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

...anymore. But you used to be, and you were damn good at it! But after the Electile Dysfunction episode with Mr. Write, those good ol' days of making a home for someone you love seem even more elusive than ever. Sadness overtakes you after you say goodbye to Mr. Write and make your way to the subway. You're really kind of confused about the whole Mr. Write situation. His exuberant texts and abundant emails seem to be sending a completely opposite signal than his Bizarre Billary Behavior tonight. And you're still way too hung up over figuring out Blonde Beard's hasty retreat to put too much energy into figuring out Mr. Write's Mixed Messages. At least when things seemed promising in a rebound-ful way with Mr. Write it was a nice distraction to forget all about Blonde Beard. But honestly, when you really think about all this, none of it really matters. What matters is that you are still obviously, as Madonna would say, Hung Up over Blonde Beard ever since your Non-Breakup, and since then, "Time Goes By ... So Slowly." Especially when you're sober.

As you're descending the stairs into the 14th Street subway, you get a text which you are absolutely sure must be another Mixed (SMS) Message from Mr. Write, probably to apologize for choosing to have a nightcap with Billary instead of you. And even though this particular text message is barely decipherable, it's meaning is definitely crystal clear. At 11:15pm your Hobosexual Roommate informs you that, "my friend is dropping 4 d nite.” Although you sometimes have trouble translating IM's or Texts from twentysomething into thirtysomething, you've actually received this particular last-minute text from the Hobosexual at least five other times (this past year alone), and it means that his irritatingly loud college friend is going to be crashing in your apartment, taking over your living room, and generally making your whole apartment smell like his moldy feet. Which is fine. What's not fine is that, just like the other five times, you have been given zero notice. Obviously, even if this was an unplanned, impromptu visit (which you don't believe for a second since the Foul Footed Friend lives in Boston), it obviously was a spontaneous decision approximately four hours ago when the Foul Footed Friend decided to throw his Stick and Bindle over his shoulder and hop a freight train from Boston to New York to visit the Hobosexual. Not only are you over the Foul Footed Friend's visits, but you're in absolutely no mood for one tonight. So you reply with a terse, "That’s fine, although it would be nice if you gave me a little more notice next time," and then you descend underground to catch the F-U. Whoops, you meant to write F -V trains. Really you did.

After ascending the six flights to your Home-Sweet-Hovel, you are out of breath as well as patience, and you can hear the Bravo blaring from your TV before you can even fish the apartment key from your pocket. You walk in and, as predicted, the Foul Footed Friend is actually picking his toes while splayed out on your couch watching The Real Housewives of New York City on your TV with your volume blaring. And the best part is that he doesn't even say hello! Nor does he stop picking his non-athletic Athlete's Feet! Were these gay boys born in a barn? Aren't we supposed to be a bit more cultured and polite than our straight counterparts? Or have these inane (yet extremely enjoyable) Bravo shows completely melded our Queer Eyes with the Straight Guys? "Hey," you say, mostly because you can't stand being ignored by your own unwelcome guest. "Hey," he says back, without ever looking up from The Housewives.

Although the Foul Footed Friend drives you crazy, he is not the one you have a beef with. And Speak of the Devil, that's when the Hobosexual appears from behind his freight door, then immediately slams it shut so nobody will see how many decomposing bodies he's hiding in there. He's wearing a sweatband around his dry temple, which, incidentally, has never perspired inside any gym, nor gotten Physical since Olivia Newton John made headbands popular in the early '80s. The Hobosexual just stares at you, possibly with fear, probably with hatred (both of which you're okay with), but since you were not born in a barn, you decide not to make a big deal out of his surprise visitor directly in front of the surprise guest. So you just say, "Hey," to the Hobosexual and he actually doesn't say anything back, because he was obviously born in the same straw-floored barn as his Foul Footed Friend.

You retreat and hide away in the clean sanctuary of your bedroom, and after what seems like an eternity, Noah's Ark must finally be complete because the Dynamic Duo finally leave their barn and head out for an evening of Forty Lays with Forty Blights. Of course, since these Barn Fags are neither accustomed to paying electricity bills nor caring whether their roommate is busy having a pity party, they end up forgetting to turn off the blaring television. When you can't take it anymore, you emerge from your Homosexual Hermitage and spend twenty minutes looking for the remote amongst all the Foul Footed Footwear strewn around your living room. In fact there is so much luggage that you begin to wonder exactly how long your un-expected guest will out-stay his un-welcome?

This is just about when The Real Housewives of New York City suck you into their Upper East Side Reality, which at the moment is much more preferable than your own Lower East Side Brutality. So you plop down onto the lumpy futon couch and eat some Bon-Bons while you watch Cuntess LuAnn complain about the hardships of returning to the central air-conditioning woes of her twenty million dollar Manhattan townhouse after summering in East Hampton. Anyway...