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...

You're Not One of Those Valley of The Dolls Fags...

..."but you have to get up at five o'clock in the morning and sparkle, Neely, sparkle!" Well, maybe not 5am, but definitely 5pm. Usually. Regardless, you've been absolutely loving your Oxycodone that Dr. Mary-Ann-Not-Ginger prescribed you after your Laparascopic Surgery to repair your Hurtful Hernia. Usually you're way too Anal Retentive (literally) to be a fan of pain killers and their constant constipating side effects, but, since your balls have become so insanely large and excruciatingly painful (your scrotum feels like it's doing double duty as a Bowling Bag), you've been popping the painkillers as if they were Wint-O-Green flavored Tic-Tacs. Even though your Generic Percocet Dolls make you a little loopy sometimes (mostly since you take them on an empty stomach for some extra medicated umph, not to mention the fact that you are so beyond Gay Fat mere weeks before Fire Island Season begins...), but luckily, even though you feel a bit wonky, you still have your priorities set (for lack of a better word) straight, so you cram into your loosest pair of Fat Jeans and head uptown to Therapy for Gay Cocktails with the Ski Fags for their end of the season party.

When you get off the E train at 50th Street you receive a text and wonder, perhaps, if Hell Hath Frozen Over, because somehow your BFF has beaten you to the party. And he's on Gay Standard Time. In the Los Angeles time zone no less. So you pick up your limping pace and when you walk into the bar you instantly focus on the grim look on your BFF's face which is confusing, until you notice that he is chatting with two non-Ski Fags. With two of your friends actually. Half-Share (who recently upgraded to a Full-Share in the Pines, only in a less glamorous house) and also Jet Blew. More specifically, these are two of your friends that your BFF has already slept with. You chuckle about the awkward situation to yourself, but since you are feeling no pain (killer) you are also feeling no sympathy (buzz killer). Time for a Gay Cocktail! Or four.

You joke with Jet Blew that he absolutely has to move into your new building (assuming the mortgage gods smile upon you and overlook your bad credit) so you both can have some Melrose Place drama. Of course, you will play Heather Locklear's character, Amanda, and quickly sleep your way to the top of the Co-Op Board, where, once you become President, you will amend the no-pet policy to include a ban on children. And you will redecorate. Everything. And you'll replace the muzak in the elevator with a constant loop of Rihanna, Kelly Clarkson and Madonna. Okay, maybe Britney, too. Her Blackout album is growing on you. Meanwhile, after a few cocktails you realize that your Blackout is growing on you, too. Whereas four Stoli O's would barley cause your kidneys to hiccup, tonight you are feeling like a Hot Tranny Mess. Sort of like Judy Garland's and Liza Minelli's incestuous love child. So, of course, you make the executive decision to order another cocktail. However, since Happy Hour is over, your cheap ass orders the generic house Vodka.

At the bar you run into your Irish friend, Guinness, who seems to be competing for the world's record of Most Overly Educated While Intoxicated (you still don't understand why he wants to be friends with your illiterate ass...) That's when Guinness suddenly introduces you to the most shockingly handsome foreign boy that you've seen at least since you got off the subway, and the two of you immediately start slurring about something extremely gay and fashion-ating. The Portugese Brazilian is amazingly well built and you try to imagine him in a Speedo on Ipanema Beach until he starts talking about how he's about to relocate to London where, somehow, he'll be closer to his family? Now geography is definitely not your thing, but even after all the pills and booze you are pretty sure that London is not closer to Rio de Janeiro than New York? But you just shrug and sip on your Gay Cocktail while attempting to look pretty. The Brazilian from Portugal (?) fills in your lacking end of the conversation with some non-sequitur how it is impossible for men to have a monogamous relationship, and then, in the same sentence, he informs you about his boyfriend. You vehemently disagree that monogamy is impossible for anyone but him, until he changes the subject and starts telling you about how he really, really wants to have a kid. He even hired a surrogate who ultimately ended up being barren (which strikes you as a very interesting and lucrative career choice). You're about to offer your womb for hire when the Portuguese Brazilian from London hands you his business card and then excuses himself for the bathroom. You attempt to focus on his complicated job title, but it must be too dark in the bar (or something) because it's much too difficult to read. Anyway.

