You're Not One of Those Fags Who's Too Chicken to Discuss His Feelings...

...but, as you pull a frozen chicken breast out of your freezer, you realize that it has become glaringly obvious that Blonde Beard is definitely a Chicken shit. And it kind of blows your mind. How is it possible that he could be so undeniably intimate with you, for months, and then just run away like Chicken Little after the L-Word came falling from the Sky (after too many Skyy Vodkas, of course...) You truly don't understand his issue, but as far as you are concerned there are two scenarios: 1) Blonde Beard doesn't feel the same way about you as you feel about him, or 2) Blonde Beard does feel the same, but he's too scared to express it. Neither doomsday scenario is acceptable. At all. So there you have it. It's officially over. Buh-bye, Blonde Beard. Don't let the razor nick ya on the way out! Next!

You sit down on the Hobosexual's lumpy futon couch and rest the Zip-locked Frozen Chicken Breast on your swollen Balloon Balls when you realize that your revelation about Blonde Beard neither surprises, nor disappoints you. And honestly, when you think about the relationship in such broad terms, it doesn't even seem like that big of a loss. But here's what's making you dazed and confused, not to mention driving you slowly insane. If the loss is truly no big whoop, then why on earth were your feelings sooooooo intense for Blonde Beard? Was your tearful subway meltdown just an "in the moment" kind of drunken thing? Or were your intense feelings more like a fast-acting, yet short-lived drug? Perhaps after years of dating Flaky Fashionista Fags, maybe you confused Blonde Beard's promptness and politeness as something that was actually unique and special and worthy of your deepest emotion? Or perhaps it's just that the sex was just so damn good that you let your girlie emotions get the best of you? And meanwhile, if you truly feel so Non-Plussed about the end of your Non-Relationship with your Non-Boyfriend, then why on earth are you so obsessed with the fact that you don't feel worse? Let it go already! Hell, if you're just in denial about the whole damn thing then why can't you just enjoy it before the other designer shoe drops?! And that's when you stumble upon what's really bothering you: After years of being single in New York, has your concept of love become so superficial and Chelsea-fied that you've finally become one of those "out of sight, out of mind," emotionally compartmentalized fags? Anyway.

When your Boneless Balloon Balls are thoroughly numb, you put the Zip-Loc bag on the kitchen counter so it can continue to defrost, and then you pop a Pain Killer and hobble down the six flights of stairs in order to get your Gay Fat ass out of your Home-Sweet-Hovel. You head over to your writing space to do some procrastinwriting, however, by the time you schlep up the three flights of stairs and claim your second-favorite dark little cubicle, your Gay Fat ass is, ironically, feeling light headed. With all your Blonde Beard lollygagging this morning, you forgot to have a breakfast chaser with your one-calorie Pain Killer. However, your dizziness turns out to be a blessing in disguise when you check your email and see that Dr. Mary-Ann-Not-Ginger has sent you the results of your Scrotal Sonogram. Being single and sober would be a tragic combination to receive the lovely news that your aging Balloon Balls are actually suffering from a painful case of varicose veins that was obviously aggravated by your Hurtful Hernia Surgery. Varicose Fucking Veins?? How humiliating is that? Your Blue Balls are like the gay equivalent of some Blue Haired Lady in Boca! Do you even have testicles? Or is your scrotum actually holding a couple of over-sized Blue Haired Lady Ovaries? Oy Vey(arie)...

Luckily there's another email from the Portuguese Brazilian From London to help distract you from your Old Girl Troubles, and, even though it's a bit ridiculous, you are happy to set up a date with him when the old chap returns to New York for the weekend. After a busy, light-headed day of Procrastinwriting, you drag your Balloon Balls over to the Gay and Lesbian Center to see a Michael Cunningham interview because he's been one of your absolute favorite authors ever since you read A Homo at the End of the World. Only instead of listening to the old Literary PowerHouse's interview, you spend The Hours drinking the free wine and texting your new literary PowerBottom that you recently met on Connexion: Mr. Write. He definitely gives good text and you can't wait to meet him.

However, when your cell vibrates to alert you to what you assume to be another flirty text from Mr. Write, your butterfly-anxiousness is quickly replaced with rolling eyes when you notice that this particular SMS is from your Hobosexual Roommate. He informs you that he has put your chicken in a bowl of cold water because (get this) it has started to go bad. Now, you know this is not in the realm of possibility because, 1) It is April not August, and your Home-Sweet-Hovel is barely warm enough for your toes to defrost, and 2) Even if the frozen-solid chicken breast has defrosted and actually gone bad, that it couldn't smell because it is tightly sealed away in a Zip-Loc bag. So you text the Hobosexual back and ask him to put your poultry in the refrigerator for you, as you will be home soon to take care of it. He immediately writes you back and informs you, "i put it in the fridge but i wouldn't eat it cause it really smells." You know that this is preposterous because the Hobosexual would never eat any kind of non-processed food that didn't come in a package from Trader Joe's.

After the Michael Cunningham interview and an inappropriate amount of free wine, you head back to the Home-Sweet-Hovel and are surprised to find that the apartment really does smell. Bad. Kind of like rotting chicken. However your rotting chicken is sealed in a Zip-Loc bag, which has been put away in a sealed refrigerator. So like Toucan Sam, you follow your nose and open the sink cabinet where you find the offensive Specimen. Days it's been since the overflowing trash bin has been taken out. And it reeks. You want to kill the Hobosexual because, had he taken care of this smelly situation hours ago, then your apartment wouldn't smell like Flesh and Blood. So you tie up the garbage bag and place it in front of the door because, between your Blue Veined Balloon Balls and your Hurtful Hernia, there's no way you are doing another twelve flights (round trip) to bring out the trash. So you whip up a delicious chicken dish and go to bed early. Of course, when you wake up the next morning, even though the Hobosexual had to move the smelly trash bag in order to get through the door, he couldn't be bothered to take it downstairs on his way to work. God forbid he should do something around the house when he has his old, Varicose-Veined Gay Mommy to do it for him. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Extreme Makeover Home Improvement Fags...

