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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...except on Gay Pride. On that day you tend to be very proud. But when you're fumbling around on Connexion looking at all the boys who are typically much more physically available then they are mentally, you decide to send a quick note to a really hot architect that says, "i just read/watched the fountainhead so i'm all about architects. especially ones that are hotter than howard roark and mike brady combined." You're quite shocked when you get an immediate response, but you feel more like an ostrich who wants to bury his head in the sand when you read the email, "hey, we've met. we went to grey gardens together. remember?" Although it was years ago, you certainly remember the night you met. A guy you were dating took you and some of his friends to Grey Gardens for Christmas. And the hot Howard Roark-Brady was one of the friends. And as if it wasn't bad enough that you just hit on the friend, you have also been called out for not remembering him! Come to think of it, you also forgot him once on the street when he said hello and had to explain who he was. Oy. But instead of making a big deal about it, you just swallow your pride and apologize profusely before quickly signing off so you can go kill yourself.

But before you get a chance to log off you receive another email. Luckily it's from someone you've never met (or at least hope you've never met), and he's connected to you through your old boss. He actually comments on something you wrote in your profile, which means he actually read your profile, which means he can actually read. But none of this is important because the guy is GORGEOUS! He's got an amazing profile and a great job. His profile seems smart and witty, and he seems to be just your type. There's only one little teensy-weensy problem. The guy lives in West Hollywood.

You quickly wind up breaking not just one, but most all of your cardinal dating rules: Don't pursue a boy who doesn't live in New York, Don't have too much communication with a boy you've never met, Don't trust an online profile with a professional headshot, and Don't trust an online profile of a boy who blatantly ignores posting his height or weight. But you quickly find yourself caught up in a very intense, frenzied email exchange with what you imagine might be a wee 'ho from WeHo. The good news is that you have plans to be in LA in less than a month, the other good news is that he's looking to relocate and NYC is his first choice.

After a day of silly back and forth emails you find yourself hoping that the WeeHo does move to New York. And even though you know it's a ridiculous thing to hope, the fact that this false hope has somehow seemed to squash your recent obsession with being dissed and dismissed by Blonde Beard on the street last week. All of Blonde Beard's bullshit suddenly fades away, so you let yourself get lost in the WeeHo fantasy.

The emails graduate to text messages, and the text messages graduate to picture messages. In one form or another, the two of you are in constant e-contact all week long. You like that he challenges you to be funny. Although you have confidence in your writing in regards to your communication, you are actually terrified to talk to him. You are a bit phone phobic. You are especially phobic of talking to strangers on the phone. And you're worried that all of the time and energy you've poured into your pretend relationship with the WeeHo could disappear in one awkward phone call. So you put it off.

So one night when you are watching "Becoming Jane" (yes, you are that gay), you immediately pause it when a email pops through from the WeeHo asking you how you like Fall, which seems like a bizarre question until you realize that the WeeHo is asking about a song that he has sent along as, ironically enough, an attachment. You respond:

so funny. when you asked about fall i thought you meant "how do i like autumn?" i was like, bitch, don't go ending my summer a week early! but i am listening to it right now and i like the lyrics. falling is exactly what i strive to do in life. easier said than done.

speaking of which... this is a weird experience for me. i have lots of rules about this online dating thing, and one of my biggies is "don't put too much effort into anybody before you meet in person." the funny thing is that i want to put effort into this. i'm enjoying it. and i can't even meet you! damn, i want to meet you. it's like my own little sleepless in seattle. i should put that in my netflix queue, although i remember it bugging me when i first saw it.

you asked if you were saying too much? not at all. you're saying all the right things actually. and you don't seem guarded. at all. although most of the time i come off as completely unguarded (without an edit button), i am actually quite guarded in certain respects. i learned the hard way, though, that it's not worth being in a relationship with someone who can't break your heart. now i'm busy looking for a guy who can break my heart, but won't.

luckily, after a few years of dating in nyc, my heart has gotten a few callouses. that's a good thing. my hands, however, are still silky smooth. palmolive. seriously, why am i saying all this? it's crazy, right? i should know better, yes? because it should scare you away, no? this conversation is probably the gay equivalent of a 39 year old woman discussing babies on a first date! oh whatever. i'm not scared to put it out there. i want to fall. and i want to fall hard. and it would be nice if someone like kimberly locke would catch me. the problem is that i haven't fallen. after my breakup, i thought i'd fall into another relationship in two seconds. well it's been four years, and, although i've dated a few good guys, good just doesn't cut it. i had good. really good. this time i'm looking for great. so mostly i haven't fallen. tripped a few times, but i've always caught myself. my big worry now is, have i gotten too old and jaded to fall? or will i just abandon ship before i get a chance to fall because something silly spooked me? or maybe i'm just too picky because, unlike that 39 year old woman who is just looking for a sperm donor, perhaps i really know what i want and am willing to wait?

all i really know is that i want to meet you before i write another ridiculous email like this.

And then the WeeHo quickly responds:

I'm a fan of Autumn. You know we don't get that here. I miss it. I always come back east for a dose of autumn and a white christmas.

Speaking of which, yes, this is weird. I get that. I've given up on many of my rules, however. Well, except that I still keep the seat down on the toilet (I don't want my Chi to go down the tubes), I don't leave dishes in the sink (God forbid I don't make it back home, that something should happen and my mother comes to gather my belongings and she finds dirty dishes in sink. She put on my headstone, "Here rests my son, the slob"), and of course, no white after labor day (Patty Hearst was so wrong. She deserved what she got).

Anyway, where was I...oh, yeah...falling is good. And you're not crazy (although you would be if you added Sleepless to your Netflix list, I'm just saying). I remember what it feels like to fall. I'm convinced that it is more my willingness to fall at times the people I meet. I could have "tripped" a few times, but I figured I'd hold out for the free fall. I worry that I may have squandered a few good trips, though. I wonder if a trip could have lead to a fall. Then I think, "Nope. Just wait for the fall."

