You're not the type of fag who falls in love with Straight Guys...

...but your Straight Boyfriend is just too damn Bisexy. This is one Straight Guy who needs no help from the Fab Five; he's just way too good-looking to be straight. Not to mention too nice. And too thoughtful. Unlike the gay boys you date, this one actually calls when he says he's going to: sometimes just to chat. As usual, you begin to have one of your silly Happily Ever After fantasies while you imagine dropping your Maiden Name so you can become "Mrs. Straight Boyfriend." Sigh.

Of course you are highly aware of your insane feelings so you definitely reel them in when you guys hang out because you know you are Just Friends. Without benefits. You definitely value the friendship and so far you haven't done or said anything stupid to muck it up. However, you don't have a problem cock-blocking the endless array of girls that fawn over him. Once you even told some girl she should "Get in line!" when she was yapping about how she wanted to date him. Since you can't have him, then why should some lame old girl? Yet recently things have gotten a bit murky. It's almost as if your Straight Boyfriend has developed some sort of Man Crush on you. Sometimes in a group conversation you catch him just staring at you, even though you're not the one who's speaking. And lately, since you've upped your time at the gym, he's actually been complimenting your hard work. Specifically your shoulders. Sigh.

Anyway. It's his birthday and that definitely takes precedence over drinks at Vlada, although you do manage to meet your BFF for a Gay Cocktail or three before you meet the Straight Posse to go bowling at, gasp, Port Authority. (Okay, maybe your Straight Boyfriend could use a Queer Eye Culture lesson from that irritating, faux-hawk-wearing, less-than-Fab Fifth Wheel, Jai Rodriguez. But you digress.)

Bowling is actually a hoot and, even though you'll deny it to the grave, you're actually pretty damn good. Shots are bought, pitchers of beer abound, and a drunken good time is had by all. After bowling, the party moves on to some unremarkable straight bar in some unremarkable straight part of town and more drinks are imbibed. One by one, the Straight Posse begins to dissipate, and before you know it, it's just you and your Straight Boyfriend. Sigh. The two of you chat until Last Call, and, as usual, you are absolutely shocked that it is 4am! How on earth does that keep happening to you? Anyway.

You imagine the bouncer pronouncing you Mr. and Mrs. Straight Boyfriend and showering you with fistfuls of rice as he kicks you to the curb. The two of you stumble toward your respective subways, only when you get to the F train, your conversation somehow continues. It's like you're on a really good date and neither of you want it to end. So you just continue to blah-blah-blah on the street until your drunken Diarrhea of the Mouth sets in. It's like some horrifying Chick Flick as your your innermost desires begin to pour out of your liquor-lubricated lips. You actually feel yourself begin to gag as you tell your Straight Boyfriend how you really feel. You go on and on and explain that he's exactly the type of guy you could fall for, yadda-yadda-yadda. It's so quiet when you finally finish your endless gay manifesto that you actually hear crickets. Crickets in New York Fucking City. Your Straight Boyfriend, the one who hasn't shut up all night, is suddenly speechless, however his expression says it all. You are so getting dumped.

Eventually the uncomfortable silence is broken by a Connecticut-plated BMW when some P-Unit Greenwich Prep School Brat yells, "Get a room!" out his window. See! Even his fellow Straight Guys mistake him for being gay! But that's when your Straight Boyfriend mumbles, "Um. I gotta get home, dude. I'll give you a call tomorrow, buddy." The fact that you've actually been called "dude" and "buddy," practically in the same sentence, makes you realize the severity of the situation. At this point you can only pray that your Ex-Straight Boyfriend is so drunk that he becomes Blackout Barbie and wakes up with no memory of the entire humiliating conversation. Or even better, that you do. Anyway.