You're not the type of fag who's parents belong to PFLAG...

...but you've always had a good relationship. Please note the past tense. You came out to them at twenty when you were away at school after your first love dumped you. You had never felt so sad and alone in your life, so you called them after a sleepless night when you couldn't even cry yourself to sleep because you were too busy weeping and hyperventilating. When your mom answered and you told her that your boyfriend just broke up with you, you ended up having to console your hysterical mother instead of the other way around.

But you're in your thirties now and they loved your ex-boyfriend as if he were family. However, now that the Ex is gone they have absolutely no interest in your single gay life. And even though you have no problem airing your dirty, spooge-stained laundry here in this narcissistic blog, the last thing you want to do is chat with your parents about the nice boy you met at The Cock on New Year's Eve Eve.

But you digress. Before you ended up at The Cock on Sunday, you went to an Open House in *gasp* Brooklyn to check out a cute studio that you could barely afford yet instantly fell in love with. Although you actually can afford it because your Apple stock has gone through the roof (thanks to the iPhone), but you're worried about throwing all your iPods into one Playlist. You even tried giving the nice gay suit at the B of (g)A(y) a big, dimpled smile. However, he seemed much more concerned with the fact that you wrote down "Starving Writer" under Occupation on the mortgage application and denied you, yet somehow had the gall to ask for your number. Of course, you denied him, but that was mostly because he was far from starving. Whatever. You know you still have pretty good credit with the Bank of Mom and Dad. So you call.

You've never asked your parents for anything. Ever. So you tell them all about the cute condo and about how the bank won't give you a mortgage and about how you don't want to use every penny you have to buy a place. You explain that if they co-signed the Mortgage then you could stop living like a hobosexual and that they'd never have to pay a cent. You tell them how excited you are about this place and that if they came to see it they would understand. For a second it feels like all the stars in the youniverse are aligned because your parents are making their winter migration to Florida tomorrow morning. So you wind up asking them to make a detour off the New Jersey Turnpike so they can come see the luxury post-stamp and help you make the biggest decision you've ever made.

After a bit of coercing you realize that it'd be easier to sway George W. into supporting Gay Marriage. You are crushed. You ask your father how many times he's come to visit you over the past three years, and when he doesn't answer you tell him, "Zero!" And then you ask him how many times he's gone to visit his other son? His other son who never bothers to call and wish your parents Happy Birthday? His other son who declined to go on an all-paid cruise to celebrate their 50th Anniversary because he didn't like cruises. His other son who uses your parents for a personal baby-sitting service because he's too cheap to hire a sitter? His other son who bled them dry on his path to a Harvard Doctorate degree in Education and then became an unemployed Mr. Mom who home school's his daughter who still can't read? Your father remains silent so you answer your own question again, "You've visited them dozens of times!"

That's when he finally chimes in and reminds you that these are two totally different situations. "Your brother lives an hour and fifteen minutes from us, and plus there's the grandchildren factor." You laugh because you know these children and they are far from grand. And then you break it down and realize exactly why your two situations are different. You are the gay son and your poor excuse for a brother is the straight one. You realize that in your parents' eyes, that's all that really matters.

You feel the way you did when you were a kid: left out, different, less-than. It doesn't matter that you're in your thirties; you're still about to cry as if you were eight. So you tell him to have a safe trip to Florida and then hang up because there is really nothing left to say. Anyway.