You're not the type of fag who Hates Children...

...but you're also not the type of Uncle who likes his nieces and nephews just because you're related. Would it kill your brother and sister-in-law to say "no" once in a while? Apparently, it would.

After a grueling four hour drive to IDon'tLoVermont, you schlep through the door with your luggage, skis, and bags full of Christmas presents for the ungrateful brats. God forbid someone should help you, or pause the Tivo long enough to say "Hello," but you no longer have unrealistic expectations. Having no expectations from your brother's family seems to lessen the appalling reality of your non-existent relationship with your closest non-relative (thank God you were adopted.) However, even with no expectations you are completely floored when your six year-old niece glares at you as you and your crap waddle through the kitchen. Satan's Spawn looks up at you and the first words out of her mouth are, "I hate you! You're stupid!" Your jaw drops along with your roller bag and both hit the floor as Satan's Mommy asks from the couch, "Honey, what did you just say?" in a tone that's way too sing-songy for a child that needs to be smacked. But you are completely unprepared for her half-assed (yet parentally accepted) response: "I was just talking to my music box..."

Her fucking music box? In the words of Nell Carter (R.I.P.) Gimme a (fucking) Break. Everybody believes the little bitch and as far as you're concerned, it's war. But first things first, so you make yourself a cocktail. Anyway.

You're not the type of fag who Likes to Shop...

...especially when it's for other people. When it comes to the Holidaze, you buy everything you can online. Hell, you haven't even set foot into a grocery store since Fresh Direct began their beta test, but that has more to do with the fact that they'll carry cases of Diet Pepsi up six flights of stairs and aren't allowed to complain when you give them a "nominal" tip.

But you digress. Of course you leave all your Christmakah shopping to the weekend before Christmas, and, as usual, so does everybody else. So you and your hangover are schlepping around the city to buy lousy gifts for lousy people who you don't even like. People like your brother. And your evil niece. Over Thanks4nothing-giving your niece came up with a new nickname for you (her only uncle without a police record) and she called you "Doorknob!" all weekend long in the most derogatory, venomous way that her six-year-old vocabulary could muster. So, being the good uncle that you are, you decide to swing by Home Depot to pick up a doorknob for the little biatch.

You're schlepping your shopping bags down 23rd Street when you recognize a familiar face headed your way. Your first instinct is to smile even before you realize that it's your old Boyfriendster from years ago before everybody migrated from Friendster to MySpace; and long before everybody abandoned MySpace for the ubiquitous Facebook. You're still happy to see the Boyfriendster (even though he's the one who dumped you, over the phone no less) and you give him a big, dimpled, friendsterly, "Hey!" as he catches your eye and mouths an inaudible "hi." His eyes dart down to the sidewalk with copious amounts of embarrassment as he passes by. Just like that.

You stop in your tracks and literally do a double-take because you've never been so dissed before! You almost scream out, "You can't even say hello? You're the one who dumped me!" but he probably wouldn't even notice because he's practically got his eyes closed and his fingers in his ears in order to avoid you. So you just stare at him as he shuffles down the street, away from you, whispering into his friend's ear as he leaves you in an even shittier mood than when you began your shopping.

But that's when the boy next to your ex-Boyfriendster slowly turns back around and stares at you and everything begins to make sense. Suddenly you realize that you've actually slept with the Boyfriendster's boyfriend. You chuckle to yourself because you realize that you have become Chelsea's version of Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon. But since you're only One Degree of Separation, you're more of a Lucky Pierre. Anyway.

You're not the type of fag who hearts a Drag Queen...

...but you are gay, after all, so avoiding them ends up being extremely difficult. As far as you're concerned, lipsynching, in and of itself, is not a talent. Nor is lipsticking. But Miss Richfield 1981 is not your typical, tired old run-of-the-mill D.Q. Oh no, no, no. Miss Richfield 1981 is a Drag Goddess. And you are her groupie. So you and your friends go to see her Christmas Show and, as usual, she has you in tears from start to finish. And we're talking the good kind of tears, not the "I'd-rather-be-slitting-my-wrist" kind of tears that a typical performance by Shequida can induce.

