You're Not One of Those S & M Fags...

...unless of course it's a night like tonight where you find yourself at one of those Stand & Model bars (can you say G Lounge?) where the only kind of pain that is inflicted upon you is strictly emotional (unless, of course, you count the misery of feeling physically inadequate amongst the artificially enhanced Chelsea Steroid Queens). But while you're busy chatting it up with the Boy Luck Club, an email comment from one of your Blah-Blah-Blog Readers beeps through to your iPhone and you quickly find yourself reeling as if you had just been iPunched in the stomach:

"I love your blog but even at the risk of never reading about your shenanigans again, I think now might be a good time to stop writing about your relationship with Blonde Beard. If you really like him and you want things to work out, you don't want entries like this floating around the Internet, because if he ever sees that you wrote about his drug problems on your blog, anonymous or not, he might (and probably should, to be honest) freak out..."

Meanwhile, the only person freaking out right now is you. The Boy Luck Club immediately notices the sobering change in your typically drunken demeanor and they try to comfort you about the strange situation that you have unexpectedly found yourself in. You started your Blah-Blah-Blog mostly as a goof, but after a while you realized that writing about your ridiculous dating foibles, was not only cathartic, but there might actually be a Silver Lining that might hopefully bring some attention to your writing and ultimately help attract a Literary Agent that could help sell your damn novel. So far, it's all been good, except for the fact that you never had a Plan B for when you fell in love. Especially not so damn quickly. And definitely not so damn publicly. So you say goodnight to the Boy Luck Club and shuffle your Gay-Fat Ass (actually at this point you may actually be creeping into Straight-Fat territory) to McDonald's on Eighth Avenue, and you order $3 worth of Food (you use the F-word lightly) from the Dollar Value Menu in order to drown your sorrows on cheap, yet Manly portions of TransFat across from, ironically, a Fat TransMan.

The next morning your alarm wakes up your depressed gay ass way too early for a Saturday because you have to schlep out to The Pines in order to check out a Quarter Share (even though all you want to be checking out is a Quarter Pounder) with your future Fire Island Housemates. You almost miss the 9:16am train because your Cabbie keeps making wrong turns because he is much too busy yapping Farsi into his cell and can't seem to retain the fact that you needed to go to that obscure destination they call Penn Station. Luckily you make the train with less than thirty seconds to spare, and plop yourself down between Rice Queen and Rice Queen Too, who, ironically, dated each other in college long enough to realize neither of them liked White Boys too much. You pretend to sleep while listening the two yap about their recent outings to The Web as they compare notes on their overlapping dates. At one point White Rice actually shares an Asian Boy's number with Brown Rice (which you find a bit odd) until you realize that Brown Rice is just entering it into his phone to double check if the number had already been stored which would, of course, mean that they had dated. Everyone is shocked when the fact neither White Rice nor Brown Rice has slept with this particular Asian Boy, so it is quickly decided that he must be Sticky Rice. You, of course, open your eyes at this point to learn the meaning of this new urban slang which is explained to you as an Asian Boy who would prefer to sleep with another Asian Boy over one of your two friends.

After spending the last of your cash and taking out a loan from White Rice to pay for the $24 round-trip ferry ride (which is explained to you by the Sayville Ferry Girl as a Winter Rate, although you consider it more of a Winter Rape), you are tickled pink when you realize you have sat your Gay-Fat Ass down next to Robin Byrd herself! You love-love-love the Original Public Access Fag Hag who would somehow always get her guests to expose themselves during a striptease during the final credits to "Baby Let Me Bang Your Box." So, of course, you discreetly take a photo with your camera phone because, even though it becomes blatantly obvious from her "mature" appearance that her shows have probably been rerun longer than The Brady Bunch.

Eventually you get to The Pines and meet your Real Estate Agent who reminds you of that actor in Ghost (you know, the one who played the Subway Ghost?), only this guy is much, much scarier. And in the same way that the Subway Ghost wasn't able to get off the Subway, this Realtor actually can't get off Fire Island because he lives in The Pines year round. Which is, ironically, nothing more than a Gay Ghost Town from Labor Day till Memorial Day. For a while it seems like yours is the first conversation the Ghostly Realtor has had since they shuttered the Blue Whale's doors after last Summer's final Low Tea, but you quickly tune him out because you get a text from Blonde Beard about meeting up in Rockville Centre later on. Somehow you agreed to accompany him to, get this, a two year old's birthday party. On Long Island. After telling Blonde Beard what train you'll be on, you end wandering up and down the boardwalk, touring luxurious, yet freezing cold beach houses, none of which have running water. This dry situation presents a constant drainage problem for your girly bladder which, as usual, overfloweth with Diet Pepsi. At the end of the day, you and the Rice Queens end up being drawn to a super cute place on Beach Hill that, shockingly, you all agree upon, and you tell the Ghost Realtor to draw up the papers so you won't be late to the toddler's birthday party.