...although your body could certainly use a few nips and tucks from Ty Pennington. Not to mention a good screw. However, you are a bit shocked when the wholesome, practically pigtailed Surgeon that your Primary Physician recommended turns out to be named Mary-Ann. Couldn't you at least be discussing your crotch related issues with a Ginger? Anyway. You find yourself standing in her office answering questions about your Hurtful Hernia when Mary-Ann-Not-Ginger reaches down into your cutest, tightest pair of Diesel underwear (which incidentally you got on sale for 50% off), and becomes the first woman *ever* to touch your Junk (which, of course, instantly shrivels into insignificant nothingness). After Mary-Ann-Not-Ginger asks you to cough, she says, "Oh my! You definitely have a hernia!" and then she retrieves her hand from your Never-Netherlands and removes her glove with a snap while you are totally freaking out about going to Third Base with a Girl. However, the fact that you she was wearing latex gives you some sort of safe-sex comfort.

Mary-Ann-Not-Ginger schedules you for Laparoscopic Surgery next week and explains all about how she's going to take your Straight Virginity by entering you through your belly button, yadda-yadda-yadda. She keeps yapping but somehow you're too busy shuddering from her girl cooties to pay much attention. For some reason Mary-Ann-Not-Ginger laughs when you ask her about killing two birds with one stone and giving you a Tummy Tuck while she's fumbling around down there, even though you are definitely not joking. You are well beyond Gay Fat at this point and Swimsuit Season is right around the corner! Meanwhile, since you've gotten this damn hernia, you haven't been able to go to the gym (which, ironically, is where you got the damn hernia in the first place).

You are completely shell-shocked after your doctor's appointment so you get on the Bat iPhone to call an Emergency Meeting with the Boy Luck Club. You definitely need a Gay Cocktail to help you black out those skinny manicured girl fingers going down on your Junk but, unfortunately, G is already packed and, thanks to your Hurtful Hernia, you can't stand for more than two minutes at a time. Luckily the Boy Luck Club accommodates you and you all end up sitting on the banquette in the back corner which is, unfortunately, located directly next to the doorless bathroom. Your waiter quickly fills your shaky, detoxing hands with a few Stoli O' and Sodas, and the next thing you know you have agreed to go on an Atlantis Cruise to Mexico next October, which, of course, you can't afford. But, after all, isn't that why they invented Credit Cards? However, somehow G Lounge hasn't yet heard of this new-fangled invention they call Visa, so when your wallet runs out of Williams (which apparently some people refer to as Bills, but only by those who are much more familiar with them than you are), you decide that it's time to stumble home.

Only when you hit the street you realize that you have a text from Blonde Beard who is apparently skipping his class because he isn't feeling well. Somehow your index finger texts back something sickening like, "Do you need some healing kisses?" without somehow jamming itself down your throat in order to make you gag. Have you really become that sappy guy? Hopefully it's just the liquor talking... Meanwhile, Blonde Beard writes you right back and tells you that he's just ordered way too much Chinese so you should to come over to his place. You stumble your way toward the West Village and Blonde Beard buzzes you up to his place which he has all to himself because his Jealous Roommate is apparently out for the evening. After a simple peck on his hairy lips, Blonde Beard says, "Someone had a cocktail," to which you immediately lie, "Only one..." but you smirk so he knows you're lying. Then you immediately make a bathroom run and attempt to push your bulging intestines back into your body with your free hand while you pee. You cringe when you hear Blonde Beard's Jealous Roommate come back home while you're busy spiking the New York City Sewage System with your Vodka infused waste, but you put on your big fake happy smile when you and your over-worked liver come out to join the sober people.

Now, at this particular point in the story, it is important to point out that this little two bedroom, rent-controlled apartment has been completely renovated by the Jealous Roommate. Several times over. Although there are certain original details that have been left in place (like the Clawfoot Tub and the Black & White Hex Tiled Floor), practically everything else has been replaced or re-engineered to the point where the place feels more like an Ikea Showroom than some Slum Lord's neglected Cash Cow. Not an inch of space is wasted and the thought that has gone into this Pre-War Walk-Up is mind boggling. It definitely feels like the After version of an episode of Queer Eye. The Jealous Roommate is like Martha on Meth, and every time you come over for a visit you always notice something that has been rearranged or redecorated or renovated in some extremely practical, yet (usually) tasteful way. Several times during your over-nighters you have lulled yourself to sleep over the hum of Power Tools which never seem to get a rest. Capiche?

Now where were we? Oh yes. So you press your small intestines back into the bulging hole emanating from your groin and rejoin the sober people. You sit down and try to follow the conversation while munching on some Chicken Chow Fun. But you all look around in surprise when the most awful screech comes through the recently re-plastered walls which sounds vaguely like a number from A Chorus Line, even though the talent behind the wall sounds much more more like he should stick to his day job of hanging wet garments on A Clothes Line. This is when you open your big mouth and tell the boys that if they want to put a stop to their Karaogay Singing Neighbor, then they should just go bang on his door. That's when the Jealous Roommate informs you, "We can't do that! At least not until I'm finished renovating the apartment. Because if he starts a war and tells the landlord that I've been doing work in a rental apartment then I'm the one who will get kicked out."

