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.