When the train arrives at Rockville Centre (tragically, it really is spelled like that), you give some quick double Euro-Kisses to the Rice Queens because you are excited to get off the train and give some lengthy French-Kisses to Blonde Beard who is waiting for you on the platform. As usual, your eyes quickly weed through the Pastel-ish Suburban Crowd and immediately lock onto Blonde Beard's piercing blue eyes which draw you in like a Tractor Beam from the U.S.S. Enterprise. After you get your kiss you head over to the Breeder's party in order to celebrate the two year anniversary of their successful Breeding. Although it's not something that you'd typically relish doing on a Saturday, you were touched when Blonde Beard asked you to join him, not to mention the fact that you were excited to meet some of his friends. Besides, today is your Two-Monthiversary so you probably would have agreed to eat broccoli or even gone Women's Shoe Shopping with him if that's what he asked you to do.

You are both completely out of your element in the extremely spacious Long Island Home, and you keep staring mistrustfully at the plethora of Pastel Colored Suburbanites who seem to be, get this, enjoying their Nanny-less babies even though the Rugrats are spitting up and screaming and eating things off the carpet. Your eyes are also constantly drawn toward the staircase which is freaking you out because it is inside the living quarters instead of out in the dirty common hallway so it can be shared with apartment dwellers where it can do double duty as an ashtray to accommodate neighbors who are too lazy to schlep down six flights to get their nicotine fix. You suffer through the endless opening of the presents by a baby who is more interested in the discarded ribbons and ripped wrapping paper than he is interested in his actual toys. Suddenly one of the other childless Manhattanites happily informs you with a gleam in her eyes that your train is ten minutes earlier than you all thought it was, so you all mumble your goodbyes as you rush outside. You are so anxious to make this train that you end up squishing yourself in through the back liftgate of a Jeep Liberty so you won't have to suffer through an extra half hour with disturbing staircases and manipulative blonde babies.

You and Blonde Beard board the Long Island Railroad and duck away from the other Manhattanites into the first available seat. You worry that it might be rude, until Blonde Beard informs you that, "The party is over!" And before you know it you are back in Penn Station which is, unfortunately, full of Amateur Suburban Drunks who are wearing green and actually singing "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling" even though all their eyes are glazed over. You consider informing them that St. Patrick's Day is still forty-eight hours away, but then you'd actually have to talk to them, so you just leave because, after all, there is gay sex to be had.

Back at Blonde Beard's stair-free apartment it gets hot and heavy pretty quickly. You find yourself sitting on top of him, hypnotized by his blue eyes in that now familiar way where you forget absolutely everyone and everything that is beyond your peripheral vision. That's when Blonde Beard looks up at you and whispers, "Thanks for coming along with me to that horrible baby party today. I know you didn't have to go, but it really meant a lot to me." You instantly get all veklempt, and even though you know you shouldn't say it, you can't stop the words from coming out of your mouth, "Of course I went with you. I'm falling in love with you..." And just like that, on your Two-Monthiversary, you drop your first L-bomb. In all of your thirtysomething years, you've only ever said it to two other boys. Even though, this time, you didn't really say it, yet, you certainly just gave some foreshadowing of what was to come with this practice sentence, almost as if you were a sophomore in High School taking your PSATs.

And then you just wait. And wait. And wait. But all you get is crickets. Although Blonde Beard's body language stays consistent, and his eyes never ever veer away from your stare, he does not return your oral sentiment. Eventually the silence embarrasses you so you look away. On one hand you feel like you have just exposed your poker hand prematurely, while on the other hand, even though Blonde Beard obviously does not feel ready to meet your call, you trust that he is not bluffing. Although you feel extremely awkward, you do appreciate his confidence to savor the tender moment without feeling the necessity to parrot those words back to you before he is ready. So to break the silence you find your abandonment issues taking control of the situation as you quietly request, "Please don't hurt me." To which he quickly whispers back, "Don't hurt me either." And although you want to say that you would never hurt him, you instantly remember the comment from that boy who reads your blog and you begin to worry that maybe you already have? Or maybe you're even worse, like some anonymous Robin Byrd who profits off of your guest stars by emotionally exposing them on your narcissistic blog. Anyway...