You're Not One of Those Fags Who Thinks He's Da Bomb...

...in fact, when it comes to online dating you actually *gasp* tend to be a bit shy. You really kind of hate contacting strangers to say something witty and clever that will hopefully prod them to check out your profile and write you back. However you tend to get really annoyed when you actually do take the time to contact them and they don't take the time to write you back. What's up with that? Do these boys really think that they're that special? You tend to think that the whole Gay Courting Dance always plays out so much better in a bar situation, when you can get all the information you need in one simple glance. With a Gay Cocktail in you hand no less. If the boy is interested, you'll know. If he's not interested, then you haven't wasted all that time and energy sending out ridiculous emails to boys who obviously must just be overwhelmed by your clever e-banter, because what other reason could there possibly be for these boys not to write You back? Just because he paid some silly cinematographer to create a dramatic shadowy effect to enhance his six-pack for an online dating photo shoot during magic hour does not make him Burt Lancaster in From Here to Eternity! Do his rock hard abs really make him Da Bomb? Or just Da Dumb Blonde Bombshell? But, as usual, you digress.

You have long ago stopped writing Da Dumb Blonde Bombshells and have taken a much more passive-aggressive, yet very successful approach to first contact on Connexion. You visibly bookmark these boys. It's less hostile than a Match.com wink, yet somehow it seems to work. If the boys like you then they tend to write back. If they don't respond, then, although they are obviously missing out on a grand dating opportunity, for whatever reason it doesn't really irritate you. And less irritation in your life, although rare, is definitely a good thing. So you go ahead and bookmark the hot Swedish Engineer that has just caught your eye, and even though he doesn't have any gratuitous ab shots, you still kind of think he's Da Bomb. And then you do something that you are very, very bad at. You wait.

Luckily, you don't have to procrastinwrite for too long before your Inbox dings with, surprise-surprise, a message from your Swedie Pi! And he's actually writing you during his trip to Sweden! You email back and forth a couple of times before you take your relationship to the next e-level and begin to chat via Instant Message. You're a bit worried that your Swedie Pi's English won't be quick enough for a back-and-forth IM session (yet it will obviously be much more comprehensible than your Swedish would be), but the Queen practically speaks the Queen's English better than you do. Not to mention the fact that he gets all your jokes and references. You're really rather impressed. And let's face it, you're pretty tough to impress. Well, tough to be impressed by a boy without any professional abdominal shots. You tend to find rock hard abs infinitely impressive since you've been searching high and low for your own elusive six-pack for the past thirtysomething years. But you digress. The conversation is thoroughly enjoyable and you absolutely love it when you complain about something or other and Swedie Pi actually has the balls to call you whiny! You know you can dish it out, but you like to pride yourself on being able to take it, too. You're very versatile in that way (among others...) Unfortunately, most of the boys you date might find you, how can you say this diplomatically, a bit blunt. Bordering on caustic. But, having worked previously on a sitcom, you're always in search of the joke and pretty much everything and everybody is fair game. You never intend to hurt anybody's feelings, but from time to time there are definitely casualties. This is why you love it when some random Swedish boy gives you a taste of your own medicine, in your own language no less, and you suddenly find yourself cast in your favorite Elizabeth Taylor role: The Taming of the Shrew.

You actually lose track of time while chatting with Swedie Pi and are shocked when your anorexic friend, Fat Albert sends you a text saying "Hey, Hey, Hey! What time are we Splashing?" Although you have thoroughly enjoyed chatting with your Swedie Pi, you still have your gay priorities set, for lack of a better word, straight, and there are Gay Cocktails to be had at some (unfortunately named, yet extremely well-priced) free Blat Vodka event. So you wrap up your e-conversation with Swedie Pi and head over to Splash for the Immaculate Consumption party where, since you RSVP'd and are on the list, you are the lucky recipient of a bracelet which entitles you to drink impurity-free Vodka for two impurely free hours!

As soon as you walk through the door you notice your Fire Island friend Half-Share (who upgraded to a Full Share this summer, only in a less glamorous house) and he is, as usual, holding court smack in the middle of the bar. Half-Share is surrounded by all his Summer Housemates, which is typical even though it is still early Spring, and these boys welcome you with open arms and squeeze you and your glorious VIP bracelet up to the bar for some free Impurity Free Blat. While you wait for one of the many busy bartenders, you get into a conversation with one of Half-Share's prematurely gray housemates, Andy Warhol, and he tells you all about how he plans to replace the hideous art in their Summer House because the rental crap just doesn't cut it. You enjoy listening to Andy Warhol's uptown problems and all is good until you realize that the gorgeous bartender who looks exactly like the Ben character from Queer As Folk (except for the fact that the bartender is much younger and wearing nothing but an extremely flattering pair of Calvin Klein briefs). It's a bit awkward since, about a year ago, Queer As Ben actually gave you his number while you were imbibing at Splash. You, of course, slaved over whether or not to actually use the number and give Queer As Ben a call, but ultimately decided that you would inevitably fall helplessly and hopelessly in love with the gorgeous man, and getting heartbroken by a man who goes to work in his underwear was just plain unacceptable, so you winded up never calling. And since you are probably the only boy to ever turn down an opportunity to date Queer As Ben, it's always rather awkward to order drinks from him (even though it's highly unlikely that Queer As Ben actually remembers you at all).

