You're Not One of Those Closeted Fags...

...but lately you have been living in complete fear of being "outed" for writing your Blah-Blah-Blog. In fact, last night at your Gal Pal's Pot Luck was the closest call you've had yet. Since your Gal Pal had generously offered to collect what's left of you after your Hurtful Hernia surgery, you decided to return the favor so you offered to come early and help her set up before her Pot Luck. The fact that your Gal Pal would actually accept your disingenuous offer never actually crossed your mind, but you made the best of it and dragged Blonde Beard along with you. Since you were the first two boys there, you made yourself useful by gaying up the place, keeping her Four Legged Vacuum away from the food, and answering the door when an irritatingly early guest buzzed. There were only a handful of your Literary Lot of friends at the party when the your friend Shaggy arrived. As usual, his Mystery Machine was hidden deep within his baggy pants (rumor has it that the Mystery Machine is so big that Shaggy needs to order his latex Scooby Snacks online). Meanwhile, a big smile took over your face when you saw your allegedly endowed friend through the glass door. Although it took you a while to let him in, somehow you unlocked it one handed without spilling a drop of wine. God forbid you should put down the glass! Only when you open the door the first thing Shaggy says is (actually it's more of an ear piercing shriek), "So I finally read your blog!"

Your face turns ghostly white (as if you're a Guest Ghost Star on Scooby Doo) and your index finger raises to cross your lips violently in order to immediately silence this Meddling Kid! Then you whisper indignantly using the Royal "we" as if you are Queen Fucking Elizabeth, "We don't talk about that in public." And then you fearfully turn back toward the party, wondering nervously whether Blonde Beard overheard or not. Meanwhile, although you may once have off-handedly mentioned that you write a secret Blah-Blah-Blog to Shaggy, you definitely never mentioned it's Na-Na-Name. Somehow the damn thing has gotten on the radar and your friends are starting to talk about it. Even your straight friends. What's up with that? Why the hell is Straight Shaggy reading your Gay Blah-Blah-Blog? Do Breeders really lead such boring lives that they need to live vicariously through your gay shenanigans? Ugh. Although you have been very careful about who you've divulged your secret URL to, your friends have obviously been less discerning. It's like that fucking Faberge Shampoo commercial, "If you tell two friends about 2nd Person with wheat germ oil and honey, they'll tell two friends. And so on... And so on... And so on..." You, of course, always preferred Body On Tap shampoo which was, for some unknown reason, made with real beer, "But don't drink it!"

Meanwhile, the only good part about Blonde Beard's hasty, 9:30pm retreat is that you don't have to worry about one drunken Lit Lot writer spilling the beans about your secret Blah-Blah-Blog. However, after Blonde Beard is gone you are so miserable that even this silver lining doesn't make you feel any better. Neither does the text he sends you soon after he gets home, "Sorry things are so weird right now. Thanks for taking me to your Gal Pal's. Have fun the rest of the night." The message leaves you uneasy. Why are things so weird right now? You decide not to respond, mostly because you have no idea how to respond. But ten minutes later you receive another guilt-ridden text, "PS-You looked very cute tonight," which you also choose not to respond to, mostly because you are depressed. Who knew that it was actually possible for you to make a wise decision under the influence of an entire gaggle of Grey Geese?

The next morning you wake up and feel awful. And for once this is not (solely) due to your hangover. You tossed and turned sleeplessly all night while analyzing Blonde Beard's hasty departure. All you can really come up with is that he is just the most shy person you have ever encountered. Actually, he reminds you of your lame Oh Brother, who is completely socially retarded and only communicates with monosyllabic grunts, yet somehow received his Doctorate from Harvard. Could your intense attraction to Blonde Beard somehow be tied to some bizarre need to work out your troubled relationship with your Oh Brother? And more importantly, is it even possible for someone as socially (look at you-you-you!) extroverted as you to be in a relationship with someone who can't seem to handle the harried social pressure of a Brooklyn Pot-Luck? Meanwhile, you decide that it's time to answer Blonde Beard's text, but you let your fingers do the talking since you're still wrapped up tightly in your warm winter comforter and don't feel like talking. You tap out the message, "I'm confused and don't understand why things are weird. I was really sad last night after you left. Still sad now, actually. Or maybe just hungover." Even though you're not (really) hungover, you add that last part mostly to lighten up the mood of your depressing text so you don't seem like such a clingy sad-sack. Blonde Beard responds immediately: "Sorry you are feeling bad, whatever the source. Sounds like you had some fun if you're hungover." Whatever the source? Is he kidding? Does he really not realize that he's the fucking source? Not to mention the fact that the only reason you over-indulged last night was because you were so fucking depressed that the boy you are falling in love with couldn't stick around the party long enough to meet a few of your friends?