Is it crazy to put the effort into a series of emails someone all the way across the country who just happens to photograph well ;) Everything starts somewhere. Obviously, the places I've started before have yielded nothing. And yes, I want to meet you too. Although that is completely out of the question at the moment. I have huge zit on my forehead and that would make a terrible first impression.

Also, I want to be much more prolific than I am being right now, but I have to get to my Cirque workout class (excited) and did want to get back to you first (I hate feeling rushed)

So, to quickly recap:

- You enjoy guilty pop too
- Summer still has a week left, although no more white this season
- You're not crazy, nor am I, at least not for this.
- Meeting is not an option at the moment.
- You have a phone phobia
- I have a loaner car

And when you finish reading his email you actually find yourself saying aloud (even though you're completely alone), "This is the man that I’m…” and then just like that, you stop. You don't allow yourself to finish the sentence.

For some unknown reason, you keep putting yourself out there for this stranger across the country. And you keep waiting for the moment where he disappears because you've said too much. But for some other unknown reason, the WeeHo keeps coming back for more of your sappy shenanigans. You feel absolutely fantastic when you return to "Becoming Jane." And as the movie continues, you feel like you, too, are somehow Becoming Jane. Somehow living your life as a freelance writer (emphasis on the free) seems preferable to living your life with a man that doesn't make you Fall. But does this make you Proud? Or merely Prejudiced about falling for the right Mr. Darcy? Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Fags Who Swallows His Problems With Copious Amounts of Food...

...but alcohol is a different story. So when Rice Queen #2 offers you a sip from a pint of his Knob Creek on the train to Fire Guyland, you graciously accept. You are really all fucked up over your recent Blonde Beard sighting and can't help running through your unexpected reunion with a fine-toothed beard trimmer. And you think you've narrowed down his adverse reaction into two distinct, yet very different scenarios. Your first theory is that the man hates you. As in detests. After all, he couldn't wait to get away from you, nor could he bear even the most minimal of conversations. This leaves you wondering whether Blonde Beard found out about your Blah-Blah-Blog? And if this is the case then you can't change that because you have no control over it. Although you'd feel terrible if he hates you, what's done is done and you're not going to change his mind about you.

On the other hand, Blonde Beard's bizarre reaction might quite simply be just that; bizarre. After all, he was freakishly awkward in social situations. You experienced that uncomfortable side of him first hand after dragging him to a party at your Gal Pal's. And if he was merely just so scared by the shadow of a past relationship, then his unpleasant reaction was all about him, not you. At least you tried to be nice. Fuck that! You were nice! You were actually happy to see him! Whatever. You're over it. Even though you're not. But you will be. And with that you take another healthy, warm gulp of Knob Creek.

It's pouring when the Fairy Ferry finally arrives, so you and the rest of the Kinsey 8 race to the house and, surprise-surprise, start making cocktails. You skip Low Tea because of the inclement weather, but definitely make it to High Tea. After that it's all a bit hazy, but you have vague memories of dinner that may have or may not have been followed by a strip show. Starring you. Regardless, you'll surely be able to trace back your drunken steps soon enough in the form of unfortunate Facebook tags.

The next day is nice enough for both you and your hangover to lie out on the beach. However, the big excitement of the day (perhaps the month? Make that the year!) happens at Low Tea. You wander in with your Kinsey 8 housemates and begin an immediate Fruit Loop when who do you spy with your little eye? None other than your Internet Crush! He's standing right there, ten feet from you, all alone, with a drink in his hand (of course)! Although you now share a writing gig with him and have been working together all summer, you've never actually met in the flesh. And for some unknown, alcohol-fueled reason, you decide to out yourself. So you just stand there. And stare. Kind of similar to when you guilted Blonde Beard into grunting a few lame words at you on the sidewalk earlier this week. But unlike Blonde Beard, your Internet Crush does not try to skulk away when he catches his stalker's eye. It takes him a minute, but eventually he puts it together and the two of you giggle like a gaggle of girls.

You have a lot of fun talking in person and when you notice that both of your drinks are empty you offer to go get refills. It doesn't take much arm-twisting, and, of course, Ms. Four Letter Word wants a Thirteen Letter Drink, which happens to be the most expensive drink on the Island. But you are more than happy to aid and abet his drunk and disorderliness with a Planters Punch. However the bar line is endless and it takes you a while before you return with the cocktails. Only your Internet Crush is nowhere to be found. Somehow, even though you are double-fisted, you are able to text him without spilling a drop and the two of you ping back and forth trying to find each other, until, eventually, you just give up and finish both cocktails. Which, of course, is a big mistake.

Both High Tea and dinner are both blurs, as is Slip N' Hurl. But apparently the night ends up with you psychoanalyzing your friend Half-Share during a lovely midnight stroll into the Meatrack. You're starving so you make a pit-stop at Half-Share's house and pick up a delicious family sized bag of Tostitos - Hint O' Lime. You're ravenous and can't bear to part with the tasty tortillas, so you end up dragging the bag into the Meatrack with you. You munch your way through the moonlit woods as you pass by men munching on 'mo mussy. You are as fascinated as you are hungry, and the two of your meander down dark paths, passing half-naked men who appear out of nowhere and then slither by. It's so dark that you can't make out any faces, but even though you're as drunk as a skunk, even though your beer goggles are on tight, nobody looks all that pretty.

At one point, you and Half-Share wander up a path and stumble upon a whole group of boys who are wide-eyed witnesses to a public blow-job. You, of course, plop yourself down as if you're at the local drive in and dig deep into your crinkly bag for a big handful of Hint O' Lime. You're busy chewing your tortilla chip cud when the guy who's getting blown turns to the impromptu crowd and looks right at you when he says, "Honestly, I really can’t do this with an audience." You stop chewing the copious amount of chips that you've shoved in your mouth, roll up your half eaten bag, and slink away with Half-Share as you giggle your way out of the Meatrack. Anyway...

