filled with your summer clothes and decide that you are definitely not going to put any mothballs inside of it. Anyway...

You're not one of those Half Naked Go-Go Boy Fags...

...but you do like your Cher of attention. Especially after a few cocktails. But first things first because you're getting ahead of yourself. Last night you had a quiet evening planned with the Ex's Cousin, but when she cancelled you decided it might be good to do a little extra work. And when you say "a little" you really mean "a little," because moments after the cancellation your BFF calls to inform you that tonight is the monthly Ski Fags Party at Therapy and they're having a 2-4-1 Happy Hour till 8pm. If you hurry you'll be able to get in a few cheap rounds, so of course, you hurry. Since you don't want to schlep your laptop bag uptown, you decide to leave it at your Writing Space. You briefly think about shoving everything into your minuscule locker, but that will take more skill and patience than fitting enough cute Fire Island weekend outfits into your carry-on luggage (not to mention the fact that every minute wasted is cutting into your Happy Hour), so you just leave your laptop chained to the desk with a Kensington lock and tell yourself you'll pick it up on your way home.

The Ski Bums party is super cute and you know a lot of friends there. Unfortunately you tend to do more gay drinking than gay skiing, but let's face it, while equally fun, gay drinking is a much less expensive sport (not to mention the fact that the outfits are much more revealing.) So you enjoy your 2-4-1's, and, since you're drinking on an empty stomach, your right hand turns out to be a pretty cheap date. Eventually the Bartender gives you the bad news that Happy Hour is over, but then he quickly points out that $3 Draft night has just begun. The Silver Lining! So you order a Stella as you try to conjure up that Ancient Chinese Proverb, "Beer before liquor? Liquor before beer?" but you can't remember how it goes so you hope that your liver can't either.

Eventually, the Ski Bums with real jobs slowly begin to dissipate, and the replacement crowd is not really doing it for you. Your BFF suggests taking a trip downtown to XES, where the drinks are cheap and the boys are cheaper. You know your BFF only likes the place because it's around the corner from his apartment, but you agree to go because it's very close to your Writing Space so it'll be easy to pick up your laptop after another round. Or three.

You know you're drunk when you offer to pay for a taxi downtown, but you're having a good time so it's all good. It's definitely slim pickings at XES when you stumble in and are accosted, almost instantaneously, by a Drag Queen who introduces herself as Mimi Imfurst. She's recruiting for a little strip contest she refers to as "Ass Circus" where boys strip to their underwear and the crowd applauds their favorite ass. Your BFF cackles and then offers to buy you a drink if you enter. Although you are the type of fag that would do anything for a drink, this particular trade definitely seems like a Lose-Lose situation. That's when Miss Imfurst tells you that she'll also buy you a drink and then sweetens the deal by informing you about the $100 cash prize. You quickly browse the fugly crowd and realize that, indeed, you do have a chance at winning. You did legs and abs at the gym earlier today so your butt is especially perky. You didn't eat dinner so you're stomach can't be that flabby. Plus there's barely anybody in the damn bar to witness the entire humiliating escapade, so you inform Miss Imfurst that you will, indeed, participate.

By the time you reach the stage you are officially hammered, but all is good because the competition isn't that stiff. Actually, it's pretty damn flaccid and you feel like you're a a shoo-in to win the Ass Circus. A Skinny Boy with the Chest of a Seven Year Old Girl begins the strip show, and you're pleased as punch while the Bean Pole dances around in his saggy panties. Afterwards Miss Imfurst tells him that he must now show his ass to the crowd. You are suddenly horrified and consider pulling out of the contest all together because this was not part of the job description! But before you get a chance to protest, the Bean Pole happily moons the crowd with his prepubescent ass and Miss Imfurst yanks you up on stage.