Anyway. A good time is had by all and afterwards everybody is hungry so you end up going to get a bite at HK since it's around the corner from the Zipper Theater. Your poor ass orders a $9.95 hamburger and an $8 glass of swill (of course it's a gay burger sans bun, and you substitute salad for the pommes-frites, bien sur.) However, when the bill is split, somehow you're expected to cough up $45, obviously to subsidize someone's three course meal which included the $25 fish special along with appetizers, desserts F.T.T. (For The Table) and a steady stream of elaborate cocktails that you couldn't even pronounce. But you digress.

After the sticker-shock from the meal wears off, you get a text from your B.F.F. who's out having gay cocktails at The Ritz. And, more importantly, he tells you, "You should come. It's cute." You inform your friends about the cuteness factor and you all decide to grab a drink. In fact, you're almost there when your B.F.F. sends another text that says, "The Writer is here..." and your heart instantly drops. Or perhaps that was your hamburger? Whatever it is, you know it ain't good because what it means is that you're obviously still hung up over The Writer.

You met him on Connexion in September and had a week-long whirlwind romance that actually had you telling your friends idiotic things like, "I think I'm falling in love," and "I think this is the one." Your friends, of course, just rolled their eyes as if you were the little boy who cried wolf. Anyway. After one blissful week, The Writer went on a business trip, and you went away on a two-week vacation to South America before he got back. So instead of whoring around in Rio de Janiero and Buenos Aires, you pined away for The Writer and couldn't wait to get back. The whole thing, of course, imploded before you even got over your jet-lag, and it actually left you quite heart-broken. And now, two months later, you're about to run into him.

You freak out and think about bailing, but then you ask yourself, "What would Miss Richfield 1981 do?" You realize that she would face her demons and belittle them cleverly along the way so you decide to go through with it. After all, you know that you're gonna run into The Writer at some point, and at least this way you can be mentally prepared so you won't break into tears and run out of the bar with mascara dripping down your flushed cheeks.

You see The Writer as soon as you walk in the bar. And he's with someone. Of course. Your friend orders drinks and then everybody wants to do a Fruit Loop so you follow them toward the back. It's packed and The Writer is leaning against the wall and, of course, traffic stops as soon as you are standing in smack in front of him. You want to let him get a whiff of what he's missing out on, but now you feel like a fool, so you turn toward him, nonchalantly of course, and when you catch eyes you say, "Hey." Just like that. Emotionless. No smile, no dimples, no nothing. Even though you're dying inside your face exposes only indifference. The Writer says, "Hello," and then asks if you are going home which you deem to be a ridiculous question. "No," you tell him as you raise your brand new cocktail, "I just got here." Your subtext reeks of "Duh," as the crowd begins to push you toward the back. Someone else starts chatting with you even though you don't hear a word he says because you are too busy wondering how, after all these years, you could have fallen in love with the wrong person. And then you sip your gay cocktail as you wonder how many more years will have to pass before you can fall in love with the right person while you scout the crowded bar for someone way cuter than The Writer who you can have a locationship with tonight. Anyway.

You're not the type of fag who Sneak Dates...

...but sometimes, even with the best of intentions, you find yourself in a state of dating-overlap. It's not like you intend to juggle boys, it's just that sometimes your relationships tend to be in different stages of their dating-lifespans. Anyway.

Last week when you and the Boy Luck Club crashed a Random Christmas Party your only ulterior motive was a night full of free booze. The host's apartment was decorated super cute (as were his guests) and although the decor didn't involve any mistletoe, kisses were definitely invoked due to a plethora of Absolut-a-toe. Things with The Cuddler seemed to be wrapping up so you didn't even think twice when the Cello-Playing Corporate Lawyer started chatting you up. He was cute, funny and so tall that he made you feel like your own little mini-you. It was nice to feel so petite, especially since you've been feeling like a holiday-heffer. So you went home with him. Is that so terrible? One simple ho-ho-hookup does not a Holiday-Ho make. Especially when the Ho in question has Whiskey Dick.

It was nice. You and The Cellist exchanged numbers and he actually calls. So you set up a dinner date and meet at Bombay Talkie. Luckily, you two have enough talkie of your own to get through the dinner, this time without the Absolut-a-toe. When you finish you decide to head back to his place. The Cellist is about to hail a cab, but it's such a nice night that you suggest walking up Ninth Avenue. The streets are bustling and you're yapping about something or other when you look up and notice a large Hellsea Boy Posse smack in front of you. One of the boys catches your eye, possibly because he's cute, or more probably because he's staring at you. Your eyes lock for a moment and that's when you realize that you've met this Hellsea Boy before. You're trying to place him when he totally gives you the Evil Eye. The Cellist is still blah-blah-blahing about something to which you are no longer paying attention because now you are racing through the Ghosts of Boyfriends Past in a vain attempt to recocknize Evil Eye Boy.