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

...but you will definitely be yelling your homo head off outside the Mormon Temple on Wednesday evening. You're looking forward to join the other angry boys in protesting the passing of Prop H8 which bans same-sex marriage in California, effectively reversing a State Supreme Court ruling which legalized same-sex marriage in the Golden State.

The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints was, by far, the biggest financer of California's heinous and hateful Proposition 8. The Mormon Church begged their members to donate money to Prop 8, ultimately pouring 20 million dollars into the campaign. And don't think their attacks on us will end there. Right now the Mormon Church is plotting to bring their money and influence to bear against the LGBT community everywhere in this country, including New York where they are trying to prevent marriage equality.

Speak out against H8 and discrimination by telling the Mormon Church what you think! Let your lisp be heard! Stop the Mormon Church from taking away your inalienable gay rights!

New York Manhattan Mormon Temple
125 Columbus Ave (at 65th Street)
New York, NY

See you Wednesday, November 12th at 6pm!

And if you have yet to see what Keith Olbermann has to say on the issue, it's definitely worth taking six minutes out of your busy day:

You're Not One of Those Fags Who Gets Fancy Haircuts...

...hell, you're so cheap you'd probably buy a Flowbie. On eBay, no less. But you are very happy with your $14 haircuts at the Neighborhood Barbers. Unfortunately, it's neither in your neighborhood, nor anywhere close to it. Although you are cheap, you're not actually insane and you wouldn't trust your 'do with just anyone who has a pair of scissors. But you are definitely willing to commute for an exceptional barber who is exceptionally cheap and was written up in the New York Times Style Magazine for cutting John Bartlett, Narcisco Rodriguez and David LaChappelle's famous heads. If Eric Scissorhands is good enough for them, then he's good enough for you. However, never in a million years would you have ever assumed that you'd offer up your gay locks to be coiffed by some straight barber. But stranger things have happened. Anyway.

Although you're usually rather happy with his cuts, today Eric Scissorhands does an exceptional job, and afterwards, even though it's raining, you find yourself floating up First Avenue on your way to work. For some reason you're in an excellent mood, and you're not sure why, because typically you are the type of guy who keeps his eye on the sidewalk rather than on the eyes of those strangers sharing it with you, but for some reason, even though he is huddled beneath a sea of black umbrellas, you look up and lock eyes. Although he looks completely different--he is wearing glasses and has a clean-shaved face--you can't help but recognize the new and improved mug of the boy you fell in love with earlier this year. The boy who subsequently broke your heart. The boy you call Blonde Beard.

You instinctively smile. He does not. And then you wait for your heart to drop and be replaced with butterflies, moths, and bats. Oh my! But none of these critters bother to show up to give you a bout of gay ageda. You're a bit shocked by your lack of reaction, actually. Are you over him? And if you are, then why are you still thinking him five months after your three month relationship ended? You've even thought about contacting him lately. But now the gay gods have dropped Blonde Beard right into your lap. Almost like a rain drop. However, all of this crap races through your head in less than a nanosecond, and as he approaches you say, "Hey." Kind of just like that. No exclamation point. No question mark. Just a simple period that you punctuate with a hearfelt smile. Blonde Beard says, "Hey," looks away, and attempts to continue his Mary way down First Avenue.

You are in such shock that you literally stop in your footsteps and turn toward him as he attempts to make his gay getaway. Then you say, pointedly, "How are you?" in a manner that commands him to stop and acknowledge the simple moment that he has just made exponentially more awkward than it ever had to be. Blonde Beard says, "Good." But then he literally turns away from you and begins to walk away. Although you are literally dying inside, you make one last attempt to normalize this de-humanizing encounter, and you call after him, "What are you up to?" For the first time you notice that Blonde Beard is standing next to a woman who is almost as visibly confused by the bizarre situation as you are, and Blonde Beard informs you, "Just going to lunch with my co-worker. How about you?" Although you are happy to have finally received a question from this man you were in love with, your mouth answers with a simple, "Just headed to work," even though the expression on your face says, "Do you really hate me so much that you can't bear to cobble together an entire sentence for me?" And with that, Blonde Beard just turns around and walks away.

You just stand there. You actually laugh aloud, but not because you think the situation is at all funny. Your jaw is agape. You are wounded. The only thing in tact at this point is your hair. At least your hair looked good. You'll always have that. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Fags Who Dwell in the Past...

...although your blog definitely does. However, you've been doing your very best to catch up to real time lately, but now you need to slow down for a bit so you don't gloss over some of the more ridiculous things that have recently happened. Like when you met Rice Queen and Rice Queen #2 at Star Lounge, for Josh Wood's Friday Night party at the Chelsea Hotel . Since lately you've been hemorrhaging money over ridiculous and frivolous things like furniture, your budget doesn't have much left over for the more important necessities, like booze and dates. So you guzzle down a bottle of Two Buck Chuck over a lovely, yet lonely dinner of left-overs before racing to Chelsea in order to compete heavily in the Bar Rush event during the coveted free vodka hour.

You, of course, are very competitive in this particular event and during the last few, precious minutes of the open bar, you make your way through the frenzy and decide to utilize the coveted, yet time-tested technique of double-fisting vodkas in order to ease you into the cool-down period. After that, however, everything gets a bit hazy. You remember having fun with your friends and the swarm of Gaysian boys who surround them like some impenetrable Gay Wall of China. You remember running into the Indian Guy that you may or may not have made out with on Fire Guyland, however you really have no idea if you may or may not have also made out with him at the Star Lounge.

