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

...you're just a poor starving writer (who's hungry, yet needs to diet). Well, maybe you are a little cheap. Okay, okay already! A lot cheap. So when you're walking along 23rd Street on your way to meet Bald Boy to go see Iron Man, you quickly hold your phone up to your ear when you notice one of those irritating do-gooder suburban kids who is canvassing for "INSERT GOOD CAUSE HERE." Usually the mock-phone call is enough to deter these Post-Giuliani Sidewalk Solicitors (who are even more common than Pre-Giuliani Homeless People), but this Connecticut Kid ain't having it. He actually has the gall to interrupt your fake phone call! You feign annoyance as you ask your fake friend to hold on, and when the Connecticut Kid asks if you have a moment for "INSERT GOOD CAUSE HERE" you say, "Sorry, I'm my own favorite charity." But Connecticut Kid is persistent and when he starts yapping about how Children International could really use your financial support you actually find yourself saying, "Oh, fuck the children!" And although you are kidding (sort of), the Connecticut Kid is not at all amused. But you are late for your date so you just smile and say, "J/K" because you don't actually have the time nor the patience to say the words "Just Kidding."

You're only five minutes late but Bald Boy is standing outside the Chelsea Clearview and he looks kind of amazing. Even with his, ahem, shortcomings, he's really a fantastically attractive man and you were willing to give it another chance when he asked you out. Who knows? Maybe this time he'll make you laugh. You kiss hello and are kind of surprised when Bald Boy directs you to the ticket line because if you were the early one even your cheap ass would have picked up two tickets while you were waiting. And when Bald Boy finally gets up to the ticket window you quickly fumble through your wallet to hand him some money, but you're taken aback when Bald Boy says, "One please." It's just a bit weird. You begin to wonder if you're on a date or if you are now officially just friends? But you go ahead and buy yourself a ticket and head into the theater. Anyway.

Bald Boy orders popcorn and a soda, and since you're not having dinner until after the movie you realize that you should probably eat something, too. So when the Concession Stand Hoodlum holds up the next size popcorn and asks, "Would you like the larger size for fifty cents more?" you ask Bald Boy if he'd like to Supersize the popcorn and share it (even though there are other things about him that you'd rather Supersize). Bald Boy says sure, and then pulls out exactly half of the cash register's total (apparently you are subsidizing the cost of his soda, too?) and that's when you begin to count up all the properties that Bald Boy owns (1. Studio in the West Village, 2. Beach House in Ocean Grove, 3. Rental Property in Ocean Grove...) and suddenly it becomes very clear how he can afford all those mortgages.

The movie turns out to be fantastic and the popcorn hits the spot! You begin to wonder if maybe you were just a bit grouchy because you were so hungry? So you decide to give Bald Boy the benefit of the doubt and suddenly you think it might be nice to hold his hand. You put your arm up onto the shared armrest and not-so-accidentally brush your arm against his. Bald Boy obviously notices because he turns his head and looks right at you in the middle of the scene. You smile because you feel a bit silly, but you'd still like to get in some hand-holding before the movie ends. But Bald Boy literally just moves his arm away and digs back into the popcorn that you got stuck holding. You are left remembering how nice it was to go to the movies with Blonde Beard and how you would sink down into your seats and hold hands and rub shoulders from the previews to the closing credits. Sigh.

After the movie the temperature outside has dropped considerably and you're kind of happy because this has obviously prompted the Children's International Solicitor to go home to Greenwich where he can worry about the suburban children who are in dire need of a new Nanny to drive them from Piano to Karate. Since you're both starving, you decide to walk down Eighth Avenue to grab a quick bite at Vynl. You chat while waiting for your dinner and quickly become highly aware that you're the one doing all the talking. But Bald Boy is the one busy asking all the questions. Although you know you should be asking questions in return, you don't really have any great desire to do much probing. And that's exactly when you realize that you're really just not that into Bald Boy. It's not like you like to hear yourself talk, but it just seems easier to fill the void with your chatter than to come up with reasons to listen to his chatter.

When the check comes you, surprise-surprise, split the bill exactly down the middle. Then, since it's chilly, you head to the 14th Street Subway entrance and as you're about to descend into the A-C-E station, a confused Bald Boy asks you, "Aren't you going to take the F home?" You actually say, "Huh?" because as far as you were concerned this dud of a date was, at the very least, going to end with you getting laid. But you quickly cover yourself and say, "I can take the E and switch at West 4th," but then you go on to add in a frisky manner, "but I assumed I would come over to your place?" Bald Boy tells you that it's late and that he's really tired. This is ultimately extremely annoying because he's the one who picked the movie time as well as chose to eat afterwards. Hell, he's the one who asked you out in the first place! So when the train arrives at West 4th you say your goodbyes and, once again, you find yourself standing on the platform at the end of yet another relationship (if you can even call it that). Luckily this time you aren't crying uncontrollably while you wait for the F train to take you back to your Home Sweet Hovel so your cheap ass can jerk off to some free porn on Xtube. Anyway...