That's when you become aware of a hand *gasp* grasping your Gay Fat mid-section! Which happens to be dreadfully close to your bandaged surgical incision! You instinctively recoil (without, thank God, spilling your precious, Full-Priced, Non-Happy Hour Gay Cocktail). The hand turns out to belong to one of the more Advanced Ski Fags (who you made advances on at the last Ski Fag Party). You skied together in France, and you know he was confused about why your advances stopped, but you thought it was too complicated to explain the whole Blonde Beard situation. He never asked, and you never offered. Advanced Ski Fag smiles a quick hello and then quickly disappears into the crowd of drunken moguls. Other than your BFF, Advanced Ski Fag was really the only boy who you enjoyed on the trip and you are truly excited to see him. Suddenly you have the drunken need to explain the Blonde Beard situation and tell the Advanced Ski Fag about why your sexual advances made such a hasty retreat. So you chase him through the powdered noses sprinkled throughout the crowded bar and luckily catch up to him before he makes his way down the Black Diamond trail which the Bravest Ski Fags refer to as, "The Therapy Stairway."

Anyway. You catch up to Advanced Ski Fag and stop him before he begins his treacherous descent, and you say, "Hey!" while flashing him your dimples in a rather revealing, slightly inappropriate way. He smiles back and it instantly becomes clear that if you weren't seeing Blonde Beard, then you would definitely be making more Advances on Advanced Ski Fag. That's when you reveal, "I was hoping I'd get to see you tonight! I can't believe it's already been two months since we were skiing in France." The Advanced Ski Fag looks at you, puzzled, and says, "What are you talking about?" which is, needless to say, weird. Although it is obvious that some sort of social avalanche has begun, for some reason you continue your Mary Ol' way down the slippery slope. You say, "Yeah, you were the one guy that I really enjoyed hanging out with on the trip." And that's when the Advanced Ski Fag says, "I never went on that trip. Who do you think I am?" You look long and hard as the boy in front of you explains that he is actually Bar Boy who you actually dated a few times last December. The last time you saw him he was so drunk that you ended up walking him home and left him half naked on his bed because, let's face it, he was too drunk to care and it was just much too much work to get his jeans off. My how the tables have turned...

You stare at Bar Boy for a long time before he asks, "Are you okay?" And then you explain that you've just had surgery and probably shouldn't be mixing your Generic Pain Dolls with Generic House Vodka. But you keep looking at him because, even though you know he is actually Bar Boy, he still looks like the Advanced Ski Fag to you. You excuse yourself and look around to find your BFF so you can make him take you home, only when you turn around you see another Ski Fag who you met on your trip to France. Somehow you muster up a "Hello" through your immense embarrassment, and then you say, "How's your dog?" And that's when this particular Ski Fag hits you. In the stomach. On your belly button. Exactly where you just had surgery. You instantly double over in pain as this Ski Fag reminds you that you have mistaken him for his Chamonix roommate.

You decide that you have obviously long ago turned into a pumpkin, and now, Cinderfella, you have actually begun to ferment. So you ease your way down the Black Diamond rated Stairwell and you glance around the downstairs bar for a nanosecond, mostly so you can claim that you looked all over the bar to say goodbye to your BFF, but that's when the Portuguese Brazilian from London walks over to you with a fresh cocktail. "Leaving already?" You are terrified that you might actually be mistaking his identity too, so You explain that you had much too much to drink and that it doesn't seem to be agreeing with that handful of pain killers you took earlier today. That's when the Portuguese Brazilian from London actually starts to quote Valley of the Dolls, "Broadway doesn't go for booze and dope. Now get out of my way, I've got a man waiting for me." And then he reaches over and gives you a kiss which you find yourself readily accepting, yet ultimately wishing that you hadn't. Because, even though things have been getting a bit odd, you are seeing Blonde Beard. On your way back to the subway you find yourself feeling so immensely guilty about the kiss that you are so immensely happy that you're going to black out this entire evening. Anyway...