This makes you laugh. Not because it's particularly funny, but the idea of the Jealous Roommate ever being satisfied with These New Cabinets or with Those New Towel Racks to the point where he puts down his Power Tools seems highly unlikely. So you laugh. Out loud. Perhaps some would even describe it as a guffaw. And that's when your drunken lips end up slurring, "Oh come on! That'll never happen because you'll be renovating this place forever!" And then, as if on cue, the Karao-gay singing comes to a grinding halt and the crickets begin to chirp. It is dead silent long enough for Barbra Streisand to make a complete costume change which includes a Mani-Pedi and a facial. And then the Jealous Roommate gives you the Evil Eye while he gathers together his Take-Out and says, "Excuse me, I'm going to go into my room now because I really can't take you anymore tonight..."

You are shocked and dumbfounded. Although you know you were being a bit snarky it's not like you said something like, "I know you're really in love with your roommate but he's too busy having phenomenal sex with me to give a shit about you and your new cabinets." The Jealous Roommate gets up and stomps into his bedroom like a big Nelly Olsen having a tantrum over being nothing but a recurring character in Blonde Beard's life when all he really wants is to be re-cast as Laura Ingalls so he can have Almonzo all to himself. But you digress. Even though this was not your intention, you have obviously touched upon something deeper than the Grand Canyon and since you're not The Brady Bunch you don't have the time to make your way all the way down to the Colorado River traveling on the back of a stubborn Mule. So you actually find yourself trying to Stop The Insanity by, get this, apologizing. However, instead of forgiveness, your kind words are actually met with a slamming door by a man who's acting like he's pushing fifteen instead of fifty.

You stand there in absolute shock. You haven't been treated so inappropriately since you were in Junior High School. And that was obviously a long time ago since they abandoned the term "Junior High" sometime during the first Evil George Bush's Presidency and began to call it Middle School. Your jaw is still ajar when Blonde Beard begins to explain that you just touched upon all of his Jealous Roommate's Emotional Tissues. Apparently the idea of living above the Olsen's Mercantile in a Two Bedroom Rent Controlled Apartment on one of the best blocks in the West Village is somehow irksome to Nelly Oldsen since she obviously feels like she deserves better than everybody else in living in Walnut Grove.

At first you think the whole situation is just plain silly, but after it actually sinks in you realize how awful it really was. You haven't been treated this insanely badly by anybody since long before you had pubic hair and it really begins to shake you up. So you and Blonde Beard retire into his bedroom to lie down. You keep waiting for your Non-Boyfriend to comfort you in some way. To touch you in a reassuring way while he informs you that his Jealous Roommate is insane. But he doesn't. He just lies there and isn't helpful in any way shape or form. You really don't know what to do, but the one thing that you are pretty confident about is, even though the last thing you want to do is spend the night, that you should not leave. Leaving the apartment now will somehow justify that this crazy person has a valid reason to be mad. And leaving would also somehow enable the Jealous Roommate's ridiculously childish behavior and allow it to blossom into an even bigger drama. So you stay. And you don't have sex. And you don't talk about it. And you do have trouble falling to sleep. And Blonde Beard barely touches you the entire night. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Fags Who Fucks Over His Friends Without a Condom...

...but when you wake up on Friday morning and begin receiving overly inquisitive IM's from Jet Blew about your interest in the Jackson Heights Co-Op, you begin to wonder if, at the very least, he's going to supply you with some lube as he fucks you over:

JetBlew: what are you thinking about the apts?
You: morning! i really liked it! how about you?

Then there's this really long pregnant pause which is weird since he's the one who IM'd you first. Eventually he writes:

JetBlew: yeah... are u seriously considereing?

It was bizarre that you ran into JetBlew at the Wednesday Open House, but suddenly you realize that he's not just doing a friendly follow up after your coincidental meeting because suddenly you have a sinking feeling that your friend is fishing for information in order to beat you to the punch of buying the apartment. You decide to play it cool and make him work to get the information out of you.

You: yeah, i think i'm gonna head back over today to take some pics

There's another really long, very pregnant pause before Jet Blew gives birth to his ulterior motives...

JewBlew: which apt are u leaning towards
You: i dunno. probably A
JetBlew: K
You: ok? or you like K? is that the big one?
JetBlew: thats H
You: this conversation is worse than "who's on first." are you serious about the apt, too?
JetBlew: yeah
You: about H?
JetBlew: about H and A. getting mortgage rates now.

With that you realize that you better get your gay ass in gear because you want this apartment, whereas Jet Blew was just dragged along to the Open House by one of his Flight Attendant Friends during an extended Lay Over! And now he wants the same exact two apartments that you are interested in! So you immediately get on the horn and call Daddy Warbucks to discuss the possibility of him sharing his good credit to help his Number One Gay Son get a good Thirty Year Fixed Rate smack in the middle of a fucking mortgage crisis. Since you've tip-toed around this conversation before, you don't expect it to go very well, but either Daddy Warbucks has recently been diagnosed with Alzheimer's or your Mommie Dearest has started brow beating him into submission with Wire Hangers down in Florida, because, get this, your retired father agrees to sharing his good credit, his good name and his illegible signature on your mortgage deed. You are in such shock that you'd probably start to cry if you weren't already too busy racing to Queens on the F train in order to forge Daddy Warbucks signature on the dotted line so you can get enough Honey Roasted Peanuts (at a fixed 5.75% rate) before Jet Blew even finishes his Beverage Service and returns his seatback to the upright position. Although Jet Blew definitley picked the wrong fag to fuck with, may the best fag win!

