You're Not One of Those S&M Fags...

...so unfortunately you have absolutely no idea what to wear to Folsom Street East. Not to mention the wardrobe dilemma over what to wear to the Leather Brunch that Rice Queen #2 is throwing beforehand. But after a quick text-blast, you are assured that cargo shorts and a tank-top is perfectly acceptable as long as you remove the tank upon arrival. Although you'll later worry about the ramifications of which back pocket to hang the tank from, for know you can certainly live with this relatively simple outfit choice.

You can also live with the Bloody Marys that Rice Queen #2 plies you with at his Leather Brunch. In fact, he even supplies you a leather band to wear around your bicep (one of his extras, apparently). All your friends instantly begin to tease you because (although you had no idea) you somehow instinctively put the band around the arm that signifies you are a big ol' bottom. Whatever. Lately you've feeling a bit fucked in general so you just let the leather band stay put and head over to 28th Street with your Gay Posse.

As directed, you take off your tank-top as you enter the fairy fair, and you instantly feel kind of feel like Dorothy in that "Toto, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore," kind of way. But it's certainly fun and all the S&M Boys seem to be thoroughly enjoying themselves. As you wander through the Levi & Leather crowd, you begin to wonder what everybody does for a living? Like the shirtless boy strutting around with bloody welt marks whipped into his back? Does he serve Tall Non-Fat Lattes with whipped cream at Starbucks? Or how about the man sloshing around in head-to-toe rubber with a urinal built into his suit. Perhaps he's an Art Director at Grey Advertising for the Kohler account? The funny thing is that a lot of these guys all seem to be coupled up. All these S&M cast iron pots seem to have found a lid that they are happy to be smacked around with. And that's when the collective pot seemingly begins to boil over as the skies open up and it suddenly begins to pour. It's amusing to watch the half-naked S&M boys (some fully naked) as they race into the Eagle for cover, almost as if a few raindrops will cause them to melt. Perhaps, more likely, it will ruin all their leather. The Rubber Boys, however, seem much less concerned by the sudden change in weather.

The Eagle winds up being a hoot and you end up catching some freebie XXL t-shirt that gets thrown your way. Luckily you're much too small for it and you wind up offering it to some of the shirtless Bears who seem to be jealous of your sudden swag. You give it away to one of the more eager Cubs and order a beer, only before you ever finish the beer the Shirtless Cub politely returns the shirt to you with a quick "Thanks," and you are completely non-plussed when you realize that the Cub just wanted to borrow it momentarily to use as a cum rag. Seriously.

At this point, the rain has stopped and you're definitely done schmoozing with spooogers, so you head down the stairs of the Eagle and walk out onto the street. Almost instantly you run into the Advanced Ski Fag who you made out with last winter and then decided not to pursue because, after all, you were going on the same week-long ski trip. If it ended awkwardly then that could have turned out to be one damn longue semaine en France. But you've actually thought about this boy several times since the trip. You've actually wondered if he could be the type of boy that you could actually date? He's funny. He's smart. He likes to ski. He's cute. And your one big worry seems to have removed itself in the form of his shirt, because the Advanced Ski Fag is shirtless and, although he's not a gym bunny, the goods are not too shabby. A bit Gay Fat, perhaps, but nothing tragic like Man Boobs.

After all that leather, the two of you seem to be craving some red meat, so you catch up at Hell's Kitchen and yap about your Ski Trip last February. The Advanced Ski Fag tells you about how he didn't have that great a trip. You admit, that even though you won the damn vacation, that everybody seemed a bit cold and distant. You're not sure if it's the conversation or the beer, but suddenly your dinner has a definite date quality and you're not at all unhappy about it. And, surprise-surprise, when you wind up back at the Advanced Ski Fag's apartment (which is absolutely gorgeous) you find yourself being overwhelmed by an unusual and uncomfortable feeling, because you are actually comfortable. So comfortable, in fact, that you could actually see yourself Dwelling happily ever after in his apartment.

You accept when the Advanced Ski Fag offers you a glass of water, even though you never touch the stuff (it's your personal version of water conservation), and the kissing begins after a sobering mouthful of the non-vodka. Unfortunately it ain't as good as the apartment. At all. And as if that's not tragic enough, even though you never asked, the conversation somehow segues into the Advanced Ski Fag's sexual problems. Or perhaps it's something colon-related that seems to infringe upon his sex life? Regardless you attempt to tune it out even though you feel a dire need to tell him that it's this actual conversation which is ultimately infringing upon his sex life. Eventually you let him pull you out of the unfortunate T.M.I. moment and into his beautifully decorated bedroom. Unfortunately things don't improve in the boudoir. The underwear never comes off, but that probably has more to do with a double-whammy of Whisky Dick than anything else. Or at least this is what you tell the Advanced Ski Fag when you suddenly find yourself overcome with a headache that was obviously water-induced. You get up, get dressed, and the Advanced Ski Fag walks you to the door and hands you two Advil and your unfinished glass of non-vodka. You give him a quick peck goodbye as you pointedly reattach the leather strap to your other bicep, because, let's face it, the last look was not working for you. Anyway...