You're Not the Best Fag in the World...

...but practice makes perfect, right? Except, of course, when it comes to Softball. When it comes to Pitching and Catching, you, my friend, are an even bigger fag on the Field than you are in the Bedroom. But you've been rather glum ever since The Ex had to have your Kitty Cunt put to sleep, and some of your sporty writer friends have taken notice (mostly for a welcomed distraction from their own procrastinwriting). So somehow the Lit Lot convinces you to turn your frown upside down as they drag you to the East River Park for their weekly Softball game against Heeb Magazine.

Although your recent Creatine diet has definitely added to your sporty look, in actuality you feel much more like Old Spice than Sporty Spice. Your Straight Boyfriend wants you to play Short Stop, but you put an even Shorter Stop to that bad idea and place yourself safely in the outfield. Unfortunately the Pop Up Balls start tracking you down as if they're frenzied Paparazzi and you're Bald Britney sans panties. And if that isn't bad enough, once you've caught the damn ball you are actually responsible for throwing it to someone who is inevitably very, very far away. The whole humiliating experience does absolutely nothing but remind you how you used to feel when you were playing Kickball during recess and all the other Sixth Graders on the field would start moving in to catch your wimpy kick. However, now that you are thirtysomething you no longer have to endure an impromptu game of Schmear the Queer after causing your team to lose the inning. So this time around, instead of trying to impress anyone, you decide that keeping your dimpled smile in tact takes precedence over catching any damn ball that isn't attached to a scrotum. Unfortunately your Straight Boyfriend is not quite as lucky when an evil Ground Ball changes its mind and becomes a Pop Up as it ricochets off a rock and pounds him in his chiseled jaw instead of going into his glove. You, of course, instantly scream in horror, "Not the face!" because, yes, you are that gay, and, yes, your Straight Boyfriend is that good looking.

Luckily your Straight Boyfriend's wound is just as superficial as you are, but you watch it closely, just in case it needs some ice or possibly even a little kiss to make it feel better. After the game you end up on the back patio of a dive bar called Duke's on Avenue C, and you are very happy drinking $3 Stella's. Eventually enough cheap beer turns your seemingly innocuous conversation into a drunken Truth Fest. For some unknown reason, your Home Schooled Hipster friend has decided that you are definitely misrepresenting yourself with the way you dress. And he actually tells you this. You are a bit surprised because, although everything you own was purchased off a Clearance Rack at either Century 21, Filene's Basement or Loehmann's, the Home Schooled Hipster thinks you come off as a Vapid Chelsea Queen. And he actually tells you this. Even though, in reality, he thinks you are a much deeper person than that. You are completely speechless as you nod in awe at the Home Schooled Hipster, mostly because you are kind of secretly thrilled that your minuscule clothing budget somehow can still qualify as "vapid." You end up taking his back-handed compliment as if you were some Gay Jesus turning your other (butt) cheek for another Slap (that Ass!)

On your way home you swing by Plan B because one of your Blah-Blah-Blog friends invited you to some Eschelon International party celebrating the launch of some Gay Matchmaking Reality Show. You, of course, are solely drawn by the promise of free Vodka, Hors d'Oeuvres and a Gift Bag to boot, but when you arrive you find yourself endlessly amused by handful of the D-List stars. It's so ridiculous that you half expect to find Kathy Griffin roaming around with a camera crew. But the venue is so dead that the Reality TV Stars (and you use this term lightly) might actually out number the few hungry freeloaders that actually schlepped over to 10th Street and Avenue B for the Freebies. You wash down some free sushi with some free vodka as you watch Jill Zarin and her Gay Husband from The Real Housewives of New York City mingle with Ethan Zohn, the million dollar winner of Survivor: Africa. However, the whole Reality Experience ends up being just a bit too real for you, so you grab your gift bag and walk the few blocks home.

Even though it's relatively early, you find yourself crawling into bed with a new book called Band Fags written by one of your Lit Lot friends, however your thoughts quickly turn to your Kitty Cunt who, without fail, used to climb up on your chest and sit on your book whenever you tried to read in bed. And suddenly you feel very alone. Even though the hustle and bustle of screaming drunks outside your window is usually quite comforting, tonight the commotion has an isolating effect. You put down the book and pathetically cuddle your pillow as you try to remember what it was like to spoon your Kitty Cunt and listen to the purr of her unconditional love. And that's when you remember Blonde Beard. Or try to remember. His face is already becoming a bit hazy in your memory. You want to call him. Not because you miss him, or necessarily even want him. All you really want is to not be alone. To be held by someone. To hold someone. Just for tonight.

As usual, you begin to deconstruct the reasons for the demise of your Non-Relationship with Blonde Beard. Although you never seem to come up with any concrete answers, you always come to the same conclusion that the Non-Relationship would never have gone anywhere. You go over the long list of Cons in your head but, as always, these negative qualities all seem to pale in comparison to the overwhelming feeling of loneliness that has taken over you. At this point, even Blonde Beard's herpes don't seem to deter you. You don't want to be alone, yet you don't want to call him. The idea of being turned down during this vulnerable moment would actually be much more unbearable than suffering through it alone. And that's when it suddenly hits you. You never fully understood Blonde Beard's sudden retreat, although one thing is for sure, he began to pull away immediately after your Run-In with his Jealous Roommate (which was more like a Run-Away because the big baby couldn't deal with any sort of confrontation even though he completely fabricated the entire ridiculous fight in his own crazy ass head). However, that next morning was when Blonde Beard told you that he had just found out that he had Herpes. The thought never crossed you head before, but now you are wondering if perhaps Blonde Beard may have thought that you were the one who gave him the gift that keeps on giving?

Luckily you are not drunk enough to actually call, but you are definitely still buzzed enough from the free vodka that you do end up writing an email: "hey, i'm not sure what actually happened between us, but it just occurred to me that you may have been concerned that i might be the one who gave you herpes? anyway, i thought you should know that i was tested for EVERYTHING and came back with a clean bill of health. honestly it didn't even occur to me to pass along this info till now. sorry for that. had a crappy weekend. my cat died of kidney failure in LA so i didn't even get to say goodbye. glad you liked the photo book. i had a lot of fun making it. kind of ironic that our last supper was at supper. i'm telling you, you can't write this shit! hope you're doing well." And before you can second guess yourself, you hit send.

You prepare yourself for a long wait. Perhaps an infinite one where you never receive his reply. But, less than ten minutes after you send it you receive this: "Hey, I hadn't thought of that either, actually, but thanks for offering it up. Glad you got a clean bill of health. I'm truly sorry to hear about your cat. hope you're coping with it okay. Best, Blonde Beard"

Best!? Fucking Blonde Beard actually wrote you, "Best!" You are in a state of complete and utter shock! Someone you thought you loved has just Bested you! It is just so insane! Here you were, feeling all sad and lonely and wishing you were lying in the comforting arms of this boy who turns around and Bests you! You quickly turn off your computer and crawl back into bed with your advance copy of Band Fags and you can't help but chuckle at the very first line, "Friends hold you back." Suddenly it becomes very clear that Blonde Beard was definitely holding you back. Holding your emotions back. Holding your love back. Your vapid, Chelsea Boy love. And just like that you realize that it is Best that you never ever contact Blonde Beard again. Anyway...