Mimi Imfurst asks a few simple questions: "What's your name?" "Where are you from?" and "What do you do for a living?" But you're totally having a wide-eyed "Cindy Brady/Baton Rouge" stage fright moment, so you just stutter or possibly slur your way through your lame one word answers. Luckily that's when the DJ begins to play Rhianna which immediately loosens you up. You decide it's best to take your time, ease into the song. Nobody likes a rushed striptease. Besides, you've seen Gypsy and remember Mama Rose's advice: "Make 'em beg for more. And then don't give it to them!" You decide to start with your shirt which comes off easily and you turn around and shake your ass for the crowd as you attempt to slip your shoes off. Unfortunately one of your Nikes goes flying off stage and hits Bean Pole's belly button. Bean Pole gives you the Evil Eye and begins to campaign against you as you mouth the words, "I'm sorry." But the show must go on so you begin to unbutton your jeans. The crowd seems pleased until you get all tangled up in them and end up tripping onto the stage floor. Eventually all the clothes come off except for your new Diesel briefs (50% off at the Union Square location BTW) and the DJ abruptly stops the song, even though he's ironically playing, "Don't Stop the Music." So you just stand there in your skivvies, humiliated, while Miss Imfurst instructs you to turn around, pull your underwear down, and shake your grove thing for the crowd. You do as you're told but you're not at all happy about it. Your BFF is both laughing as well as applauding, but you definitely expected more applause. Way more. Could the Bean Pole be cuter than you? Oy vey. You're premiere striptease number is bad in a pathetic Showgirls kind of way.

A few more contestants compete but you're too humiliated to pay attention. And Miss Imfurst won't let you get dressed till the end of the damn show, so you just sip your cocktail as naturally as you can, even though you're not wearing anything but your skimpy little Diesel underwear, in a fucking bar. After the final contestant humiliates himself, the crowd ends up voting by applause and you can actually hear the crickets chirping when Miss Imfurst instructs the crowd to clap if they want you to win. The good news is that now you can get dressed, go home, and blackout this entire experience. Which you do, immediately.

God knows what time it is when you stumble up the six-flights of your walk-up and pour yourself into the hovel you call Home Sweet Homo. You flip on the lights and start rummaging noisily through the fridge because you still haven't eaten any dinner, but you're shocked when you realize that you've woken up your Hobosexual roommate. For some unknown reason he is sleeping on the living room couch. You slur an apology and ask him why he's not sleeping in his bed, to which he shudders, "Bedbugs." Needless to say, you instantly lose your appetite.

The next morning you are woken up by an early morning, completely inconsiderate 11am phone call. Caller ID informs you that it's coming from your Writing Space (which is odd) but you let it go to voicemail because you're embarrassed that your raspy morning voice will definitely give away the fact that you're way too hungover for a workday. But you're even way too hungover to listen to the voicemail which says, "Did you by chance leave your laptop in the Writing Space last night? Because we had a break in and several computers were stolen. The police are here now so give us a call when you get this." Anyway.

You're definitely not one of those Socialite Fags...

...but your social calendar is definitely on the lite side for the evening which kind of makes you feel like a gay loser (see fagnote #1, below), so you end up (gasp!) working late and then go to the gym around 9pm in order to avoid the after-work dinner rush. Luckily the January-Joining Resolutionaries have begun to wane so you can actually get on the machines you want without taking a number and relying on your evil eye to move things along.

After your workout, you go home and cook a healthy carb-free dinner while your Hobosexual roommate gives you blow-by-blow outfit updates on what's happening on Project Runway (see fagnote #2, below). Luckily, you catch the second half and get to see all the avant-garde haute couture creations. Even though you can't stand that LesbiGay hermaphrodite Christian thing, you have to agree with Heidi, Nina & Ms. Kors that his/her gown is by far the best.

Of course Make Me A Supermodel sucks you in after P.R. ends, but that's mostly because of the twink ab-fest during the opening credits. Luckily you quickly lose interest and air kiss The Hobosexual goodnight before retiring for the evening to go look at online porn. You are segued, however, by a brief "Who's-on-Connexion" moment when a Drop Dead Gorgeous boy you have chatted with notices your online presence and begins a chat. He's kind of perfect, except for the fact that he's much too young, has the same name as you (creepy), and of course there's that pesky little issue that a good friend of yours has already slept with him. You've actually been told, in no uncertain terms, "Hands off!" (See fagnote #3, below.) But tonight your hands are only on the keyboard, and Same Name Boy is just way too hot to ignore.

