You're Not One of Those Fags Who Likes to Go Antiquing...

...although you must admit that every once in a while you can definitely find yourself attracted to a Silver Fox. Or two. Especially an Italian one. However, now that you've arrived in Rome and find yourself surrounded by Hot Boys and Ancient Relics, somehow you find your short attention span constantly turning back to New York and Blonde Beard. You've been emailing back and forth since you left, and now you've really started to miss your hairy cheeked boy. Even though his hair has yet to turn gray, you begin to wonder if perhaps he's the one who you'll grow old with and help dye his beard with Just For Men hair coloring products?

But you realize you are being ridiculous because you and Blonde Beard haven't even had your six-weekiversary yet, and, after all, you are in fucking Italy for God's sake and there are Visa cards to be maxed and Italian boys to be kissed! Since your sappy thoughts are sapping your Jet Fagged libido, you decide to put them on the back burner. After all, how does that age old saying go again? "When in Rome... fuck a Roman!"

Thanks to your 5:10am Wizz Air flight, you and your BFF arrive at the World's Shittiest Hostel before 8am (hungover and still a bit drunk from Gay Hungarian Karaoke) and you are immediately welcomed by a sign informing you that the elevator is broken. You curse yourself for bringing too many cute outfits (that you have yet to wear) as you ascend each flight, and you're definitely in a mood by the time you reach Reception. On the third floor. The Grazie Cunto at the front desk (who must be a distant Italian Relative of the Merci Beaucunt in Chamonix) seems to get pleasure out of the fact that your room won't be ready until 2pm, but she happily informs you that you can store your things in the storage hallway which has neither a lock nor a door, yet somehow, she assures you, is "Very, very safe!"

Since you have hours to kill you decide to leave the Hostile Hostel to do some touristy crap. So you sleepwalk around Rome and annoy your BFF by making him play Japanese Tourist and taking photos of you in front of the Trevi Fountain and the Colosseum. And wouldn't you know it, as you step away from the most famous ruins in the world, you find yourselves being drawn toward a nearby Rainbow Flag, almost as if you're in a some Gay Star Trek Tractor Beam. The next thing you know you're having brunch at a little gay restaurant/bar called Coming Out. You order an omelette and a glass of wine. (Don't judge! It's cheaper than the Coke Light and, besides, you could certainly use some Hair of the Dog). And thank God for the wine because you need something to soothe your stomach while you watch your BFF and the Hot Italian Waiter as they conduct some metallic gay mating ritual where they flirt shamelessly using only their tongue rings. Even though you made your BFF promise that once he finally turned thirty that he would remove his tetanus producing, oral steel girder, for some unknown reason unbeknownst to you, it still remains dangling from behind his pearly whites. The Tongue Knob, however, does double duty as a Built-In Breathalyzer, because once your BFF has had one too many Tanqueray and Tonics, his speech tends to degrade into something that sounds more like a thirsty Helen Keller. But you digress.

After the International Tongue Knob Fest, you do some more half-assed touring of the Spanish steps, The Pantheon, and ultimately you wind up at the Vatican where you end up gawking at the Fashion Challenged Swiss Travesties that apparently guard the Pope from Catty Homosexuals. You think they look much more like The Joker than the Pope's Armed Forces, but who are you to judge? Somehow the two of you don't burn in hell when you go inside (mostly so you can use the bathroom) even though your BFF is actually wearing one of his infamous teeny tiny t-shirts that he special orders from BabyGap. This one, of course, is about as gay as gay gets, and has a picture of a Rooster with the word "Cocky" written beneath it. You pray the Pope doesn't read English, even though you kind of secretly hope that one of his hot Swiss Jokers does.