And that's when it bitch-slaps you like an angry Drag Queen. You never slept with Evil Eye Boy. However, you do know him because The Cuddler introduced you on Saturday night at the xxx-mas Party. Although you have a nasty habit of forgetting everybody, you were uncharacteristically sober that evening and you remember this boy in particular. You remember him because he was so officious about how great it was to finally meet you; how he had heard so so so much about you. Yadda-yadda-yadda.

Evil Eye Boy passes and neither of you say hello because you both know that you're so busted. But then your mind starts playing party-tricks and you begin to wonder if The Cuddler might have been part of the Hellsea Boy Posse? Did he catch you on your Sneak Date, too? Should you turn around? You decide it's better not to look back because that somehow seems more incriminating. Ugh. So you just keep walking up Ninth Avenue and curse yourself for not taking a fucking cab.

Later on, afterwards, when you're trying to fall asleep next to The Cellist who's lying so far away from you that you feel like two straight guys separated by an empty homoseat in a movie theater, later on, you can't stop thinking about The Cuddler. More specifically, you find yourself wishing you were sleeping in his bed instead. Anyway.

You're not the type of fag who Plays Games...

...but you are usually well aware when you're being played. Over the years you've developed a few dating Do's and Dont's that have served you well:

1. Be sure your words and your actions send out similar messages.
2. Say what you mean, mean what you say, and try not to be mean when you say it.
3. And never ever play games.

But sometimes, especially when it comes to dating boys, things can get a bit hairy. But isn't that why God invented Laser Hair Reduction? Anyway.

Today is The Cuddler's birthday and you've put a lot of thought into it how to approach this delicate dating dilemma. You want to wish him a happy birthday, but since you fear your time together is nearing its conclusion, you definitely don't want to come off as an over-zealous well-wisher. Since you don't see this relationship as heading anywhere serious, you decide, in advance, that email is the best mode for this particular communication pickle. So you email him a simple mid-morning message that simply says, "Happy Birthday! Hope you have a great day!" A little lame, especially from a writer, but hell, it's the thought that counts, right? And meanwhile, isn't it supposed to be a little lame?

The Cuddler responds pretty much instantly and says, "Thanks for thinking of me. It's been nice getting to know you these past few weeks and I'm looking forward to knowing you better." You take a lot of time composing your careful reply and say, "You're very sweet. What's the plan for tomorrow?" And that's that. A day passes and you don't know what to do. You still don't even know where the dinner is being held. Now you have a real dating conundrum. Should you call to find out the location of the dinner that you don't want to go to? Or should you just let it go? And meanwhile, did The Cuddler ever receive your email? Will you come off as The Asshole? And, more importantly, do you care if you do?

Finally, twenty-nine hours later, The Cuddler calls you a few hours before the dinner and immediately apologizes because he has to cancel his birthday dinner tonight because, get this, "Something Suddenly Came Up" at work. You refrain from telling him that you've seen this Brady Bunch episode, but he rushes off the phone because it's a crazy day at work. Blah-blah-blah. You don't really believe The Cuddler, but is he lying? Is he just being protective? Is he mad about your lame email? Is he really cancelling the Birthday Dinner? Or is he just cancelling you? The whole thing seems designed to confuse you (most likely by his other friends going to the Birthday Dinner.) Are you being played? Anyway.

You're not the type of fag who hearts Sunday Brunch...

...but you're definitely not the type to turn down a Mimosa. And, thankfully, you don't even have to wait outside in some horrible line with, quel horreur, children, because you're going to a friend's apartment for a mandatory, cocktail-infused, mandatory Sunday meeting of the Boy Luck Club.

You wake up in Hellsea, more specifically in The Cuddler's arms, and you freak out when you open one surprisingly non-hungover eye and realize that it's already noon. Not only don't you have time to go home and accessorize, you barely have enough time to shower and put on last night's outfit, which, thankfully, is actually semi-appropriate for daylight. Well, appropriate enough for a gay brunch with the Boy Luck Club.