The next thing you know, Blackout Barbie is waking up. At noon. And one thing's for damn sure, she ain't in Ken's bed. The "trick" is apparently on you, because you ain't Indian Guy's bed either. Your head is pounding as you inspect your surroundings as you attempt to piece together disparate memories of last night's events. Luckily the Naked Guy in your arms is actually even cuter than Indian Guy, and somehow it feels nice and comfortable holding him. You have a vague memory of sitting in some diner you can't remember while munching on a big-ass delicious burger with crispy fries across from the Naked Guy who's name you also cannot remember. You suddenly remember talking to him about his Berlin t-shirt, and about how he just returned from a trip there. But when Naked Guy starts yapping about that hysterical thing you allegedly said while you were ordering drinks in Barracuda, you find yourself laughing along cautiously, almost as if you're not hearing this humorous joke for the very first time. Meanwhile, when the hell did you go to Barracuda?

Even though you feel like shit, the two of you lie around in bed, making out and yapping about nothing for hours. This is mostly because you are terrified to get out of bed and face the day, but partly because you love feeling Naked Guy's naked body. It's beautiful. Yet much, much too young for you. Although you're super turned on, every time it gets a little bit hot and heavy, Naked Guy starts to talk. And talk. And talk. Mostly about himself. Which would actually be interesting if your heads (both above and below your shoulders) weren't pounding for different kinds of attention. Once your downstairs head realizes that there ain't no head gonna happen, you reluctantly get out of bed in order to take care of the head above your shoulders.

You're putting on your pants when Naked Guy points out a picture of his mother who is literally wearing a broach that says, "Jesus Loves You." That's when you notice the cross dangling around Naked Guy's neck and you immediately point to it while shaking your index finger all about while you ask in your best Karen Walker imitation, "What's up with that necklace thingie dangling around your neck, honey?" Naked Guy laughs and explains that he is rather religious and asks if you have a problem with it. You joke, "I have a bigger problem with jewelry on my men than I do with religion. And I haven't had any problems with religion ever since I gave up going to church for Lent."

Before you leave, Naked Jesus Guy gets up to write down his number on an envelope for you. Only before he writes it down, he decides to read the letter inside. It's from his best friend, and for some unknown reason, Naked Jesus Guy decides to recite it to you and your hangover. Although you're in too much pain to pay much attention, you are certainly struck by one sentence in particular that says, "I thank the Lord for bringing us together." All of this is just a bit too much for your hungover heathen ass to process, and suddenly, now that you are standing, you feel more than a bit woozy. You finger some toothpaste around your morning mouth before saying goodbye and escaping to the insanely bright, unbelievably unsympathetic, blinding afternoon sunlight.

It takes you a moment before you realize where you are. Let's face it, it really wouldn't surprise you if you were in Hackensack. But you're not. Although right about now you find yourself wishing that you had woken up in New Jersey, because you literally feel ill when you notice that you're smack in the middle of Blonde Beard's block. Looking over at his apartment building. Actually, you've been thinking about him a lot lately. Like a crazy amount. Like when you wake up alone in your bed (most) every morning. Like when you pass by one of the many restaurants you had some romantic meal in. Like so much that you've even been considering getting in touch with him lately. Just to see what the hell happened. Just to see if perhaps he's got regrets, too. After all, it's not like you fall in love everyday. But unfortunately, it's not like you've fallen out of love so quickly either. And here you are. In the West Village. Feeling like shit. Suddenly feeling pathetic and lonely as you begin your walk of shame over to the West 4th Street subway station. It's hot. And muggy. And extremely humid. And the weather is the least oppressive thing bombarding you while you stand on the same platform where your relationship with Blonde Beard ended. Will you ever get over him? And more importantly, why on earth are you more into him now than you have been for months? Why is the memory of Blonde Beard getting stronger instead of fading away? You are flooded with fond memories from the past that do nothing but make you want to cry while you wait for the F train. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Log Cabin Republican Fags...

...but you have been known to enjoy Log Cabin on your pancakes when you're out of pure maple syrup from the blue state of Vermont.

Speaking of the Green Mountain State where your Snow Bird Republican parents reside half the year, you're extremely proud of them for voting for Obama via absentee ballot in Florida! Woo-hoo!

And if you happen to be one of those California Tops then be sure to get off your Bottoms and go out and vote No on Prop Hate! The lines aren't that bad. You only had to wait for fifteen minutes. But you did get in a fight with a pushy old lady who tried to butt in front of you. Oh back off, you know that bitch was gonna vote for McCain! Anyway...

FIND YOUR LOCAL POLLING PLACE AT: maps.google.com/vote

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FAG FORWARD! You're Not One of Those Fags Who Disappears Without a Trace...

...but the idea of making Change of Address cards is way too daunting, so you decide to just blow it off. You don't even bother to send an email because there's just too much other crap to do! Your move is actually rather uneventful and happens much quicker than the estimate, yet somehow it costs more. That night, you meet up with the Boy Luck Club for a celebratory dinner in Chelsea, and although you are exhausted, the Boys are in a playful mood and the next thing you know Fat Albert is burning plastic straws with a candle and Half Share is dousing it with water. This, of course, turns into a full-fledged water fight and the four of you are soaked beyond recognition when you ask for the check. Rice Queen generously pays for everybody, which is a blessing because you couldn't afford it. Hell you can't afford anything since you bought furniture. For years you've depended on the kindness of roommates to furnish you, but now you have to go out and buy your own. And unfortunately for you, your taste is much fancier than it deserves to be.

Afterwards you head over to Therapy to meet your BFF for a very therapeutic beer bong which you take on your knees, mostly just to show off amongst all the gay boys who can't seem to funnel a beer without spewing Bud Lite. The applause helps you rise from your now wobbly knees, but even though you're light-headed you certainly notice the cute boy with the amazing body, leaning against the wall and smiling at you. Of course you start chatting him up, but unfortunately his body is more interesting than any of the conversation it produces. But that doesn't stop you from going home with him. Even though you just moved and should be dying to sleep in your own bed which has been in storage for a month, you're definitely in one of those moods where you'd rather wake up in someone else's.