Your head is spinning when the painfully slow-talking, extremely Whiny Real Estate Agent (who is one Co-Op Board Approval away from the Annette Benning character in American Beauty) puts you on the phone with the Monopoly Banker in order to get Pre-Approved by someone who has absolutely no interest in how cute you look in your form fitting G-Star T and your new Se7en Jeans (which you seriously consider returning to Loehmann's since you obviously can't afford them any longer). However, when the Monopoly Banker informs you that you have passed Go! and are pre-approved to collect $200, you almost faint.

You begin to hyperventilate over going into thirty years of debt in order to live in Queens (thank God it's the Queeny Gay Latino Barrio), but when Annette Weining's Assistant interrupts your panic attack to inform her slow-talking boss that Jet Blew is on the phone, your hand immediately starts writing down a number so big that your head can't even count that high. Annette Weining looks at the number and a smile takes over her face as she winks at you and informs her assistant, "Take a message. I'll have to call him back after we've finished this deal."

On the subway ride back to your Home Sweet Hovel your inner-Martha can't think of anything but plush fabric swatches, crown molding accent colors and whether or not your big ideas for your tiny apartment are following the basic principles Feng Shui? Or perhaps they're just plain old Faag Gai? Meanwhile, you are running late for your date with Blonde Beard, but you are excited to tell him all about the Co-Op that you just *gasp* bought. Only when you get to his place, Blonde Beard immediately pops open a bottle of Cabernet and hands you a Solid Dark Chocolate Easter Bunny that he spent a small fortune on at Li-Lac. And even though you are slightly pissed because you know your fat ass is going to eat the damn thing in one fell swoop (probably without bothering to swallow) you are touched by his adorable gesture which is almost as sweet as the Bunny's deliciously pointy ears. Then Blonde Beard tells you his good news about getting a pay raise at his brand new job, so the two of you decide to go out and celebrate on an expensive dinner which he can now afford even though you no longer can.

But it's early and your BFF is out having Happy Hour Cocktails with a few of your *gasp* Straight Friends, so you butch it up and navigate your way through the Fratty NYU neighborhood to The Dove Parlor where you order a nice big glass of wine that even comes with it's own little extra carafe because, get this, the glass isn't big enough! Even though the place is straight, they definitely know how to put the Happy in Happy Hour. As you toast Blonde Beard you realize that you have stumbled upon a momentous occasion as this is the first time that he is meeting your BFF. You, of course, are chatting it up about your new Co-Op with whoever is sucker enough to listen to you. Out of the corner of your eye you notice your BFF as he goes in for the kill and begins to interrogate Blonde Beard, who, you are noticing for the first time, is painfully shy. Even though you just asked the Straight Couple who recently relocated from L.A. a million probing questions, you begin to ignore them because you are dying to eavesdrop on the first round of BFF vs. Blonde Beard. Since you have to pretend that you're interested in what The La's have to say about La La Land, you only get to hear a few highlights of the amusing dialog: like when Blonde Beard tells your BFF that you guys are celebrating tonight because you've both had great days and your BFF (who texted you incessantly about his shitty day) literally says, "I'm so happy for you," while he puts his index finger into his mouth and feigns an impressively realistic gagging reflex as if he were a seasoned, seventeen year old Bulimic cheerleader.

After you leave and begin to wander aimlessly and equally reservation-lessly through the West Village in search of a nice restaurant without a long wait *ha!*, you kind of laugh when Blonde Beard tells you that he thought your BFF was a little mean. "He's a lot mean!" you chuckle, "That's why we get along so well!" And then you tell Blonde Beard about your BFF's shitty day and that he was just teasing and most likely a bit jealous. Eventually after circling the neighborhood, twice, and giving your name on the wait-list of every restaurant you pass, you both decide to go back to your first choice, Market Table, because your hour wait is already practically half over. You wind up killing the remaining thirty minutes having another delicious glass of celebratory wine next door at BarFry. Perhaps it's all the wine, or maybe it's your good fortune, or even your extremely attractive dinner date, but the Braised Lamb Shank with Gouda Gratin is honestly the most delicious meal you've had in over two years. Afterwards, as if you were wondering whether Blonde Beard was indeed the man for you, all your questions are answered when he decides to forgo dessert and order, get this, a delicious side of delectable French Fries. And as if that wasn't good enough, Blonde Beard ends up paying for the entire meal and poo-poos you was you try to hand over your ailing Visa card. Your day is now officially perfect. And you haven't even had sex yet.

Your Literary Lot of friends calls while you're waiting for the waiter to return with change asking if you guys want to hook up. But after a quick conversation you realize that, ultimately, you boys are not willing to travel East of Sixth Avenue and since the Lit Lot isn't offering to travel West of The Bowery, the four long blocks dividing your improbable rendezvous seem even more impassable than Fifth Avenue during the Gay Pride Parade. Meanwhile, you're not losing any sleep over it because you've got a nice little buzz going and there is lots of dirty gay sex to be had with Blonde Beard!