You race over to your friend's loft during a Nor'easter (meanwhile, you wish someone would explain exactly why you're not allowed to pronounce the 'th'?) but all your friends have long since beaten you there. The Host immediately pours you an Eggnog (which you protest until he retrieves the container and proves that it is, indeed, low-cal Lite Eggnog.) You sip on that during your annual B.L.C. Holiday Porn Swap. You all nibble on bagels, lox and whitefish salad, but switch to Mimosas as the conversation turns to proper Manhunt nettiquette. One of your HTML-challenged friends switches the topic to who's naughty and who's nice on Craigslist. This is followed by a heated debate over when rimming is, and is not, appropriate. Eventually the B.L.C. comes to a consensus and you agree that rimming is strictly "we-just-met-and-haven't-shared-a-bathroom-yet" behavior, which, on the relationship time-line will last just about as long as Public Hand Holding. But then someone pulls out a shiny object and you all ooooh and aaaah over how easy it is to scroll through a portable porn collection with the swipe of a finger on someone's new iPod Touch.

When the champs is all gone, The Host cracks open a bottle of Stoli O' and toasts the Boy Luck Club with a simple, "Here's to being gay!" You all clink glasses as someone wonders aloud, "What do you think straight people talk about during brunch?" The whole Boy Luck Club thinks about this foreign concept for maybe a nanosecond, and then with a collective shrug you all move on to discuss the puzzling conundrum of the life-philosophy of a Bug Chaser. Anyway.

You're not the type of fag who gets off hearing the Right Words from the Wrong Guy...

...but the romantic in you doesn't hate hearing them either. Neither does the narcissist. Meanwhile, you made tentative plans with The Cuddler to meet at one of his friend's Christmas parties after you finished with one of your friend's Bowling Birthday Parties in Williamsburg. You hate going to Billburg, mostly because it feels like Logan's Run and, unfortunately for you and Logan, both of you are, well, let's just say thirtysomething. The Bowling Party is fun even though there are so many damn hipsters that the party breaks up long before the four-hour queue to bowl does.

Although your après bowling plans were tentative, The Cuddler texts you several times during the non-bowling-Bowling Party and asks when you're coming to Chelsea to meet him? You reply to ask if his xxx-mas party is fun (sans double entendre, bien sur) and he instantly responds, "Would be better if you were here..."

Wow. Just wow. The Cuddler just said exactly the right thing. Only your heart didn't melt. Or skip a beat. Although you're not too surprised, lately you have definitely been craving these kinds of heart ailments. You want to be one of those sickening couples holding hands on the street who are so desperately in love that they don't even notice the gay-bashing thugs screaming, "Fags!" from the safety of their Escalades complete with gold-plated New Jersey licence plate frames.

But what if your heart could skip a beat for The Cuddler? Maybe you're just too self-involved, too up-your-own-ass to notice your heart palpitations? Maybe if you went to his friend's xxx-mas party you'd finally realize you felt differently? Besides you have nothing to lose because Brooklyn Bowling is over, and you have to take the L train which conveniently stops a block from the party. So you text The Cuddler and tell him you're on your way, to which he gives yet another exactly right response: "I miss you." So you schlep your defrosting heart through the frozen sleet and into the Bedford Avenue station where you quickly run past Logan's little hipster brother's who's barfing up chunks of tofu and good times onto the platform while his drunk girlfriend rubs his back. Now that's what you call love.

Luckily, the Manhattan bound train comes quickly and the xxx-mas boys buzz you up without much of an interrogation. Rihanna's seductive S.O.S. guides you to the right, gay party but when you open the door you are instantly shocked by a completely foreign, almost out-of-body experience: you are much too sober to be at this party. You consider making an about-face, but it's too late; The Cuddler catches your eye and his eyes light up in a way that expose either a skipped heartbeat or the fact that he's so wasted that both eyes can no longer blink synchronously. Or possibly both. ?

The xxx-mas drunks surround you as The Cuddler gives you a big kiss and begins to introduce you proudly to all of his friends who are saying things like: "It's so nice to finally meet you!" and "We've heard so much about you!" But the real kicker comes in the form of a simple, "You two make such a cute couple!" Although these compliments should make you feel good, they don't. In fact, they freak you out so much that you begin to panic. Have you finally become one of those gay men who's more concerned about his abs than he is about having a real relationship?

You don't want to think about this right now nor do you want a cocktail, so you tell The Cuddler that you're tired and he happily begins saying his goodbyes under the assumption that you are going home together. You're not sure what you want yet, but by the time you hit the slushy street, you realize that he's way too drunk to get home alone so you wind up hailing a taxi during the hail storm and escort him home.