Eventually you make your way back to the Hostile Hostel and check into your totally busted room that, get this, smells like sewage (even though your backed-up intestines have definitely not contributed to the foul odor). You're (shockingly) too tired to complain to the Grazie Cunto at the front desk, so you wind up taking a disco nap before you put on your skimpiest, most tight-fitting Toga to go out for, surprise-surprise, Gay Roman Cocktails. You felt much better after getting a few Z's, but now you feel much worse after bathing in the non-treated sewage water that sprays out of the Italian ciao-er (pronounced chow-er for the linguistically challenged). You have a few minutes to kill, so you check your email from the Computer Room on your way out of the Hostile Hostel. A big smile takes over your face when you read a sappy email from Blonde Beard who was thinking about you and just wanted to say hi. Meanwhile, that's when your BFF lets out a big girly scream and you practically jump up on top of your chair while looking around for cockroaches and/or Roman Rodents. The Grazie Cunto at Reception gives him the Evil Eye (as if she's running some "Silencio!" library or something) and you ask, "What's wrong?" Your BFF says, "Nothing's wrong! I just got accepted to Graduate School! In Rome!" You both jump up and hug because for years your friend has dreamt of studying International Affairs in Italy in order to perfect his Italiano. You are so happy and proud of your BFF! For about a nanosecond. Then you just feel sad and sorry for yourself because you can't imagine life in New York City without him.

You meet some of your BFF's Roman friends and try to keep a stiff upper lip throughout dinner, but mostly you just drink lots of cheap red wine to ease your selfish pain. Which, as usual, works like a charm! Before you know it, your BFF's Gay Roman Posse whisks you back to Coming Out for some Gay Cocktails and, since you're in a somber, depressive mood, you start chatting up some Cute Lesbians from Arizona (and yes, you know that Cute Lesbian is oftentimes an oxymoron, like Jumbo Shrimp or Deafening Silence, but these girls are cute!) The drunken Oxymorons end up dragging you over to the Colosseum in order to show you a weathered face etched into the ruins, much like the Man in the Moon or the Shroud of Turin, only when the Oxymorons point out the face to you, you all can't help but agree that this face is definitely not Jesus. It's Richard Nixon. You end up unloading on the Oxymorons about how sad you are about your BFF getting into school and they drunkenly promise that you will not be left alone. That you will definitely fall Head-Over-Heels for some Gay Boy (obviously a Belinda Carlile fan) and that eventually you will bring your new beau to Rome so you can introduce him to your BFF. And that's when you imagine yourself standing in front of the Colosseum, holding Blonde Beard's hand while pointing out Rome's highlights, such as the Colosseum's Famous Shroud of Richard Nixon.

When you finish your Peroni you head back to the bar with the Oxymorons to get a refill, and that's when the Gay Roman Posse introduces you to their latest 25 year old addition. It's almost as if the Shroud of Richard Nixon heard your whiny, woe-is-me pity parade, because this boy instantly starts chatting you up. In perfect English, no less. Which definitely helps you look past the bizarre eyebrow twitch. You are in shock when Twitch tells you about his recent trip to New York where he spent each of his ten nights at The Monster. This is shocking mostly because you've only been there once in the past seven years. You're about to say, "Of all the juice joints in New York City..." but you can't because Twitch is kissing you. You close your eyes, mostly to savor the moment, but as soon as you do, your mind begins to wander. And it immediately wanders to Blonde Beard, who, incidentally, is a much better kisser.

The next thing you know, you and Twitch are whisked away by your BFF's Gay Roman Posse to a mixed club called Muccassassina which, although on the outskirts of town, has a line that practically starts in Midtown. You stand there, shivering and chatting with Twitch about all the bars in New York that he should have gone to, although all you really want to be doing is chatting with Blonde Beard about all the dumb bars you went to in Rome. When you realize just exactly how totally dickmatized you have become, you pull out your cell phone and send Blonde Beard an international text telling him that you're waiting in line for a Gay Roman Disco, yet you're too busy missing him to enjoy it. You receive his response almost instantaneously, which says, "What a coincidence! I'm going to a Gay Roman Disco AND I miss you, too!" His text puts a smile on your mopey fish face and you decide, right then and there, that it's time to start following your heart instead of your dick. So once you get inside the club you end up blowing off the Twitchy Twink and end up spending the night standing in the downstairs corner of Muccassassina, drinking €10 Peronis while sending mushy international $0.50 texts to the Bearded American Antique across the Atlantic, who's much more age-appropriate for you. Anyway...