That's when Fat Albert shows up directly from work in a Hey-Hey-Handmade British suit which probably cost more than settling a Britney lawsuit ever would, and he squeezes his anorexic little butt up to the bar to put in his Blat order with Queer As Ben. A Gay Old Time is had by all during this constant cyclical process of ordering, drinking and then ordering again during the two deliriously free Blat hours. However, just as the free Blat Timer is about to expire, an extremely drunk man with a unibrow attempts to rudely push his way through your friends so he can reach the bar before the Blat altogether disappears. Only Unibrow attempts to push Andy Warhol out of his way by throwing around a ridiculously large knapsack (which is so huge that you begin to wonder if he perhaps Unibrow might have packed a few outfit changes for a Weekend White Water Rafting Trip at Splash?) Anyway. Unibrow has definitely picked the wrong fag to fuck with, and Andy Warhol informs Unibrow that he is not moving. And that's when Unibrow informs Andy Warhol that he better move because he has, get this, a bomb in his gynormous backpack.

Always the Good Samaritan, Andy Warhol reconsiders his stance and quickly moves out of Da Unibrow Bomber's way. However, while Da Unibrow Bomber attempts to order his last free Blat from Queer As Ben, Andy Warhol informs the doorman about the Unibrow Bomber's Bomb Threat. Moments later, Da Unibrow Bomber is forcefully ejected by a few burly Splash bouncers who have absolutely no interest in finding out whether or not the Drunk Boy Who Cried Terrorist is actually bluffing about Da Bomb. The whole scene is rather dramatic, but this is mostly because Da Unibrow Bomber is extremely vocal about the fact that he is thoroughly entitled to his last free Blat before his bomb goes "BLAT!" and reduces Splash to a pile of overpriced Barney's rubble. This drama continues as the Unibrow Bomber starts protesting his ejection, even as his ass hits the curb, until eventually the Police show up, followed closely by, get this, the Bomb Squad. You and your drunken Gay Posse watch incredulously out the window as 17th Street is blocked off from all traffic. Including pedestrians. And that's when Queer As Ben makes an announcement over Splash's P.A. system informing everybody that, "Since nobody is allowed to leave the bar, Splash has extended the free Blat Vodka for another hour!" The crowd cheers and rushes the bar as your Gay Posse giggles your way back to the bar to get Bombed on Blat. Anyway...

Post Script-A big thank you to the Non-Party-Boy Party-Boy (NPBPB) for sending You to "The Immaculate Consumption" Party, and, of course, an extra big thank you goes out to da Unibrow Bomber!!

You're Not One of Those Church Going Fags...

...but you don't mind putting on your Sunday Best and making your way over to Port Authority to catch the free Ikea bus to celebrate Easter by getting some colorful ideas for your new apartment, which you can neither afford to buy nor furnish. But when your hangover wakes you up at the completely unreasonable hour of high noon (perhaps Daylight Savings happened again?) you wind up being held hostage in your bedroom because you hear your Hobosexual Roommate rummaging around your Home Sweet Hovel doing something noisy that probably involves imaginary Bedbugs. After last night's Twilight Zone incident, you have absolutely no interest in having another insane conversation about drycleaning your underwear or wrapping your mattress in one of those plastic wee-wee pads that are much more popular with Watersport fags then Imaginary Bedbugs.

Eventually you hear the click of the lock which indicates the Hobosexual's departure (hopefully to go to Mass to pray for the safe return of his sanity) and your bladder is about to explode from all the Gay Cocktails you had last night. Only you're way too tired even to relieve yourself standing, so you end up sitting down to pee, and that's when you notice that the Huggies Baby Wipe dispenser (which is designed to function like a box of wet tissues) has been opened and thrown into the corner because it is empty. The fact that the Hobosexual bought you a life supply of these unflushable wipes a mere two weeks ago, in order to replace your Cottonelle Flushable Moist Wipes that he used while you were on vacation. And now the family size box is completely empty! The fact that he's obviously using them isn't even the issue anymore. Is he using them to swat imaginary Bedbugs? Or is he just a Power Bottom? You wonder how many of these wipes the Hobosexual could possibly use to clean his bum, and then you begin to worry about the effect that the unflushable Huggie Wipes will have on the ailing pipes that make up Lower Manhattan's infrastructure? You shudder to think about it, but decide against pulling out the Cottonelle refill pack you have hidden under the sink, because surely the Hobosexual will use all seventy-eight of them up on his next B.M.