The Cuddler is making Z's by the time you finish brushing your teeth with the travel-sized toothbrush you keep in his bathroom, so you pull his shoes and pants off and squeeze into his bed so you can spoon your drunk friend like you're two puppies trying to stay warm. You feel a bit ambivalent kiss the back of his neck because you realize that the guy who eventually does melt your heart better cuddle as good as this sweet boy does. Anyway.

You're not the type of fag who's a Size Queen...

...but you do believe in truth in advertising, especially when it comes to online dating profiles. In fact, over the years you've been known to brag about your skills at weeding through the profile lies of boys who misrepresent themselves. You've gotten good at scouring photographs for the twentith century artifacts (leg warmers, Flowbee haircuts, Gloria Vanderbilt jeans) found in the background of photos that some tricky old man scanned into his profile because his twenty-first century JPEG's don't warrant nearly as much attention.

But there are no red flags in the Nice Jewish Boy's profile who just wrote and asked if you'd like to meet for coffee. He lives in the 212, his pictures are cute (and current) and his profile is not only succinct, but everything is actually spelled correctly (it's the little things in life...) His profile even has a funny little blurb about how his potential dates shouldn't be alcoholics because he's looking for a sober driver. You chuckle to yourself as you email the Nice Jewish Spell Checker back and tell him enough with this coffee crap already! You'd be into meeting for a real drink. But you inform him that Manischewitz is an aquired taste and that he shouldn't be offended when your Irish Catholic liver drinks him under the table. Although you certainly can't be his sober driver, you promise to hail his drunk ass a cab before you go out for a nightcap.

Your correspondence is quick and easy and plans are made right away. You decide to grab a drink at East of Eighth before you trek over to Brooklyn for a Bowling Birthday Party--you learned long ago (the hard way) that it was absolutely imperative to schedule these Match.com meet-n-greets immediately prior to other evening plans so that you always have a built-in out. Even when you don't...

Later that evening, you're running a bit late because of poorly advertised Weekend Subway Advisories, so you text the Nice Jewish Spell Checker and say you're running a few minutes late. He T9's you back, sans spelling errors, and informs you that the bar is crowded but that he's scored a little table in the back. It all sounds very romantic. Could he be the one?

When you arrive you recognize him instantly because, surprise-surprise, he actually looks like his profile photos. Cute. He smiles and you wave to him as you make your way through the crowded bar. You appologize for being late as you extend your arm and introduce yourself. That's when the Nice Jewish Spell Checker stands up, shakes your hand, and offers to get the first round of drinks. Only his movement is barely perceptible because when he stands up, he's pretty much the same exact height he was when seated. You quickly realize that the grossly overrated 5' 7" claims made by the 5' 2" liar standing (sitting?) in front of you would definitely slip through the cracks of the Microsoft Word's Spell Check. Although he can definitely spell, the Nice Jewish Spell Checker is actually in dire need of a Fact Checker. Or at the very least, a non-metric ruler... Anyway.

You're not the type of fag who hearts the Birthday Dinner...

...in fact, you loathe the Birthday Dinner. It's such a blatant violation of the unspoken rules and regulations of the ridiculous privileges that New Yorkers get away with on their birthdays. Chelsea Boys especially tend to use their special day as a way to sucker their friends into paying for ridiculously expensive (surprisingly carb-intensive) meals at restaurants that they'd never otherwise frequent. One day each year these Gluttonous Birthday Offenders put down their beat-up Zagats and dust off their Michelin Guides to choose three-star restaurants that no one in their circle of friends can neither pronounce nor afford. But this is not the worst part. The real kick-in-the-balls comes when all these Gray's Papaya paupers gather together in front of so much unnecessary silver cutlery that even the 700-thread count tablecloth becomes unworthy of mention; once the Maître d' hands out les menus qui sont écrit en français; once your MetroCard carrying friends begin the annual Birthday scavenger hunt for the most expensive dishes on le menu: appetizers, amuse bouches, starters, hors d'œuvres, entrees, side dishes, desserts, desserts for the table, desserts for the fucking table next to you. You know you're in trouble when your poorest, most unemployed artist friend (who, by the way, once told you that H&M is way too expensive) asks the Sommelier to describe the nuances of a rare vintage Château Neuf du Pape. That's when you reach down between your legs and realize you should've worn your protective ice-hockey cup instead of those cute 2xist boxer briefs because the liquor alone will eclipse the already exorbitant food bill. You begin to wonder if there's such a thing as a second mortgage for a rent-stabilized sixth floor walk-up?

