You're Not One of Those Fags Who Waits by the Phone for Your Boy to Call...

...but that's mostly because you're much too busy waiting anxiously by your laptop for an apology email from Blonde Beard. The last thing he said to you was that he would contact you on Sunday. And, of course, now it's Monday and not only have you not been contacted, but you have also woken up in severe pain. Heartache would actually be preferable to the excruciating testicular "kick-in-the-balls" kind of pain that you're feeling. At first you were proud of your swollen balls, but now they're seeming a lot less, as Fergie would say, Glamorous. But, since you have your priorities set (for lack of a better word) straight, before calling Dr. Mary-Ann-Not-Ginger to schedule an emergency appointment, you log onto Connexion and change your online profile from "Exclusively Dating" back to, sigh, "Loser Party of One." Oops, excuse the typo, you meant to write "Single."

Dr. Mary-Ann-Not-Ginger barely takes thirty seconds out of her busy day to examine your Balloon Balls (which, given their current size are at least worthy of a two minute gawk, or perhaps even a paparazzi tabloid shot on Gawker), and then she writes you a prescription and sends you downstairs for a, get this, Scrotal Sonogram. You wait and wait and wait for what feels like forever before you are finally taken into a room and informed that you must take all your clothes off and put on a humiliating hospital gown with the opening to the front. Ugh. You do as you're told, however, without the support of your Calvin's, the weight of your pendulous scrotum practically brings you to tears. Although sitting down in a hospital gown that opens to the front happens to be the most disturbingly unbecoming pose you've ever donned (not to mention the most un-lady-like), gravity forces you and your Balloon Balls to take a seat so you don't have to add crying to your list of woes.

Eventually you are called into a little room by an unintelligible Russian Technician who is surrounded by lots of expensive medical equipment whose operating manuals hopefully come in languages other than English. Ms. Gorbachev instructs you to "Move your pen-iss," which takes you a moment to fully understand, but eventually you realize that she needs help with her Soviet Penis-troika so you happily move your junk out of her way. She lubes up your balls with gobs of petroleum jelly while you lay there and try to think about anything less humiliating than this particular experience. So, of course, your mind instantly turns to your recent Non-Break-Up Break-Up with Blonde Beard.

While Ms. Gorbachev rubs her Transducer over your Junk, you mentally escape the humiliation by creating a Pros and Cons list in your head. Although the Cons seem to substantially outweigh the Pros, and even though the two of you were so substantially different that it would have been practically impossible to achieve a long term relationship, you can't help but wonder, "Why the fuck hasn't Blonde Beard called you?" Regardless, you are somewhat relieved that the stressful relationship has ended before you had to come out of your Blah-Blah-Blogger Closet. Your unexpected relief kind of reminds you of the way you felt when you lost contact with your Homophobic Birthfather, even though that troubled relationship ended because you came out of the closet. Anyway. The whole situation is just too confusing and too difficult that it somehow actually seems easier not to have it. So the silver lining of your whole Blah-Blah-Blogged relationship is that you're not really all that broken-up about breaking-up with Blonde Beard. Although you don't feel particularly sad, you definitely feel, particularly and undeniably, confused. You run through the embarrassing chain of events that led to the demise of your Non- Relationship with your Non-Boyfriend and you begin to wonder if perhaps Blonde Beard might somehow be mad at you for ruining his 40th birthday? But all you fucking did was tell him you loved him after paying for everything. Note to self: Next time definitely confess your love before the check comes.

Eventually, Ms. Gorbachev finishes probing your nether regions and runs out of the room as she mutters something gruff and unintelligible which you decipher as, "Get dressed." You stand up, carefully wipe the goop from your throbbing Balloon Balls, get dressed, and when you open the door Ms. Gorbachev is absolutely nowhere to be found. Defeated, you just leave, feeling even more confused than you already do, not to mention slightly defiled (but not in that good gay way that you've become accustomed to).

The hospital ends up sucking a lot of time and energy out of your day that would have been much better spent laying in bed, so when your phone reminds you of an HIV test you made weeks ago when you still had a sex-life, not too mention testes that weren't tortured by even the lightest touch, the last thing you want to do is drag your ailing balls across town to Callen-Lorde to get tested (especially since the prospects of ever having sex again seem to have recently become extremely unlikely). Unfortunately, it's much too late to cancel, so you schlep across town on the M23 bus and wait for your name to be called for your $10 Rapid HIV test at the Community Health Center.

After Miss Hot Tranny Meds pricks your finger for a bit of blood, you habitually get up and start to limp back to the waiting room so you can slowly drive yourself crazy during the twenty minute wait while visions of your accidental Magnum-less P.I. (Penetration Incident) with Blonde Beard dance through your head. You're almost out the door when Miss Hot Tranny Meds asks you in her deepest baritone. "Where do you think you're going? You signed up for a complete set of STD tests." Ugh. Miss Hot Tranny Meds sends you downstairs for a blood test, and when you return, both ends of your digestive system are thoroughly swabbed as if you are one of the Perps on Logo's newest show, CSI: Fire Island. During the commercial break, Miss Hot Tranny Meds informs you that your HIV test came back Negative. Although you should be thrilled, you actually find yourself wondering whether it's possible to have a relationship that will last longer than the six-month gap between your Bi-Annual HIV test?

Anyway. When you get home and drag your aching Balloon Balls up the six flights of stairs to your Home-Sweet-Hovel, you instantly race to your computer to check your email for an apology from Blonde Beard that you're never going to receive. Only when you check your Inbox it actually contains something that proves to be even more ego-stroking: an email from a very, very cute Connexion boy. It says, "hey! i'm a writer, too. what kind you ask? i'm the trying-not-to-be-lazy kind. i'm actually just a playwright, so not a real writer. you can google me, i ain't lyin'." You, of course, instantly Google Mr. Write and are absolutely shocked to find a Wikipedia entry that includes so many credits and prestigious accolades that, one thing's definitely for sure, Mr. Write "ain't lyin'."

Blonde Beard who? Anyway...