You're Not One of Those Fags Who Hearts Valentine's Day...

...in fact you like to refer to it as V.D. as it always seems to creep up on you and spread throughout Chelsea as quickly as a dreaded Venereal Disease. But when you're walking through K-Mart while waiting for your pharmacist to fill an antibiotic prescription (and no, even though you're a whore, this time you don't have the clap), you see the giant display of Chocolate Candies in tacky red, heart shaped boxes. You roll your eyes until you notice the fine print, "Heart-Shaped, Bite-Sized Butterfingers!" And somehow they miraculously hop into your cart.

Later that evening, you and your Literary Lot of writer friends head over to a very downtown night of storytelling at The Moth. You invited Blonde Beard and were happy when he accepted your invitation because it meant that, a) You'd get laid, b) He wasn't opposed to meeting your friends, and c) Your friends could sniff him for that dreadful Mothball odor and help decide if he is or isn't a Crackhead, even though you're pretty convinced at this point that Blonde Beard is not moonlighting at the local Crack Den. When you get to the event, Blonde Beard is waiting on the curb and you introduce him to your little Lit Lot and head inside. You, of course, immediately head for the bar and leave Blonde Beard alone with the Lit Lot so that they can begin their interrogation. However, when you make your departure, you notice that Blonde Beard actually recedes from the small group and leans up against the wall which is, ironically, papered with flowers. When you get back and dole out cheap wine to the Lit Lot, you are absolutely horrified when the wordsmiths begin to crack (bad drug pun intended) inappropriate jokes about the vino, "Oh this wine tastes vile." You squirm in discomfort as the Lit Lot pats themselves on their collective literary back and begin to one up each other, "Oh pipe down, the wine is fine," and then, "Maybe I should've gotten a rum and coke... On the Rock...sssss"

Luckily you are saved by the flickering lights that indicate either a city-wide brown-out or that your show is actually beginning. Either way you are pleased because the conversational masturbation finally ends. The Moth show is just okay. One Storyteller goes on and on about finding his girlfriend after she committed suicide, and although you want to feel bad for him, you actually only feel bad for yourself because you've got to listen to him. Ironically, your favorite story was about a woman who partook in a documentary about female masturbation (ewww) where she had to be filmed doing just that (double ewww).

Afterwards, you and Blonde Beard split off from the Lit Lot to go grab a bite at Spice. The Hostess sits you next to the front door, and you, of course, instantly ask to be moved away from the wintry draft. She rolls her eyes and moves you four and a half feet to the next, equally drafty table, even though the restaurant is practically empty. But you let it go because you prefer your restaurant meals sans spit. The dinner is, as usual, quite nice, although this time there are plenty of dead spots in the conversation between you and Blonde Beard. Perhaps the initial goo-goo gaa-gaa stage of lustful, lingering looks is coming to an unfortunate end? After all, you like to talk. A lot. But you don't need to talk just to hear yourself (well, not usually). And you definitely never need to talk just to fill in an awkward space, since you know, from experience, that an awkward space is often where people tend to reveal everything about who they are and what they feel. So, although it's a bit uncomfortable, you remain quiet and keep your gaze set on Blonde Beard. And you wait. Nobody is more surprised than you when eventually he just looks away.

Later, back at his place, after your sweaty fix of Blonde Beard's bed heroin, but before either of you have fully recovered from your sex comas, Blonde Beard's stomach begins to growl. That's when you suddenly remember the heart-shaped Butterfingers in your bag. You practically fall out of his bed, naked, reaching for your backpack, but you are so excited to reveal your thoughtful gift and surprise your bearded Valentine and his grumbling stomach. You choose to say, "Ta Dah!" instead of "Happy Valentine's Day," because that is already implied by the tacky red box in your hand. Blonde Beard says, "Oh my," as you hand him the present, and you suddenly feel silly for having bought it.

The next morning, when you're gathering your stuff to leave, Blonde Beard holds up the Heart-Shaped box and says, "You forgot your Butterfingers." You joke and say, "My fat ass is not taking those anywhere. Those are yours," even though you are a little bit surprised and somewhat saddened by the idea that your Valentine wants to re-gift his chocolaty gift back to its Giver. Yup. You quickly reaffirm that still hate Valentine's Day. Anyway...