One thing leads to another and the next thing you know, even though you're far from sleeping, you are definitely in his bed. Although you don't have a problem with your slutty self as you grab at the sexy boy's wiener through his jeans, his wiener dog certainly does. Although your trick locked his demented dachshund outside of the bedroom, the jealous dog is having a tantrum, barking, scratching, ramming his little body against the door with the hope of getting inside and ripping you to shreds as if you were an old Blondie song. Although Wiener Boy tells you to ignore his pup, you're having trouble following his orders. You're also kind of turned off by the way Wiener Boy can't seem to look at you. It almost seems as if he's not just ignoring his diabolical dachshund, but he's trying to tune you out as well! Wiener Boy's eyes are closed as if he's trying to imagine himself somewhere else, which has the immediate effect of making you imagine yourself somewhere else, too. Specifically in your own bed without some insanely jealous yappy dog whose mission in life is to cock-block you! So you get up and tell him you have to go.

The next day you begin another lost weekend on Fire Guyland with the Kinsey 8. Your first evening consists of cocktails at Low Tea, cocktails at High Tea, followed by cocks and tails at Daniel Nardicio's Panty Revolution in Cherry Grove. You wear a cute pair of green Diesel's and end up hitting it off with DJ Aaron Elvis who calls you his muse and plays Rihanna's "Don't Stop the Music" before stopping the music and clearing the stage for Lady Gaga and The Dazzle Dancers. You "Just Dance" until the Dazzle Dancers eventually ejaculate glitter which instantly attaches to your sweaty body as if you are made of Velcro.

After the Glitter grenade detonates, you run into the Endohottie who you had an odd coffee date with months ago. Although it never blossomed into anything, you kind of thought it might, and tonight seems like the perfect time to find out for sure. You're having a super nice chat, but eventually your bladder gets the best of you and you excuse yourself for the little boys room. But when you return, surprise-surprise, Endohottie is nowhere to be found. And trust yourself, you're drunk enough to conduct a thorough, yet pathetic search even though the little sobering voice inside of you says you should call it a night because the Endohottie is long gone. When you don't recognize anybody, you decide it's time to walk home. You walk along the beach because it would take another keg or two before you were drunk enough to brave the Meat Rack at 2:30am wearing nothing but a cute pair of Diesel undies.

You wake up surprisingly un-hung, and since it's a lovely day you decide to take an outdoor shower. Unfortunately the boys next door (who are all a far cry from being The Boy Next Door), race up to their roof and start giggling while gawking at your birthday suit while you desperately try to not drop the soap. After an afternoon split perfectly between the beach and the pool, you end up running into the Endohottie at Low Tea who gives you a big fake, "Hello!" You cut to the chase and say, "You disappeared last night," to which he responds with an even bigger and faker, "Oh, I'm sorry." But you're over it so you ask him with a snarky tone, "Are you really?" and then you walk over to the bar because you're much better at drinking games than mind games.

After that, it's all a blur. You may or may not make out with an Indian guy whose name you can't seem to remember, although you do have distinct memories of touching his delicious body and dancing a bit too close for comfort. The next day someone confirms this by saying, "Who was that Indian guy you were making out with?" only you have no idea so you just shrug. Later on you receive a text message from some unrecognizable number which says, "Was a pleasure. Even if you stormed off." Your first thought is that it was from Indian Guy, but now you're wondering if it might be from the Endohottie? Regardless, you don't respond.

The next day you are definitely Hung, but somehow make it to the beach with Rice Queen. Nothing much interesting happens beside some rubbernecking when a really hot guy in a beard walks by and the two of you keep making googlie eyes at one another. Beard Boy stops and turns around twice, yet ultimately keeps on walking. And when the clouds blow in, you quickly vote yourself off the island.

That night, you decide to place a Missed Connections posting on Craigslist to see if you can find Beard Boy. And the next morning you actually get a response! You ask the guy to send a photo so you can make sure it's the same person, but when he ignores your request you are convinced you are being taken for a ride by a crazy person. But since you have his email address, you quickly look him up on Facebook and unfortunately the Crazy Craigslist Boy is neither Beard Boy, nor your type. So, in lieu of sending a photo, when he asks you if the guy you saw was wearing Silver Converse, although you have absolutely no idea, you simply reply, "No," and disappear without a trace. However, the next time you check your inbox there's an email from the Daytripping Freeloader asking, "What happened to you? Why did you disappear? Did I do something to offend you?"

Oy. You're a bit surprised because it's not like you've heard from him since your impromptu trip to Boston, but you also haven't been sweating it either. So you respond, assuring the Daytripping Freeloader that he did absolutely nothing wrong, but you just decided that the long distance thing coupled with his recent break-up (you're nice enough not to use the word "rebound") have made you take two steps back. When he replies and says, "That's fine. I just wish you had been more upfront," you initially wonder how much more upfront you could have been? But ultimately you decide to let it go and just disappear into the endless task of unpacking moving boxes. Anyway...

FAG FORWARD! You're Not One of Those Fags Who Plays the Lottery...

...but you figure that the odds will eventually be in your favor with all the silly boys you date. Eventually you'll meet some worthy Mister... Right? Although it becomes obvious that the Daytripping Freeloader is not The One, yet just One Among the Many, you are happy that you followed through and schlepped up to Boston if only to figure out that he was definitely not The One that Got Away. Anyway.

You take the train to Providence, Rhode Island and find yourself staying in the most beautiful historic home that you've ever stepped foot into. And get this, your High School friend owns it! This summer's Bolter Reunion is a smash success, mostly because you all seem to pick right up where you left off. Hell, you've known each other since you were in the 8th Grade at Eastern Junior High School.

