You're Not the Type of Manhattan Fag Who Gets Antsy Crossing Bridges or Tunnels...

...but your parents live half the year in Florida and you do get a bit uneasy around blondes who are too lazy to push a chad out of an election ballot. However, it is February, and your face is as pasty as Woody Allen's ass, so you agree to visit for a long weekend.

Everyone on the plane is not only straight, but ancient, and that, my gay friend, is a bad combination. Although you got home late from your date with Blonde Beard and wanted to Blackout everything between JFK and West Palm, you unfortunately find yourself sitting amongst a gaggle of Retired Orthodontists from The Bronx who can't seem to stop yapping about George Washington's wooden teeth and various other prehistoric orthodontia fables.

When you land, you immediately find your aging parents waiting for you in a very choice and visible spot, most likely because they left to pick you up last Tuesday just so they wouldn't be late. They're a bit slower and grayer than you seem to remember, even though you just spent Christmas with them three minutes ago in Vermont, but Florida has a way of sapping the life force out of the best of us. You listen to the 'rents bicker about which lane not to be in and which car not to hit as they make their way home to the Island of Mis-tanned WASP's: Vero Beach. Luckily for you, your internet enabled cell phone actually has service so get to focus on your email instead of the toothless Good Ol' Boy in the F-150 who's giving your father the finger, most likely because dear old Dad drives a bit like Mister Magoo. After a few cocktails.

When you check your blog mail, you're thrilled to find an email from a young boy who's going to school in that Southwestern state where they refused to recognize Martin Luther King Day until 1992 (did the racist bastards really not want an extra day off work?), and this boy asks you, "I'm not really sure if I'm gay yet, when did you know?" Suddenly you are a seventeen year old High School Senior with parents that are much less gray, yet, unfortunately, no less (for lack of an actual word) bickerful. It's a Tuesday night in February and you are watching Bruce Willis flirt with Cybil Sheppard on Moonlighting. After your parents say goodnight, you get so horny watching Bruce Willis (shut up, he used to be cute) that your heart starts to heat your body as if it's being microwaved from the inside out. For the first time in your life you are experiencing horniness like never before. One hand, of course, is reaching down beneath the fag-tag of your Girbauds, while the other is primping your recently coiffed George Michael-esque haircut. Your new 'do immediately makes you think of the swishy Scottish Hairdresser who cut your hair. Your Best Friend's Father owns a Hair Salon (and he's not gay) and they recently imported the red-headed lad from the U.K. You, of course, recently happened to memorize the Scot's phone number when you accidentally shuffled through papers while visiting your Best Friend's house to play Nintendo and watch videos on the Betamax. And now, you suddenly find yourself dialing those memorized digits after, gasp, 10pm.

The Scot answers and is very confused. You try to explain who you are while he tries to convince you that he remembers you, although you're both pretty sure that he's lying. But you are so beyond horny that none of this really matters. You cut to the chase and lay your gay card down on the table, "I thought maybe we could get together..." And needless to say, the Scot is very surprised, "You mean like go to a movie sometime?" But, alas, your horniness keeps you extremely focused, "No, I was thinking more like tonight." Then there's this really uncomfortable awkwardness that is compounded when the Scot repeats, "Tonight?!" And you instantly back off because you are beginning to wonder if the Swishy Scottish Hairdresser could somehow possibly be straight? You start to backpedal as you hem and haw, "Uh, I'm sorry. Maybe I misunderstood the situation. I think I should probably hang up now." But that's when the Scot finally steps up to the plate and says defiantly, "No. Don't go," in a tone that lets you know for sure that you are about to lose your gay virginity.

The Scot gives you his address and, since it's late, you actually put your parents Honda Accord into neutral and push it down the entire length of the driveway before ever starting the ignition. You race your way over to the Scot's house and are a bit shocked to find out that the newly relocated Ex-Pat is living on a sofa bed in someone else's Den. Someone who works for your Best Friend's Dad. Someone you've actually met. But you are more shocked to learn that the Scot is twenty-seven, and suddenly you feel like you're about to embark on a New England Antiquing trip. Yet when the Scot asks how old you are you lie and say eighteen even though you've barely just turned seventeen. The Scot seems so old to you, but you don't care because: a) it's past 10 o'clock, b) you've already snuck out of the house, and c) you've stolen your parents' car. At this point there is nothing that is going to stop you from having sex with this old relic. Nothing, except for your own endless stream of consciousness.

Suddenly you can't shut up. It's diarrhea of the mouth and you are talking about anything and everything in that way that only a seventeen year old can. You talk the Scot's ear off with your nervous chatter for hours. At midnight the Scot finally cuts you off with a highly offensive yawn and informs you that he's going to bed. This shocking news is the only thing that silences you. You stand there with your jaw agape as The Scot pulls open his sofa bed and begins to undress. He pats the corner of the pancake-like mattress and gestures for you to sit down. You obey silently, and he slips off your down jacket which is surprising to you because you realize that you've been so nervous that you actually forgot to take it off. But this all becomes moot when the Scottish Hairdresser starts to kiss you. You feel the scruff from his 5 o'clock shadow scraping against your pre-pubescent peach fuzz and it makes you feel alive in a way that you've never felt before. Funnily enough, the only aspect of losing your gay virginity that you never imagined was kissing another man.

The next thing you know you are both naked, and since you've never been naked with anybody before, you don't really know what to do. After a minute or so of foreplay, you become so terrified that the Scottish Hairdresser will realize you're a virgin, that you wind up sticking your bare ass up in the air for him to fuck. Because isn't that what gay men do? Your face smashes into the rickety, flat mattress as the Scot takes no time to move in on his underage prey. When he pushes his old bagpipe inside of you, the noise that comes out of your de-virginized mouth is, needless to say, blood-curdling.

After the deed is done, you limp your way back to your parents' Honda and drive back home in the middle of the night. The only thing that you are absolutely sure about is this: if you could somehow get through that, then, the next time you are absolutely positive that you could definitely fuck some girl. Yet the only thing that absolutely positively came true after this anally painful experience was this: the next time you'd be the one doing the fucking, but definitely with some guy. Anyway...