As usual, being naked with your Bearded Boy is amazing and you get lost in his kisses as he holds you tightly and whispers things into your ear that you can't comprehend because he's got you in one of your frenzies. And you want more. You want to be closer. To kiss more intensely. To feel his heartbeat through the salty perspiration of his soft chest hair. You want to be much closer than is physically possible. The intensity of the moment takes you away. The perfectness of this amazing day has your guard down. Your desperate need to be closer to this man who bought you a Dark Chocolate Easter Bunny takes you to a place that you haven't been in a very long time. A place that is so insanely intimate, yet equally terrifying. And when you find yourself in the eye of your sensual storm, it is the undeniable calm that ultimately produces your panic. Because that is when you realize that Blonde Beard is inside of you without a condom. It is a sensation you haven't experienced since your Endless Relationship ended over three and a half years ago. You both attempt to enjoy the awkward moment, for it lasts no longer than it takes Blonde Beard to reach across the bed for an easily accessible condom, only once you are separated by a layer of latex as well as both a physical as well as an emotional layer of fear, you attempt, unsuccessfully, to deny it. Even though it only lasted a moment, you weren't ready for this to happen yet. And now you have been fucked, however briefly, literally and figuratively, without a condom. Needless to say, you are freaked. You feel like an idiot because you're not even really drunk. And you're not exactly sixteen. You know better and yet it still happened. How did that happen? Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Emotionally Unavailable Fags...

...but you are beginning to worry that you might be dating one. Ever since you dropped the old "I'm falling in love with you" L-Bomb on Blonde Beard, something seemingly imperceptible, yet practically platectonic, has changed. For starters, your mood has turned to shit. And not just your run of the mill shit. We're talking diarrhea shit. And unfortunately for you, your Hobosexual Roommate has used up all the toilet paper. But, as usual, you're getting ahead of yourself.

You were feeling okay on Tuesday before your date with Blonde Beard, although your friends were taunting you over your use of the word "date." And to your dismay, they even started teasing you with the "BF" word to describe your budding relationship, which was absolutely ridiculous so you started to refer to Blonde Beard as your non-Boyfriend, because really, if this is one of those unrequited love things then you're not interested in getting anymore emotionally involved than you already are. Hell, over the past thirtysomething years, you've only told two other boys in the entire world that you loved them. Let's just say that when you use the L-Bomb, you mean it. But unlike the age old adage about the Chicken and the Egg, in your world the L-Bomb definitely comes first, with the "BF" term coming in second, albeit a near photo-finish. Meanwhile right now you're more like a gay Chicken Little who's still smack in the middle of the damn race, even though your sky has already begun falling (in love).

So you and Blonde Beard decide to go to his place (he still hasn't even been to your Home Sweet Hovel, which seems a bit weird, but whatever) and order some Burritoville Burritos (the cannibal in you chooses chicken) while watching something embarrassing on Pay-Per-View (Nancy Drew). The delicious burrito makes up for the lousy movie, but you're getting caught up in the unimportant (yet extremely embarrassing) details. During the movie you notice that you're not playing footsie as much as you did when you watched V for Vendetta last week. And after the movie, although you have (thank God) great sex, for some reason it seems a bit more rushed than before. And when you go to bed you feel like there's less cuddling than you've become accustomed to. And in the morning, Blonde Beard pushes the snooze button one less time before he hops out of bed. And on the M8 crosstown bus, he never once rubs his knee against yours. But the real kicker is that when you get off the bus at Sixth Avenue, you find yourself standing out in the rain with neither an umbrella (literally and symbolically) nor any sort of future plan to see each other again. And Blonde Beard always asks you about your schedule in order to make your next date.

Instead of working, you end up feeling sorry for yourself and moping around your apartment all morning. Everything annoys you, especially the dirty dishes that your Hobosexual Roommate left in the sink. Equally irritating is his week's worth of unopened mail that is overtaking the minuscule chopping block cart that doubles as your kitchen table. And when you hop in the shower you get really peeved that your recently purchased bar of soap has somehow disappeared into a shaving of nothingness even though you've been showering at either the gym or over at Blonde Beard's. In fact, you notice that the Hobosexual doesn't even own his own bar of soap! But the real kicker comes when you make your way over to the little teaspoon-sized basin that your landlord considers to be a sink, and you actually start to seethe from all the disgusting hair clippings that the Hobosexual has trimmed from his body and left blanketing everything. You are too old to be living like this. You need stability in your life. You need to live in an apartment where the hair clippings in the sink are yours. Or, at the very least, are Blonde.

Instead of writing you start flipping through Time Out New York to look for distractions. Only what distracts you is an advertisement for a new co-op in Jackson Heights where the studios start at $160k. For a second you worry that your Lasik might need a touch-up, but instead of dialing your eye surgeon, instead you find yourself dialing the Real Estate Agent about her obvious typo. The next thing you know you are headed out to the Gay Latino Barrio in Queens to look at real estate you can't afford even though it's Midwesternly cheap. Funnily enough, when you turn around from ringing the Real Estate Agents buzzer you are shocked to find your flight attendant friend, Jet Blew, who's standing behind you in the vestibule. You haven't seen him since the XXX-mas party last December when you hooked up with The Cellist; a period you now refer to as B.B.B. (Before Blonde Beard). Apparently Jet Blew is on a layover and saw the same ad you did. So you go upstairs and practically cry on his shoulder as you tell him all about your non-Boyfriend and your unrequited L-Bomb.

The Real Estate is a nice distraction, and actually could make a really nice Home Sweet Home if your Daddy Warbucks would help get you out of your Home Sweet Hovel by co-signing the mortgage. You're pretty sure that no bank in their right mind would ever approve a loan for starving writer who's living off his Blah-Blah-Blog Income. Which, thanks to an advertisement you're running on Facebook, is actually Outgo. Especially during a national mortgage crisis. But you're too busy dwelling on your whole Blonde Beard situation to be thinking about anything that might affect someone else. Especially anything national. But when the hairy man in question sends you a text message informing you that he's on his way home from work and absolutely starving because he didn't have time for lunch, you take the opportunity to ask if he'd like to meet for an early dinner, even though you have no appetite.