You attempt to have breakfast after your shower, but unfortunately you are out of milk and eggs. You briefly consider wetting your CherriO's with Stoli O', but decide against it in favor of holding off for the yummy Ikea Buffet where you can fill up on a delicious Easter Brunch of Swedish Meatballs. Only when you get to Port Authority you are surprised by the amount of fellow Heathens lined up for the Ikea Bus; somehow you thought all the boys would be busy showing off their Easter Bonnets and saying their Hail Mary's over Bloody Marys at the All-You-Can-Drink Brunch at Intermezzo. But as fate would have it, all the gay boys had the same exact sacrilegious Ikea Idea as you did.

You decide to return a $10 Coat Hook rack that you bought but, surprise-surprise, never got around to installing. The idea of expending one more drop of energy or dropping one more dime into your Home Sweet Hovel makes standing in an endless Customer Service line seem completely worthwhile. You pull the number "01" from the dispenser, yet your heart sinks when you look up to the "Now Serving 51" sign. Didn't anybody go to fucking church today?? When you look back down you immediately recognize a very familiar face walk into the store, only you can't seem to produce a name, partly because you're in New Jersey so everything is definitely way out of context in that "I don't think we're in Kansas anymore" kind of way, not to mention the fact that your head is still too busy throbbing from all the Stoli O's to think properly. Luckily your familiar friend seems to be suffering from the same familiar Sunday affliction.

After a few friendly "hey-how-are-you's" followed by some obligatory "what-are-you-doing-here's," your synapses emerge from their early retirement long enough to realize that your familiar friend is actually Half-Share's (who recently upgraded to a Full-Share only in a less glamorous house) Fire Island Housemate's Boyfriend (does it get any gayer than that?) You were actually had your own share the summer that these two boys met, and you remember their relationship going from Zero-to-Sixty faster than two fags in a Saab Convertible (with the top down and the windows up as to not muss their hair). You distinctly remember one of their earliest discussions was whether or not they should buy their summer home in East Hampton or The Pines. Anyway.

When you turn around you see his boyfriend's prematurely white hair (a bit fussy and, of course, un-mussed) and Andy Warhol stomps his way over to you and Holly Woodlawn. You offer Andy Warhol a big smile because, really, what are the chances that you would run into the Zero-to-Sixty Couple so physically and seasonally far away from a Low Tea at The Blue Whale? Only when Andy Warhol finally notices you, he returns your dimpled greeting with nothing but a big ol' Stank Eye. You are in shock! Does he hate you? Did you do something nasty to him when you were drunk and then accidentally blacked it out? Eventually Andy Warhol musters up a meek and extremely hesitant, "Hello," as if he is completely sick of saying it to you in particular. Then he informs Holly Woodlawn in a huff that he's going to go search The Factory for some random replacement Ikea part. When Andy Warhol disappears without bothering to say goodbye, Holly Woodlawn rolls her eyes and informs you, "I'm about to fucking kick him in the head!" You immediately conjure up Lily Taylor's character in that indie film, I Shot Andy Warhol, and honestly, given Andy's bitchy attitude, you really couldn't blame Holly Woodlawn for her actions. But you digress.

You instantly realize that you've run into the Happy Go Lucky Zero-to-Sixty Couple smack in the middle of a horrendous, knock-down fight. Although Andy's bad attitude is obviously not directed at you, it definitely gets you thinking as you make your way around Ikea. And you must have misplaced your Beaujolais colored glasses because all of the Happy Gay Couples shopping for cheap European Knock-Offs seem to be a little bit snippier than usual. Although their couple's euphoria usually makes you slightly ill, today all you seem to notice is their couple's discord. And suddenly you are reminded of all the fights you used to have when you were in your Endless Relationship That Eventually Ended, and yet, for some unknown reason, you still find yourself wanting to get into another one. Specifically with Blonde Beard. But will you boys end up fighting like Zero-to-Sixty? Of course you will. And even though the thought of pulling out your claws and having a cat fight with your bearded boy makes you slightly nauseous, you still want it. Somehow the highs and the lows of a relationship still seem preferential to the mediocre consistency of waking up to the reflection of your own clean shaven face every day. And that's when you decide to text Blonde Beard. Just to say hi. Just to say you're thinking about him. Just to see if he might need any kisses. Just to not feel so alone amongst all the bickering couples while you shop for inexpensive things that you can't afford.

But you don't get a response from Blonde Beard. Not while you're shopping. Not while you're checking out. Not even while you're waiting in a forty-five minute line for the free Ikea Bus. He doesn't even respond during your trip back to the city, even though you get caught in a half-hour of tunnel traffic. You're sure that he'll respond by the time you emerge from the signal-less subway, but he doesn't. And you begin to get annoyed. And sad. And scared. Are you having your first fight? Perhaps you upset him in some way shape or form? Perhaps he wants to "fucking kick you in the head" for some silly reason like perhaps he's realized that you're writing about him in your Blah-Blah-Blog? Or perhaps he went to Sunday Mass? By the time you ascend the six flights to you Home Sweet Hovel, you are totally grasping at straws and completely freaking out. You want to know the exact time that you sent the text so you know exactly how long he's had to respond. Only when you finish sifting through your sent texts you realize that your message was never actually sent. And that's when you realize that you've just won your very first fight with Blonde Beard even though he wasn't aware you were having one. Anyway...