It's a beautiful day so you and the girls decide to do your cocktailing at the club. There's only one problem. You forgot your bathing suit. Unfortunately your friend's husband is more Straight Fat than Gay Fat, so borrowing from him is not an option. Your friend even suggests lending you her seven year old son's bathing suit, but you're not that Gay Thin either. Luckily you remember that your Speedo is packed away in your gym bag for those non-hungover days when you decide to swim laps. Let's just say that you make quite a splash amongst the Country Club Kids. Anyway.

After a lame Irish brunch in downtown Providence, the Bolters drop you off at the Greyhound bus station which ends up being a huge ordeal since you canceled the first leg of your Providence trip in order to get some nookie in Boston. After yelling through a thick piece of glass at a man who is so unqualified at his job that he doesn't even know how to use his push-to-talk microphone, you eventually get your ticket and board. This bus, however, is no Bolt Bus. You sit in traffic for hours and at 5:30pm the driver pulls over in New Haven (which is when you are supposed to arrive at Port Authority) and informs you that he has worked too much overtime this month and has called to find us another driver to complete the trip. Then he actually says that he has no idea when this new driver will arrive, nor has he received confirmation that a new driver is even coming! Luckily he has parked in the New Haven train station so you just hop off and race to catch the next MetroNorth train, vowing never to take the bus again. Anyway.

A few days later, the biggest day of your homeless life is finally here: Closing Day! Unfortunately, as with everything in life, they don't make it easy for you. You have to schlep out to Long Island on the train and walk two miles through the ominous Pineview Cemetery. You traipse along a highway with no sidewalks until you get to the lawyers office which is in the middle of absolutely nowhere. You have absolutely no idea why people refer to these god-forsaken places as Buttfuck, because one thing's for sure. There ain't no butt fucking going on out here. Ugh. You hate leaving the city. However, even given all these suburban obstacles, for the first time in your life you are somehow actually on time. But since no good deed goes unpunished, nobody else has arrived. So you take your time freshening up in the air conditioned bathroom, and then you wait. And wait. And wait. Your lawyer shows up fifteen minutes later. Annette Weining, your Real Estate Agent, shows up a half hour after that. But you all end up waiting for the Sponsor's Agent who shows up, get this, an hour and a half late! You, of course, give her the fish eye and refuse to speak or accept her apology when she offers you one. The only kind of offerings you'd consider at this point are financial. Or perhaps you'd consider discussing mortgage points.

Anyway. The amount of mistakes on the bank documents is mind boggling, but after signing your life away at least four thousand and nineteen times, after signing so many checks that you want to vomit from the Carpal Tunnel, you are now the proud owner of a room. In Queens. And although your friends have done nothing but teased you about your new less-desirable borough of Queens, you, my friend, feel like a Queen who just won fucking Lotto! Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Fags Who's Allowed to Vote No on Prop 8...

...but you would if you lived in California! Since you spend most of your free time day dreaming about your own imaginary wedding some day, the least you can do is tell your Blah-Blah-Blog posse to get out and VOTE NO ON PROP 8!

Even if you don't live in the Golden State, you can donate some of those hard earned gay dollars for a great cause that affects all Americans. Anyway...

FAG FORWARD! You're Not One of Those Fags Who Glosses Over Everything...

...but you are ridiculously behind in your Blah-Blah-Blog and it's just completely unacceptable. So buckle your seat belt boys, 'cause the next few entries are gonna be a little bit bumpy. Anyway...

You had a few therapeutic beers at Therapy with Rice Queen before schlepping over to the Yaz reunion concert! It was packed but you were not about to watch Ms. Moyet from the back of the boat. So you dragged Rice Queen through the crowd saying lies like, "I don't see them. Where did they say they'd be standing?" And you work your way to the front center of the stage. The show is phenomenal although the people around you (who you'll never see again) are annoyed.

Afterwards you and Rice Queen head to G and run into a few of the Daytripping Freeloader's housemates who are actually very nice even though you previously felt like they were born in a barn. You tell them that you've been chatting with the DF almost every day and that you're planning a visit to Boston soon. You also run into the San Francisco Treat who offers your homeless ass free range of his Greenwich Village apartment as he's leaving for California in the morning. You are ecstatic! But you are also drunk, because when you finally get back to Fat Albert's apartment (your current homo home) you spend over five minutes trying to unlock his door. Anyway...

A few days later you're about to fall asleep in front of your laptop late in the afternoon when suddenly you get a text that Wakes You Up Before You Go Go! Your new blog buddy, the Non-Party-Boy Party-Boy actually invites you last minute to the George Michael concert! You race home to shower and change and then meet NPBPB at his gorgeous Chelsea apartment where you all drink copious amounts of vodka before walking over to Madison Square Garden. Since NPBPB is verrrrry connected, you actually get to watch the show from a VIP Booth (courtesy of Rupert Murdoch) which is stocked with free liquor and delicious food! Afterwards your little group returns to the riff-raff reality and as you are exiting NPBPB's boyfriend spots a chubby George Michael look-a-like and NPBPB is so enamored that he actually races over and asks George Munch-All if he can touch his touched-up hair! Anyway...

You've had plans for months for a mini-High School Reunion with The Bolters in Providence, RI, but you amend your plan and take the internet-enabled Bolt Bus up to Boston the night before so you can see the Daytripping Freeloader. When you get there it's pouring rain and the Daytripping Freeloader greets you with a pop of his trunk which doesn't seem like the most chivalrous of acts.

He drives you back to his house which is huge and new and on the outskirts of the city. It feels like one of those model homes that nobody lives in and everything you say is echoed throughout his overly air-conditioned abode. You talk about getting dinner but the Daytripping Freeloader practically rapes you, which is fine, but when the poppers make their inevitable appearance, this time you pass on them as well as the inevitable migraine that will quickly follow. But after a few sniffs, the DF wants to have sex in the mirror, and honestly, you're feeling a bit Gay Fat. You agree, and end up making a big boy mess all over the bathroom floor (the DF never makes a mess. Actually, to this day he has never made a mess even though he claims that he loves to have sex. Apparently he just doesn't like to finish.) When you go to clean up after yourself he just throws a wash cloth over the dirty DNA as if it's a dead body and then pulls you into the shower. With his glasses on.