You end up meeting at a loud, crowded, cheap burger place in the West Village, cleverly named Westville. It's probably not the greatest choice for the heavy conversation that you want to have, but the prospect of being dumped in a nicer, quieter, more romantic restaurant sounds equally awful and expensive. Not to mention so fucking cliché that you'd rather be dumped in a burger joint, if for nothing more than the sympathy that it would demand during your rehashing of the event. So when Blonde Beard asks you if you're feeling better you decide to take the opportunity and jump right into the source of your recent mania. Suddenly you feel like Mr. Sheffield on The Nanny after he told Fran that he loved her and then decided to take it back. Instead of humiliating yourself and bringing up the whole embarrassing situation again, you just remind Blonde Beard of the other night when you said that thing that he didn't respond to. And when he instantly knows the thing you're referring to, even though you've just given the lamest most vague description possible of the event, you instantly realize that indeed, it was a very big thing, for both the Plaintiff as well as the Defendant.

You feel immediately desperate. It's a place that you're, unfortunately, familiar with, but, thanks to lots of very expensive therapy, you realize that this situation has just triggered all of your Abandonment Tissues. Typically you are extremely confident in most any social situation, probably too confident for your own good, but whatever, it's who you are. However, since you were adopted, this sense of confidence can be dismembered faster than Lorena Bobbit could sever a penis with a blunt carving knife. And, right now, your confidence is M.I.A. As in M.i.a. Farrow and all of her adopted children who probably wonder where they came from and why their birth mothers didn't want them either? Although you are now old enough to recognize this pattern that has repeated itself throughout your thirtysomething post-adoption years, it still takes you off guard in that same breathless way that a kick in the balls will. But here you are, once again, watching someone, whom you may or may not be in love with, (Oh please, who do you think you're kidding with the "may not" shit?) watching someone you love begin his incomprehensible retreat. Away from you. "Anxious" is what normal people might feel in this type of situation, yet you find yourself feeling desperate. As in a sort of "Mommy, please don't give your two day old baby up for adoption" desperate kind of way.

You preface this irrational fear with your adoption back-story, which may be too much information for someone who's about to dump you, but whatever, it's a long enough story to prolong the break-up for a few extra minutes. And then you explain to Blonde Beard that, after you dropped the L-Bomb, that his behavior seemed to change. That his previous level of extremely generous portions of affection seemed to have waned after you unleashed the explosive L-Bomb. And this change has made you very uneasy. You brace yourself as Blonde Beard thinks about your accusations and prepares himself to sign the relinquishment papers and sever all ties with you. But then something drastically unexpected happens; Blonde Beard apologizes. He tells you that his feelings for you have not changed. He tells you that he wants to continue seeing you. He tells you that if his affection for you seems to have waned, that it is completely unconscious on his part. But the most interesting part of his apology is that you believe him.

Suddenly you feel like a big fat idiot (your appetite has obviously returned), but luckily that's when the waiter brings the burgers, so you get to be a big Gay-Fat idiot with a Cheeseburger Deluxe to boot. Which, of course, will only make your boot even bigger than it already is. But Blonde Beard's apology seems sincere and you are struck by how quickly he changes the subject to something unimportant. You realize that he's hastily changing the subject, not because he feels uncomfortable for you, but most likely he's changing it because he feels uncomfortable. Just because he wasn't ready for the L-Bomb doesn't mean he'll never be ready. It just means that he wasn't ready yet. And he's uncomfortable talking about it now because he's still not ready. But not being ready doesn't mean he's abandoning you. Maybe it has less to do with the fact that Blonde Beard is emotionally unavailable, yet more to do with the fact that you are emotionally un-fucking-stable. Anyway...

You’re Not One of Those Cultured, Opera-Loving Fags...

...although you did enjoy Rent, but that was mostly because you had the good fortune to see that talentless, cultureless-vulture, Jai Rodriguez, humiliating himself and desecrating the character of Angel the Drag Queen. And luckily you didn't have to pay for that guilty pleasure! Honey, your wallet is tighter than a Gay Virgin's Clenched Butt Cheeks. However, now that you're in Budapest (for the correct pronunciation pretend you are a drunk, lisping fag who's just had oral surgery: Now that you're in Budapescht) you are, thank God, no longer hemorrhaging euros. Hungary has it's own currency and the exchange rate is so ridiculous (1 US Dollar=171 Hungarian Whatevers). You briefly consider dating an Hungarian Accountant just to figure out how much cash to withdraw from the ATM, but you end up withdrawing 30,000 Whatevers and cross your fingers that you haven't accidentally just caused the check you sent to Citibank Visa to bounce. Meanwhile, it feels absolutely fan-fucking-tastic to be stuffing 30,000 of anything into your threadbare wallet.

You leave your cute 7x24 Central Hostel, and, since your wallet is overflowing with Whatevers, you and your BFF decide to do a little shopping before taking a guided City Walking Tour. You wind up stumbling upon a store like H&M in Deak Square, ironically called, "The New Yorker," so you go inside for a goof, but are quickly entranced by a 50% off sale. Since it's super warm in Budapest (who knew?) and you only brought your down ski coats, you both end up buying lightweight jackets. Your BFF ends up spending 2,400 Whatevers on a super cute white sweater hoodie with a sheepskin lining and you plug the numbers into your cell phone calculator as you both prepare to cringe from another case of European Sticker Shock. But you are both slack-jawed when you realize it's only about $14!

