You're Not One of Those Fags Who Wears Jewelry...

...but if you were wearing one of those Mood Rings from the '70s it would definitely be a lovely shade of Lavender right about now because you are feeling totally Gay in all derivations of the word! You are so excited about your rebound date tonight with Mr. Write and you figure that he is exactly what the Doctor prescribed in order for you to get over Blonde Beard, even though, for some reason, you're not particularly all that Broken-Up over the Non-Breakup of your Non-Relationship.

After a recent email-fest with Mr. Write, you have learned a lot about the boy. Not to mention the fact that you are definitely liking what you've learned. Except for the fact that he's a Red Sox fan, but he grew up in Boston so you can excuse him for being a fan of brightly colored footwear. Meanwhile, the most interesting thing you learned about Mr. Write is that you are both adopted Catholic boys. Although, unlike your Recovering Catholic Ass, Mr. Write was raised in a Jewish family! This little tidbit practically has you running out the door to start up a kosher wedding registry at Jeffrey (where you will make sure Mr. Write gets a few pairs of more subtly colored $200 socks). A fake Jewish Boy! Your heart begins to kvell as you think of all the fake Passovers you will have together! All that unleavened bread with none of the Jewish Guilt! And the best part is that you are younger than Mr. Write so you are forever guaranteed to say The Four Questions! Oy vey! This just gets better and better!

Even though you've already planned which gay retirement village in Boca that you'll spend your Golden Years Nair-ing away each other's graying back hairs and dying each other's grey chest hairs with Just For Men products, you decide to play this Internet Meet n' Greet by the rules that have always served you well. As usual, you suggest that Mr. Write should be the one to pick the place to grab drinks. This way you get a little insight into the kind of place Mr. Write likes to go, and also what kind of date he wants to have. For instance, if he picks Starbucks you can suddenly come down with a case of dirty hair that needs to be shampooed. However, Mr. Write suggests going to a straight place called North Square that you've never heard of. It's an interesting choice because, on one hand it's nice because you know he won't be distracted by Gay Boys with flatter abs than the new (post-surgery) you. But on the other hand, you won't get to find out if Mr. Write has a roving eye, which is always a good litmus test for a first date.

You take the F train to the infamous West 4th stop in Greenwich Village where Blonde Beard recently left you weeping about your Non-Breakup on the subway platform, and then you stroll gaily along Washington Square Park while you enjoy the warm and beautiful evening (which, of course, you take to be a very good omen). You're right on time and get to the bar before Mr. Write does, so you order a draft beer from a straight bartender with the most tragically gay haircut that is about as pathetic as a wet cat. Actually his 'doo kind of reminds you of Christian from Project Runway after someone threw his Flat Iron into the tub that he was bathing in. For some reason you find wet hair that isn't really wet to be thoroughly disturbing. But you digress. You take a sip of your beer and you look up as you are licking the foam from your upper lip and your heart almost skips a beat as Mr. Write walks into the bar. Definitely better looking in person. If that's even possible. Mr. Write is Drop Dead gorgeous. And, luckily for everybody involved, your memory of Blonde Beard is what has actually just Dropped Dead. You stand up and your face lights up with dimples, as does Mr. Write's. He walks down the steps to greet you, only now that you're both standing on the same level you finally realize Mr. Write's (for lack of a better word) shortcoming. Although you like to think of yourself as an above-average writer who happens to be merely of average height, you are definitely UPPERCASE to Mr. Write's lowercase stature. But when you get a good look at his goods, you quickly realize that it all evens out when you're lying in bed homozontally. As long as you don't smother his hot little frame.

You have a really nice chat. For over two hours. You even break your rule of ordering more than two drinks. Who are you kidding, you always break that rule... Anyway. You have loads to talk about and tons in common. You even have friends in common. As in plural. But you're just thrilled that he has friends, unlike Blonde Beard who, in comparison, seems like a bit of a hermit. You end up having to move away from the bar because a really loud, Red-Headed, Fag-less Fag Hag is giving you both migraines. The corner table you relocate to is definitely an upgrade. Dimly lit and very romantic. The conversation turns a bit intense and time seems to fly by so fast that you are actually shocked when Mr. Write informs you that he has to leave to meet a Director about a reading he's having tomorrow for one of his as-of-yet un-produced plays. And when the check comes Mr. Write reaches for it and nervously knocks over what's left of his Pineapple Martini (and yes, of course you made fun of Mr. Write for ordering such a girlie drink...) A table across the bar has a severe case of schadenfreude and they begin to laugh hysterically at Mr. Write's misfortune as they syrupy mess covers the table and begins to overflow onto the floor.

You split the wet check and have an awkward moment outside the bar. Although you have a strict handshaking rule for Meet n' Greet's, Mr. Write coaxes you into walking him home and you go along with it because it's a gorgeous evening and he's a gorgeous guy, and you want to prolong the date. Along the way your girlie bladder informs you that it has processed way too many manly beers, and you inform Mr. Write that, if you walk him home, that you will definitely need to use his bathroom. He worries about the mess factor, but willingly succumbs to your request even though he says his apartment is messy. The idea of a mess has you briefly worried that, like your roommate, he might be another Hobosexual who lives surrounded by his own filth, but this will be good information for you to receive before you send out your Wedding Shower Invitations. Luckily the super cute apartment turns out to be a Homosexual mess instead of a Hobosexual one, and after Mr. Write moves the one little offending pile of papers out of sight, his spacious 1BR on Union Square actually sparkles like Jesse Archer. After an awkward stare-fest, you end up breaking another one of your Meet n' Greet rules as you reply "Yes," to Mr. Write's adorable request for a kiss. You end up hunching a little (so that you don't end up giving him a hickey on his forehead), but the kiss is nice. Very nice. You, of course, quickly cop a feel, and the body beneath Mr. Write's shirt must actually belong to Mr. Right because, honey, there ain't nothin' at all Wrong with it.

You leave on an absolute high, but as you begin to walk to the subway you decide to swing by your Writing Space to see if the Shutterfly Photo Book you made for Blonde Beard's birthday has finally arrived. It has. Your natural high (coupled with your Beer Buzz) begins to quickly spiral downward as you flip through the Photo Book. You immediately go on an emotional journey of all the dates the two of you had ever gone on. And that's when it finally hits you. Since the initial Subway Sob-fest, you've been wondering why you haven't had a moment of sadness over the Non-Breakup with your Non-Boyfriend? You just wanted to be done with him and send the book off to him for some old fashioned literary closure, yet the book literally ends up closing you as you begin to shut down. How on earth are you suddenly back to this place of going out on first dates? Even though meeting Mr. Write was probably even better than your first date with Blonde Beard was, your mood begins to plummet and your imaginary Gay Mood Ring turns the very real color of Black while your heart foolishly wonders if you could dye it Blonde? Anyway...