You get sushi take-out but he never takes it out of the Styrofoam containers, and then he starts telling you about how he has slept with 35 guys in the past six months in an attempt to fuck his way to happiness. He also tells you that he hasn't checked his ex's Manhunt emails in 53 days. What he doesn't tell you (but is glaringly "where-did-I-leave-my-sunglasses" obvious) is that he is rebounding like a super ball dipped in Flubber.

Eventually you go to bed and you're surprised when Mr. Twice-A-Day doesn't want to have sex, especially since he never got off. However, after hours of trying to fall asleep in the strange bed with your strange bedfellow, the Daytripping Freeloader wakes you up in the middle of the night with a serious of irritating gropes which you ignore for at least a half-hour before you finally have to whine, "I'm sooooooo tired." Luckily he gets up early to go to work and you get to bounce without having to have some drawn out, glossy goodbye with the rebounder. Anyway...

You’re Not One of Those Fags Who’s Into P.D.A....

...but you are always amazed and sometimes quite impressed by the gay boys who have the balls to share their dirty gay stuff with the world. Like the boys you stumble upon while taking a leisurely Saturday morning walk on the beach. Although you and your skin cancer just got back to civilization from Fire Guyland less than twenty-four hours ago, your BFF called to see if you wanted to take a day trip to Jones Beach and of course you said yes. However your shoulders seem to be protesting your life of leisure as they have recently raised their Terror Alert from Orange to Red.

Speaking of Terrorists, the P.D.A. boys on the nude beach are the gay equivalent of Suicide Bombers. They are literally fucking in broad daylight. Although the Top definitely has visible signs of advanced HIV, there are absolutely no visible signs of a condom. Anywhere. This becomes quite evident when the Top Terrorist pulls out, spits into his palm, and then lubes up for some more un-gloved love. And yes, you can see all of this because you are actually that close. The whole scene is just so upsetting that you cut your walk short and head back to your friends who you were trying to escape for a brief respite, mostly because they were rather drunk by the time you arrived. You, however, surprisingly Just Say No to an afternoon Corona, mostly because you know you have a long night ahead of you.

The plan is to head back to the Karaoke Nazi’s house to shower, then head over to Warm Up at PS1 in Long Island City for some hot dancing amongst the Hunky Hipster set, then it’s off to Brooklyn to celebrate COILIN’s graduation from the Columbia Doctorate program. It’s a banner three Borough day that will probably end with some bed spinning in Rice Queen #2’s lovely accommodation for your homeless ass. However, after escaping the Top Terrorist and finally making it back to your Bombed BFF and company, you seem to get the distinct feeling that you are not going to be included in the showering part of the plan. And after what your virginal eyes just saw, you’re feeling very, very dirty. So you figure it’s best to be clear with the Karaoke Nazi and you say in the form of a question, “Oh, I thought I was coming with you guys?” And she kind of gives you this lingering, surprisingly annoyed look as she says, “I have no idea about that. Do you want to come back to my place?” as if you are back in Middle School and she is one of those Mean Girls who takes semantics to a new and extremely irritating level. You really have no idea why your relationship has devolved into these annoying games, but you play along because you really do want to take a shower. So you say, “That would be great because I’d really like to wash up before PS1.” And she acquiesces with a simple, “Alright then.” And even though you are tempted to ask why she seems to hate you so much, you ultimately decide that you’re just really not all that interested so you just let it go.

Unfortunately, when it finally arrives, the Jones Beach beach bus is ridiculously overcrowded. Luckily you push your way to the front and get up enough steps to ding your metrocard. Your friends, however, miss this opportunity and tell you they will grab the next bus. However, by the time the train arrives they are nowhere to be found. You call your BFF for their 411, and wonder if, just in case the train arrives before they do, if you should just head over to the Karaoke Nazi’s house and shower before them. His hesitation speaks volumes, until he finally suggests that you just wait on the train platform for them even though they have also missed the next two buses because of overcrowding issues. So when the train does come you make the executive decision to get on the train and just head back to Manhattan to wash up and drop off your beach chair so you won’t have to lug it around all night. And honestly, you’re thrilled to miss any further patronizing drama with the Karaoke Nazi that might ensue over using too much shampoo or hanging your towel incorrectly.

On the train back you receive another call from the Daytripping Freeloader, which is sweet and you are happy to have the opportunity to complain about your ridiculous beach day, but that’s mostly because you are running out of things to say to the boy who has been calling you at least once, every single day since he left Fire Guyland. Being a bit phone phobic, you never really know what to say during such frequent conversations with a veritable stranger. So your chats tend to be a lot of daily recaps that lack much of a spark. You do, however, appreciate his obvious intention to not lose momentum, which is usually the kiss of death in any long term non-relationship.

Your BFF and Company are at least an hour late to PS1 but luckily you time your arrival to meet them perfectly. Unfortunately the place is an absolute zoo, and this year’s Public Farm theme makes you feel more like a sheep than a patron of the arts as you wait in a beer line that snakes it’s way throughout the entire outdoor installation. It takes more than a half hour to get one beer. And after just a few beers you find yourself extremely late to the Brooklyn Bash.

Everybody but your BFF bails on the party, which is fine because you had been feeling like a fifth wheel all day. The two of you hop on the G train and schlep over to Fort Greene and the graduation party is raging by the time you arrive. It’s really sweet to greet your thirtysomething friend as Dr. Doc and you toast him over and over again until eventually you find yourself sprawled out in his backyard hammock making out with some Brooklyn Bald Boy. Although you have no intention of making a public spectacle of yourself (you never do...), you can’t say you’re that surprised when the other guests actually throw a glass of water on you from the second floor balcony in order to cool you down. Anyway...