Afterwards you race around Deak Square looking for the City Walking Tour which is supposed to meet on the steps in front of some Church, but, unfortunately for you, there are a gazillion fucking Churches and none of them seem to have steps. The Hungarian map is Greek to you, but your BFF seems to have some unexpected Wonder Twin powers and somehow takes the Form of a GPS. And before you know it, you stumble upon the Church steps. Luckily you are the only two who show up, so your 4,000 Hungarian Whatever Group Tour basically ends up being a private tour! And given the new Sweater Exchange Rate of One Cute $14 Sweater Hoodie = 2,400 Whatevers, you realize that your private tour will cost less than two Cute Sweaters!

The Guide is super nice and she takes you to lots of places that you're way too hungover to bother remembering, but you take a few photos just to prove that you didn't lie in bed all day waiting for the Gay Bars to open. Somewhere along the way your Guide takes you to a Hungarian Bathhouse and you and your BFF almost abandon the tour right then and there, until your guide explains that it's straight. And co-ed. The tour ends at the Opera House and during a highfalutin, yet surprisingly sober moment, the two of you actually end spending 1,500 Whatevers on Opera tickets in the nose-bleed section, mostly because, using the Sweater Exchange Rate, you can get two tickets to see Carmen for just a little bit more than one Cute Sweater!

After the tour you are both exhausted so you decide to go check out the Széchenyi Baths and you are convinced that Széchenyi must be Hungarian for Straight. You put on your scandalous Speedos and bop around the Thermal Pools that are heated by a Natural Hot Spring as you cruise cute Hungarian Széchenyi Boys. You are a bit self-conscious at first because you've gotten so damn Gay Fat. But that's when the Fattest Man in Hungary saunters by in a Speedo that's approximately the size of a California King-Sized Fitted Sheet. He's so fat that he briefly eclipses the setting sun. Meanwhile, his Speedo is pulled above his enormous swaying belly (which seems to keep time with his footsteps like a fleshy Piano Metronome), and upon closer inspection, you realize that his fleshy belly is actually peeking out from between the leg holes of his bathing suit as if it were his scrotum. You feel like barfing but the whole experience is just so damn slimming that you decide to follow Jabba the Hut around the Bathhouse for the rest of the afternoon. Actually, since you're in Hungary, make that Atilla the Hut.

After leaving the Bathhouse you feel refreshed and since you're no longer feeling Gay Fat, you decide to grab an early dinner before the Opera. You wind up at a restaurant called Arigato for, get this, Hungarian Sushi, and the shy Japanese waitress only speaks, get this, Hungarian. The only English she seems to know is, "Yes, please," although she seems to think it means, "Thank you." The whole experience is a bit surreal, and you, surprise-surprise, drink a bit too much saki and suddenly the last thing you want to do is go suffer through some Hungarian Opera. So you and your BFF decide to trade in Gay Culture for Gay Bars as you begin your search for Gay Cocktails.

Unfortunately this task turns out to be rather difficult. Your first stop is Action Bar, but there's a drink minimum and you are the first fags to arrive so you decide to move on. Next you stumble upon Club Bohemian Alibi, but either it's closed or you're just way too drunk to figure out how to open the door, so you keep moving along and finally you end up at a cute bar called AlterEgo, which is featuring, get this, Gay Hungarian Karaoke. It's too bizarre to pass up so you pick some songs as you simultaneously try to pick up some hot Bel Ami Boys who are also waiting to sing. Unfortunately the Bel Ami Boys are, of course, together.

You end up having so much fun singing Wham! and Madonna that you completely lose track of time. Your flight to Rome on Wizz Air leaves at 5:10am and your taxi is picking you up at, gulp, 2:45am. Not to mention the fact that you haven't even packed yet. Or slept. So you race back to the Budapest subway and neglect to buy a ticket because it's late and nobody is checking. However, when you get off at your stop you notice some poor woman searching through her purse because the Hungarian Subway Gestapo is checking for subway tickets on the way out of the station. You have visions of being detained in Budapest without Gay Karaoke privileges, so you race back onto the train and call out for your BFF who is lagging far behind you. He races toward the Soviet Era Subway as the doors begin to close. Most of his body makes it safely onto the train, yet the Iron Curtain slams shut on his right shoulder and, just like a Pit Bull's Jaw, doesn't seem to want to unhinge. Eventually your BFF yanks his lame arm back into the train and you complete your Getaway from the Gestapo. You wonder if his chiropractor bills will end up costing more than the subway fine would have, but you decide to keep this thought to yourself.

At the hostel you end up packing longer than you end up sleeping, and even though you're both drunk and simultaneously hungover, you somehow make your Wizz Air flight which is the most horribly uncomfortable coach seat you've ever experienced that you'd actually prefer to be Wizzed on. Anyway...

You’re Not One of Those Anal Retentive Fags…

...but you haven’t produced anything beyond the odd rabbit pellet since you left New York, even though you’ve been eating like one of those French truffle pigs. So before you go to your très expensif dinner with the Ski Fags at a pretentious Two Star Michelin Rated restaurant you can’t afford, you and your BFF decide that you need to be lubricated for your upcoming financial rape. You decide to make a Gay Cocktail with the Duty Free liter of Absolut you bought on autopilot as you slept walked through the Geneva Airport. Unfortunately, both mixers and ice are extremely scarce commodities in France, so it’s time for some good old American ingenuity.