You don't respond to the last text because you really don't have anything to say. Well, nothing that's not snarky. Anyway. You mope around all morning feeling sorry for yourself until your friends begin to badger you about coming to a mutual friend's brunch that you decided to blow off for your extremely unsatisfying pity party. Eventually you concede to the barrage of texts and voicemails and you drag yourself out of bed and head over to the Brunch which happens to be pretty much the same guest list from the Pot Luck. The Lit Lot seems to berate you with questions about why you look so Mopey Fish Face, so you re-hash the story about your Socially Inept Non-Boyfriend over and over while plying yourself with some Hair-of-the-Dog Mimosas. Each time you repeat the story you find yourself saying that you are not willing to have a relationship where you must walk on eggshells everytime you are in a social situation with Blonde Beard, nor are you willing to give up your friendships for a reclusive relationship. And everytime you finish the sad story you always come to the dramatic conclusion, "I think we're just too different to be in a relationship."

However during your fifth re-telling or perhaps your fifth mimosa, Blonde Beard actually calls your cell. You excuse yourself to the Apartment's cinder-block Stairwell as you echo your concerns to your hairy-lipped boy about the so-called "weirdness" in your "relationship." Only you quickly realize that the two of you are not on the same page about what is actually "weird." Blonde Beard explains that he has been on edge lately because he has been worried that his Jealous Roommate was going to kick him out of their apartment. Apparently the psychopath was so up-in-arms about your recent innocuous "renovation" comment that the Jealous Roommate has not only banned you from visiting, but he has also gotten Blonde Beard worried that he will have to choose between his Rent Controlled Apartment and his new Non-Boyfriend. This scenario obviously never crossed your mind, mostly because it is insane, but it does help make sense of why Blonde Beard has seemed so distant lately. So you decide to meet and grab some Thai food at Sea so you can talk in person.

Only your meal in constantly interrupted by all the members of the Boy Luck Club. Nonstop. Apparently your friend, Fat Albert (whose photographs always seem to add 150 pounds to his skeletal frame as if he's some anorexic vampire) has some bizarre need for you to get your ass over to his apartment, right now. Probably so you can watch him not eat the Chinese food that he has apparently just ordered. And then, as if free food wasn't enough of a lure, Fat Albert informs you that he has a present that he wants to give you before he leaves for Europe tomorrow. You are completely torn because you'd love to go over for food and presents, but you really don't want to have another repeat of last night where Blonde Beard goes all Ted Kaczynski and runs away to live off the grid where he can send preemptive Unabomber packages to anybody who dares to invite you to a party.

But the texts are relentless, so eventually you timidly ask Blonde Beard if he'd mind stopping by Fat Albert's apartment for a little while since it's only a few blocks away. Blonde Beard agrees and you get more and more anxious with each footstep that brings you closer to your impending doom. When the doorman announces your arrival to Fat Albert, you hear your photographically challenged friend shout over the intercom, "Send him away!" Although the Doorman knows to ignore Fat Albert's fictitious orders, Blonde Beard takes them at face value and looks around nervously, almost backing out to the street before you can coax him into the elevator. However, to your elation, when you arrive to the Lions' Den Blonde Beard is given a very warm welcome. The Boy Luck Club is definitely on their best behavior and not only are they extremely nice and inviting, but they definitely include Blonde Beard in the various conversations that are typically "Boy Luck Club Only" topics. Although you almost cringe every time a question is directed toward Blonde Beard, you quickly realize that he seems to be holding his own. Quite impressively, actually. Not only does he get the jokes, but he actually tries to crack a few of his own. You begin to wonder why he's so much more comfortable and confident amongst your tighter, bitchier group of friends? Until you realize that this time he's surrounded by a group of four compared to last night's group of forty.

Eventually you are lulled into a false sense of security after receiving an extremely generous pre-birthday gift of a free Frequent Flyer ticket to L.A. (for an upcoming Atlantis Cruise that you can't afford), the Boy Luck Club starts to tease you by discussing very specific details that you only write about in your Blah-Blah-Blog. They use terms that you'd only ever used online, for instance, your face turns bright red when the Rice Queen asks with a wink, "How are the Hobosexual's Bedbugs?" This is quickly followed up with knowing laughter and further interrogation from Half-Share, "Meanwhile when are you moving out of your Home-Sweet-Hovel?" Of course all of this flies right over Blonde Beard's head, but you are left feeling more than a bit uneasy. In fact, this time it is you that flees the impromptu party uncomfortably early. You grab Blonde Beard and inform the Boy Luck Club that you must get going because you have to wake up unreasonably early for your hernia surgery in the morning. As you walk down Fourth Avenue you begin to wonder how much longer you will be able to keep up the closeted blog charade? The one thing you have become certain of, however, is that when Blonde Beard does find out about your Blah-Blah-Blog, that this intensely shy and private boy will probably never be able to forgive you for the hole that you have unknowingly dug yourself into. Anyway...