But you digress.

You're on the phone with The Cuddler trying to come up with a free evening to get together when suddenly you find yourself caught between a stale baguette and a hard-cover Zagat Survey. You stammer when The Cuddler catches you off-guard and invites you, surprise-surprise, to his Birthday Dinner. You kind of deserve it though, after the whole Match.com wink debacle the other day, even though he took your vengeful, "I-caught-you-on-Match.com" evil-intentioned wink as more of a "ha-ha-aren't-I-cute?" playful sort of thing. You immediately want to throttle your straight girlfriend who convinced you it was too cruel, even for you, to break up with this boy moments before he was another year closer to gray pubic hair. But the absolute worst part of this scenario is that you and your big mouth already told The Cuddler that you were free. Anyway.

You're not the type of fag who dates Suburban Boys...

...but it's slim pickings when you sign onto Match.com. You are shocked to learn that 206 people have viewed your profile during the past 10 hours--not too shabby for a good night's sleep! However, you're a bit overwhelmed to find your inbox overflowing with “winks,” until, upon further inspection, you realize that you seem to appeal to a demographic of overweight, fiftysomething Nebraskans. You being to wonder about the odds of an entire state developing an online eye-twitch until you notice the email from a cute, age-appropriate boy:

“We've got a high compatibility rating. Who am I to argue with a simplistic dating algorithm? I think a date would be fun for both of us, maybe, if you're interested.”

You’re impressed. Not only did he use the word ‘algorithm’ correctly, but he also spelled it right. His pictures could be cuter, but then again, so could yours. You learned long ago to stay away from the professionally shot Black and Whites as well as the blurry shots with hats and/or sunglasses. The profile is actually decent with nary a hint of Serial Killer to be found. But that’s when you notice his fatal flaw. It is right there, as plain as day, mocking you for not noticing it instantly. Algorithm Boy is from Westchester…

You quickly picture yourself doing your walk of shame on an overly lit MetroNorth train and it ain’t pretty. You have, however, lived in the boroughs and you have experienced this geographic prejudice first hand. So you decide to give Algorithm Boy a chance, even though the odds are slim-to-none that you’ll be meeting him for a drink in White Plains. You write back and forth all day (which is strictly against your Match.com communication policy), but you let it slide because he gives good email. He works in the city and asks to meet for coffee after work (which is strictly against your cocktail policy), but you both agree to play it by ear and call him when you’re finished your errands which just happen to be located a bit too conveniently to his office.

As promised, you rush to finish your errands and call around 5pm and hear Algorithm Boy’s voice for the first time, which seems vaguely annoyed. “Is there a problem?” you ask. “No. Not really. You just said you’d call at five o’clock.” You look at your watch and it’s 5:12. Danger Will Robinson! Danger! You take the high road and politely remind him that you were “playing it by ear” even though you distinctly remember using the term 5-ish when making your plan. Algorithm Boy decides that he’s still up for it, and when you ask him where he wants to meet he actually suggests, “How about the Starbucks in Grand Central?” You almost suggest getting the coffee to-go and meeting him on the MetroNorth train because God forbid this suburban commuter should stray two steps out of his way to accommodate you! But you say, “I’m on 22nd and Park. Maybe you know of a place a little bit south and we can split the difference?” But, of course, he doesn’t. Algorithm Boy tells you to meet him at the Information Booth at Grand Central Station which is preposterous considering it’s rush hour, but somehow you bite your tongue before it says, “Why don’t we just meet at McDonald’s in Times Square?”

You roll your eyes and get on the 6-train at 23rd and you wait and wait and wait. You get claustrophobic as the train fills up with rush hour sardines until the conductor apologizes for “Signal problems at Grand Central.” You picture the signal problems as giant red flags as you get off the subway and begin to walk. You call Algorithm Boy who is already waiting for you at the Information Booth, and he sighs as you tell him about your latest dilemma. You tell him that you will take a bus if one comes, otherwise you’ll have to walk. At this point there is no way you are paying for a taxi to rush to this date.

You are sweaty and annoyed by the time you arrive at Grand Central during the peak of the evening commute. You call each other’s cells and eventually locate Algorithm Boy who, upon first glance, you know, with absolutely no uncertainty, that you will never sleep with him. Anyway.