Your chat goes from Zero to Sixty pretty quickly and Same Name Boy mentions something about imagining you face down and chewing on a pillow while you scream his/your name(s). He makes you laugh. He makes you excited. But mostly he makes you consider the pros and cons of trading in your Friendosaurus for sloppy seconds with Same Name Boy. Are you really that type of fag? It kind of kills you as you hunt-and-peck for the letters to spell out, "I doubt our mutual friend would approve..." but you worry that you were being too prude-y so you quickly add, "But if you throw a couple of drinks down my neck, I might not care..." (See fagnote #4, below.)

You instantly feel like a bad person and a horrible friend and you know you're definitely going to hell, but none of that seems to matter when Same Name Boy responds, "That's not all I'm gonna throw down your neck." You laugh and write back, "Then Drinks it is!" but you quickly say goodnight before any plan can be made, because, ultimately, when it comes down to what's important, you know you'd never trade a good friend for a good lay (perhaps a great lay...) Besides, it's late and you need to go to bed and wait for the Bedbugs to bite. Anyway...

You're not one of those Dirty Gay Boys...

...well, not in the traditional sense of the word, anyway. But when it comes to certain grooming regimens, for example, shaving (see fagnote #1, below) you can definitely be a lazy gay boy. However a week of scruff coupled with your new short haircut has seemingly opened up your dating options to an entirely new, previously under-appreciated demographic.

Let's face it. Your whole life you've pretty much had that All-American-Gay-Boy-Next-Door thing going on. Not that you're knocking it, because for the most part it works in your favor. But after you posted a cute new photo with 11 o'clock shadow to your dating profile, you were shocked by the all the sudden new attention from Men. Not boys, definitely Men (see fagnote #2, below). Well perhaps a few Cubs but the idea of being someone's Daddy is so beyond upsetting that you have already deleted all their letters of inquiry. After all, you want to be the young cute one! You don't even like being someone's older brother. But that has more to do with your particular poor-excuse for a brother than with your pervasive vanity.

But you digress. Your hairy new photo catches the attention of a hot blonde bearded guy, and you write back and forth all day, and it's easy because Blonde Beard gives good email. He says all the right things to the point where you wonder if he's got some electronic Cyrano program typing his emails for him. Anyway. You meet for coffee at Jack's which is good because your over-worked liver could really use a Personal Day. When you arrive, right on time, you are instantly pleased as punch because Blonde Beard is even cuter in person. You talk, and talk, and talk, but the whole time you're yapping you are busy imagining doing other things with your mouth. Dirty things. You imagine what it feels like to be kissing Blonde Beard and his fuzzy cheeks. You stare at his lips. At his slightly crooked teeth. At the tuft of hair popping from the neck of his perfect-fitting t-shirt. At his piercing blue eyes. You really have no trouble looking Blonde Beard in the eye. In fact, you could stare all night long if it weren't for the damn Coffee Sluggers who begin (not so subtly) to close down the place because they're probably sick of watching hairy gay boys make google eyes at each other. Eventually the locomotive-like noise of cleaning Espresso machines (see fagnote #3, below) sends you boys to the curb where you have an awkward, yet satisfyingly long goodbye that ends in a firm handshake (your #2 online dating rule: no kissing on internet dates.)

The thought of Blonde Beard's whiskers and all the dirty things you want to do with them dance in your head like Sugarplums as the F train pulls into the West 4th Street Station. In fact, you're in such a good mood when you get home that you're not even bothered by the six flights of stairs that lead to the hovel you share with your dirty roommate (and that would be dirty in the traditional, mold-collecting sense of the word). You ignore his dirty dishes which overflow from the kitchen sink, and make your way into the living room where, as usual, the Hobosexual is lying on the couch, watching Sex and the City, instead of having it. Yet this time, instead of ignoring each other with a cordial grunt on your way through the living room, the Hobosexual actually sits up and engages you with the dirtiest thing you never wanted to hear, "We have Bedbugs," (see fagnote #4, below). Anyway...