You're Not the Type of Fag Who Can't Make a Decision...

...but you do tend to waffle back and forth on your way toward anything conclusive. Your Ex liked to call you "contrary," and you liked to call him "asshole," especially since you knew he was right. After all, you're a Libra and you like to endlessly weigh all sides of any argument before deciding anything. Especially when good sex is involved. Correction: great sex. So before your date with Blonde Beard you actually make out a list of Pros and Cons. You need to see it on paper because your heart and your head are telling you completely different things. And you're not talking about your penis head because that head is telling you exactly the same thing that your heart is: Crack-schmack... Go for it.

You call your Ex-Cousin-In-Law, the Dating Guru who has published several books on the topic, but has yet to settle down herself (or perhaps you should simply say, "has yet to settle"). Although she's a successful writer now, she still sees everything from an Actresses point of view as acting was always her first love. So when you tell her all about your Blonde Beard "Is-he-or-isn't-he-a-Crackhead" dilemma--about how you are considering confronting him on this particular issue on your next date--the Ex-Cousin-In-Law instantly starts shaking her head before turning all Stella Adler on you. She explains that you are seeing your upcoming date with Blonde Beard like a writer would. You're seeing the entire beginning, middle and the untimely, tragic end before you ever go out on the damn date. And then she has the audacity to tell you, "And that's a boring scene. Yawn. Can I get my money back please?" You are a bit dumbfounded (not to mention mildly humiliated) until she explains further, "If you start the scene without knowing where it'll end, then you're taking the audience on a journey. Wouldn't you rather go on a journey?" And you've got to hand it to her; a journey sounds like a much more appealing date than a fucking drug intervention. When she presses you, you have to admit that you could've canceled the date if you wanted to, but, for some reason, you chose not to. And that's when she explains to you, "That's because you want to go on this journey. Because you want like him." And you know she's right. You decide that you'll begin tonight's date with Blonde Beard without any assumptions of how it will ultimately end, because, after all, you don't have any idea what will happen.

So you meet Blonde Beard at the new Vynl on 15th and Eighth and you try to begin the scene like an actor instead of a writer. You're practically doing voice exercises by the time Blonde Beard arrives, and you try to cover your embarrassing tracks by kissing him. But Blonde Beard shifts his head to offer you a hairy cheek because he thinks he might be getting sick. You wonder to yourself, "Would a Crackhead really care about getting someone sick?" And then, of course, the Libra in you considers the alternative, "How did he get sick? Has he been doing too much Crack lately?" Your list of Pros and Cons grows as the evening progresses, but honestly, even though you are actively looking for any kind of sign, you really aren't adding too many Cons to this inane, imaginary roster. In fact, the Pros continue to grow to the point where you have to shake your imaginary pen because you're worried that it has actually run out of imaginary ink.

After dinner you go back to his place. You pretend to feign interest in the Prom Dress rerun of Project Runway while yapping with Blonde Beard's Jealous Roommate while, in actuality you are scanning the supposed Crack Den for drug paraphernalia. But you notice nothing out of the ordinary. Nada. Rien! And after enough face time with the Jealous Roommate, the two of you happily retire to Blonde Beard's bedroom and lie on the bed as he shows you an article in Dwell magazine about his new boss. You ask yourself, could a Crackhead really pull an impressive job like that out of his Crack Pipe? You think not. But then he puts on some Cocteau Twins, which he has already told you is his all-time favorite band, yet when the song "Sugar Hiccup" begins to play, he informs you that it had to have been written while they were on Heroin... Your antennae instantly go up and you're about to add another Con to your imaginary list until you realize that the lead singer of Depeche Mode, your favorite band, was definitely a notorious junkie who almost killed himself. You realize that you are really grabbing at straws now.

But then the kissing starts. Or actually the non-kissing since Blonde Beard doesn't want to get you sick. So you sniff him head-to-toe in search of his Mothball Crackhead Pheromone, but beyond his super sexy, manly odor, there is nothing. Yet somehow when you look deep into his eyes during the moments when neither of you are speaking, there is something. It's at this moment that you realize that your Ex-Cousin-In-Law was right. You are glad you went into this date as an Actress would, instead of a Writer; you are glad you didn't begin the date at the end by making unsubstantiated accusations; you are glad because this non-kissing is a much better ending than the one you would had already written in your head. Are you sure Blonde Beard doesn't have a drug problem? No. Are you willing to give him the benefit of the doubt? Well, until any actual hardcore, Betty Ford-like evidence is uncovered, that answer will have to remain an undisputed, the-Pros-outweigh-the-Cons, yes. Anyway...