You're not the type of fag who hearts Match.com...

...but you are the type who hearts a sale, and the promotional email in your inbox practically begs you to come back for $5.75 a month if you sign up for three. In fact, it's such a bargain that the fact that you are currently dating The Cuddler never even crosses your mind. You quickly update your dusty profile, add a few new cute photos and gulp ominously as you change your profile from "Hidden" to "Visible."

You begin your initial Match search by entering some specific age, weight and zip code criteria in order to whittle down your Mr. Wrongs to a more manageable list of 500 or so ineligible bachelors. Apparently every single gay man in Manhattan between 31 and 41 is athletic and toned. Including Fat Grandpa from Bayonne who somehow winds up at the tippity-top of your list of liars. You scroll deftly through the inventory as you mutter, "You get what you pay for," but the words are barely out of your mouth when you first notice him. Your jaw slackens and your heart skips a beat. Not only does The Cuddler have a profile on Match.com, but he's actually online at this very moment!

You’re not new to dating. You’re not even new to online dating. You even read that damn book, He's Just Not That Into You, but only because your friend Liz co-wrote it. But this is a dating hurdle unlike any you've ever experienced. You consider calling Liz for help, but you quickly remember her one fatal flaw when it comes to dating advice: Even after Oprah's Book Club made her a millionaire, Liz still can't keep a boyfriend. So you find yourself asking yourself one of life’s most pertinent questions: "What would Carrie Bradshaw do?" Although you've seen every Sex and the City episode more often than old Brady Bunch reruns, you still find yourself utterly stumped. But before you can lisp, "She sells seashells by the seashore," you find yourself summoning up your that trusty dating vixen from the ‘70s: Marcia Brady. Unlike Carrie Bradshaw, Marcia-Marcia-Marcia quickly presents you with the answer to your dilemma. And just like that, your problem is solved with a quick mouse click. Before you even get a chance to regret it, you send The Cuddler a simple, yet vengeful Match.com "Wink."

And then, just like Carrie and Marsha before you, you find yourself in the middle of a poorly written sitcom in dire need of a page one rewrite (smack in the middle of the Writers' Guild strike, nonetheless.) You feel vaguely awful as you search through Match.com's online help for ways to take back the Wink. Unfortunately, you quickly realize that although Marcia would simply have to enlist her brothers and sisters for help to fish her "Dear John letter" from a federally protected, navy blue USPS mailbox, you will have no such luck. Even though you know that this boy is not the boy, you do like him and, after all, he is an excellent cuddler. Not to mention the fact that your Wink is pretty fucking ridiculous considering you both have active dating profiles on Match.com. You resign yourself to the consequences and are about to log off when the solution to the Wink dilemma hits you: the profile visibility option!

You’re not sure what it will do exactly, but you don't waste a second as you race back to the settings page and click on the "Hide" link in order to make your invisible again. You pat yourself on the back smugly with a sigh of relief as you sign off Match.com and take a big sip of Diet Pepsi as you return to your email inbox to finish reading your emails. You delete the damn Match.com coupon which now seems to be vaguely mocking you. And that’s when Outlook alerts you with an ominous little ding to announce a new email’s arrival; a new email from Match.com; a new email that proclaims, "Someone Winked at You!" Your heart drops as you open it and see the profile picture of the boy you are dating. Correction, the boy you were dating. The Cuddler's cockeyed smile, however, now appears much more like a big fucking, obnoxious Wink ;-)

Anyway.

You're not the type of fag who writes Narcissistic Blogs...

...but y'are Blanche, y'are!

Hell, you don't even read blogs. But your friends always seem to be thoroughly entertained by your adventures in dating, and it's taking up way too much time to tell them each individually about your escapades, so you decided to start this silly blog. Besides, it's a nice deterrent from writing your novel (and, on a side-note, equally as lucrative...)

And speaking of novels, you'd like to take this opportunity to teach all your potential dates a little literary lesson (with a lot of alliteration). When you tell people that you're writing a novel, nine times out of ten the next question out of their mouth is, "Is it fiction?" And even though the next words out of your mouth should be, "Check, please!" you typically try to explain to your date(s) in the nicest possible way that novels are always fiction. You're not writing a memoir because, let's face it, you're not that interesting. But a blog on the internet? You're definitely interesting enough for that. Anyway.