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

...but you thoroughly enjoy reading about them, so when you finally get to the last page of The Fountainhead, you feel like bragging about this major accomplishment of having A.D.D. and actually finishing a 700 page book! Only nobody's around because you are sitting on the beach alone and all your friends have long since gone back to the city because they have real jobs and actual homes. You actually started reading this book long before you decided to buy the apartment in Jackson Heights, and who would know that it would take longer to renovate 500 square feet than it would to read 700 pages? Of dense literature. With a very small font. You certainly didn't. Anyway.

Luckily your homeless life on Fire Guyland is coming to an end tomorrow, and then you and your pre-cancerous tan can head back to that other gay island that puts the "man" in Manhattan. Your friend Rice Queen #2 is headed to (surprise, surprise) Asia for a week and he has graciously and generously offered you to house-sit. But today you have nothing to do but pat yourself on the back for reaching the end of an endless book and wait for Low Tea.

Luckily Thursdays are the day when A-Share Boys swap their houses with the B-Share Boys so you are thrilled to finally see some cute new faces, however, Low Tea ends up being somewhat of an empty morgue, only, instead of formaldehyde, these boys veins are flowing with Finlandia. High Tea is even less busy, but you end up meeting a guy who, although not your type, is certainly very nice and entertaining. Hell, let's face it, he's talking to you and you are starving for some oral stimulation. Between your shitty cell service and your shoddy plans, you probably haven't spoken a word to another homo-sapien since the Kinsey 8 abandoned ship on Tuesday. Somehow it doesn't seem like this boy is bragging when he tells you that he writes pop songs that you've danced to and owns bars that you've drank at. A successful writer with unlimited access to booze! What's not to like? But when Pop Slinger buys you a drink, he orders himself a bottle of water. Perhaps his success came after his sobriety set in? Hmmmmm. You ponder this puzzling problem for a millisecond before taking a sip of your Planters Punch.

You start chatting with Pop Slinger about how happy you are to be voting yourself off the island tomorrow! Back to civilization! You've never been so excited to see straight people before! But when Pop Slinger says that he's also leaving tomorrow on the noon Fairy Ferry, you inform him that he should take either the 10am or 2pm, as the noon boat has over an hour wait for the train connection. This is when Pop Slinger explains that he actually has a limo coming for his friends and him, and then asks if you'd like to hitch a ride with them. You thank him for the incredible offer, but explain that you'd like to get in some beach time before schlepping home. Pop Slinger is nice enough to hand you his card, just in case you change you mind, and then he invites you to dinner. Although you've thoroughly enjoyed chatting with him, you don't want to give him the wrong impression by accepting his offer, so you tell him a little white lie that you already have dinner plans.

As you stumble home, you wind up running into your next-door neighbor who, unlike your quarter-Cher renting ass, actually owns his beautiful beach house with his boyfriend. And when he invites you to dinner, you figure it's the neighborly thing to happily and hungrily accept his invitation. However sometime during a delicious dinner of gourmet burgers, you realize that ground round is not the only meat being grilled tonight. You find yourself in the hot seat when a few questions reveal that your friendly neighbor's boyfriend went back to the city today and, when his knee starts rubbing up against yours, you realize that Neighbor Boy must be feeling a bit neglected. Although wedging yourself into another couple's messy marriage is not your cup of tea, you find yourself between a rock and a hard place. A really hard, very attractive place.

It quickly becomes uncomfortably obvious that Neighbor Boy wants to borrow more than a cup of your sugar. Although he obviously wants to Love Thy Neighbor, his ulterior motives are as veiled by nothing more than the flimsy piece of Saran Wrap which he uses to wrap up the left-overs. Neighbor Boy isn't really all that into you, he's just really into having sex with you. This becomes ridiculously obvious when Neighbor Boy starts taking off his clothes and literally yanking you toward his hot tub. But you start to think about your romantic evening with the Daytripping Freeloader. With him there was potential. With him there still is potential. With Neighbor Boy there is nothing more than a one night stand followed by a summer of awkward "Hellos" on the beach. At Low Tea. On the boardwalk. On the ferry. Probably only awkward for you, yet awkward nonetheless.

Unfortunately by the time you have this realization you are somehow giving Neighbor Boy a blow-job. What can you say? He took his clothes off to get in the hot tub, you resisted, yadda-yadda-yadda, and now his dick somehow ended up in your mouth. Hey, it happens. No big whoop. But you kind of push him away and stand up, and, without going into your whole psychology, you simply tell Neighbor Boy that you really have to go home. This is when he calls you a tease. Although he's right on some level, you definitely feel like you were slightly seduced into becoming the tease, however you're really not interested in having a whole ridiculous conversation about it. You just feel the way you feel and there's no point in trying to defend yourself because you know you're never going to change Neighbor Boy's mind and honestly you could really care less what he thinks of you. In fact, you're 99.9% sure that he's just calling you a tease in order to guilt you into finishing off what he made you start. Funnily enough, before you leave the awkward situation, Neighbor Boy hands you his card which either means he's not that upset or perhaps that he actually likes being teased. Regardless, you say goodnight.

The next morning you wake up to a frantic text from Rice Queen #2 who has just realized that his flight to India leaves two hours earlier than he thought. So in order to meet up with him so he can give you the keys to his apartment, you need to leave on the 10am ferry. Unfortunately when you receive his text it's 9:55am. And since the noon boat has a terrible train connection, you find yourself with no other opportunity to get home so you end up giving Pop Slinger a frantic call and ask if you can take him up on his offer to tag along in his Limo back to the city. Luckily, Pop Slinger says yes and before you know it your homeless ass is cruising down the Long Island Expressway in a stretch limo while sipping champagne and singing along to that old Pet Shop Boys song, "Opportunities (Let's Make Lots of Money)". Anyway...