Luckily you’ve been storing the Duty Free Vodka outside on the patio so it’s perfectly chilled and doesn’t melt your ridiculously inadequate ration of three miniscule ice cubes per fag. These French ice cubes are so petite that they remind you of a pair of Chelsea testicles that have been juiced up on steroids since the dawn of Gay Man. Since you and your BFF are both on a budget (on your free vacation no less), you decide to share one teensy little €6 bottle of warm Perrier from the Mini-Me Bar. For some reason everything is much, much smaller in France, except for the Americans, of course. Being in France is like looking at everything through a side-view mirror, even the gay New Yorkers appear much larger than our French counterparts. Anyway. You are a terrible bartender so the cocktail is much too strong (even for your Irish liver), but you and your BFF are too cheap to open the other teensy bottle of Orangina. But that’s when your Fat American Ingenuity kicks in and you rush into the bathroom to ransack through your toiletries. Your BFF is confused when you return with a plastic spoon and a Ziploc bag of mysterious orange powder, but before he gets a chance to protest, you mix a spoonful of octogenarian goodness into each of your tumblers, et voilà! You have invented a brand new Gay Cocktail! A Doody Free Vodka Soda with a splash of Metamucil!

Some of the fancier Ski Fags have hired a car to Chamonix, but your cheap ass decides to take the free l’autobus. Since you’re still Jet Fagged and running on Gay Standard Time, you and your BFF are, bien sur, late for l’autobus and you start yelling “Vite! Vite!” to him but he refuses to do anything but stroll in his new Pradas which will surely be beat up and out of fashion long before he ever pays them off. Luckily l’autobus is also running on Gay Standard Temps and you make it to the fancy restaurant (that you can’t afford) on time. When you arrive at La Maison Carrier all the Ski Fags are busy playing runway and complimenting each other about how très fantastique everybody looks in their après ski-wear. Meanwhile, all you're concerned about is getting your €120 worth of booze. You begin to salivate when the waiter pours you a glass of champagne for your all-inclusive, prix-fixe dinner, only as he offers it to your greedy little, manicured hands, one of the Ski Fags tells you that they are charging €17 extra for the Champs! Quelle Horreur! Your face drops faster than the American Dollar and your hands begin to shake with the D.T’s as you reluctantly return the flute to the waiter’s tray.

Dinner turns out to be absolutely lovely. You and your BFF decide to split up and sit at different tables because, let’s face it; you haven’t been all that social with the Ski Fags. It’s mostly because you’ve had to decline several fabulous invitations, not because you think you’re too good for them (only some of them), yet mostly you have to decline because you can’t afford to keep up with the Triple A-Gays. However, you are beginning to sense a chilly attitude in the air that has nothing to do with the altitude in the French Alps. So you both decided to blow your dwindling wad of credit (with a 3% international transaction fee, merci beaucoup) on this one particular dinner. Although the portions are quite petite, this works in your favor because a) the food doesn’t dilute the effect of the bottomless wine glass, b) you have already gotten a bit fat with all this rich French food (gay fat, bien sur, never straight fat!), and c) you are completely and utterly constipated. The entire gourmet experience turns out to be absolutely lovely (even though it could have been a bit disastrous since you once had a little kissy-fest a few months ago with one of the Ski Fags at your table. Or was that twice? Anyway.

After dinner you and your BFF direct your little group to Le Non-Gay Gay Bar, only when the Ski Fags arrive there is nothing Non-Gay about it anymore! You check your coat and descend into the less-than-glamorous basement venue, and for some unknown reason the heat is pumped up to about 95◦ Celsius, however the hellish heat wave all becomes clear when your foot leaves the last step. Instead of sticking to the dried up puddles of spilled beer, your feet sink into a pile of sand. Your irritated BFF looks up from his polished Pradas and says, “Ugh. It’s a beach party,” with a copious amount of disdain, probably because he forgot his cute Speedo. The two of you make a bee-line for le bartender and order €6 domestique beers, which luckily seem extremely foreign to you since the current exchange rate makes the draft beers $9 a piece. You toast each other’s liver health and take a sip. That's when you finally begin to feel moved.

Your Doody Free Metamucil cocktail has finally kicked in and you are finally ready to relieve yourself of that binding bagel you had in Newark Airport, days ago. Only you’re in a dirty gay bar. Underground. Trudging through sand. In the French Alps. But nature is calling so you decide to check out the bathroom, just in case it’s nice. Or clean. Or possibly has toilet paper. You tell your BFF to hold onto your priceless draft bière as you race through the crowed bar toward the stairs. However, when you pass by the Kiddie Pool some Drunk French Boy in board shorts hops into the pool and begins to splash everybody as if he’s Jennifer Fucking Beal from Flashdance. The Non-Gay Gay Garçons clear the center of the room as quickly as paint on a Spin Art board, and you race your wet ass up the stairs toward la toilette. You cross your fingers as you pass by the coat check and open the bathroom door. What you see before your pansy eyes is worse than anything you could have ever imagined. Besides being filthy (and not in the good way) and smelling foul (that's never good), you are completely confused as you scan the room for the missing porcelain. The tiled room (which has never, ever seen a bottle of Tilex) has no toilets and no urinals. There is, however, a small tiled hole in the floor with a drain at the bottom. You don’t quite comprehend the whole confusing situation until you notice the roll of toilet paper hanging on the wall. You stare at the tiled hole in the floor for a moment or two, while you actually consider squatting over it. Only some Coke Head is already banging on the door and screaming “Dépêches toi!” as you happily realize that your window of oppor-number-two-nity has closed and you no longer have to go anymore. So you go back downstairs and decide to order a Binding Banana Daiquiri no matter how many fucking euros it costs. Anyway...