FAG FORWARD! You're Not One of Those Dirty Fags...

...but your apartment has become one giant mess of boxes filled with old crap you need to get rid of and new boxes filled with Ikea crap that you need to put together. But after finishing your work, you decide to blow off all the boxes and wander around your new 'hood to check out the dirty gay bars in Jackson Heights.

Being a very organized and very thirsty boy, you, of course, create a list of all the local gay watering holes. Although you've always heard that Jackson Heights was very gay, you're kind of shocked at how many bars are within stumbling distance. Although a far cry from Chelsea or Hellsea, you're rather pleased to realize that you now live in the fabuloso Latin Gay Ghetto of Jacksea. Your first stop is at a place called The Music Box, which is literally less than a block away from your new home. The drag show is a bit tragic and since you took français you only understand the 'lish half of the Spanglish performance. As usual, the bartender is cute (luckily there are some things in this gay world that you can count on regardless of language barriers) and is nice enough to go over your list. He crosses out a few of the bars and sends you directly to Friends Tavern, assuring you that it'll be busy on a Thursday night.

Friends is packed and the boys are Latin and the music is Latin and the language is Latin and you are not. Honestly you feel like you are very, very far away from home, like somewhere in South America, even though you live just a few blocks away. In fact you feel so out of place that you decide to go home after you finish your beer. But that's when some hot, shirtless, Latin guy in his early thirties introduces himself. Although nobody else seems very interested in hable inglés to your cracker ass, this Latin Potato Queen is a different story. He's actually extremely sexy, and the next thing you know you are kissing him. Hey, it happens. Unfortunately he's an extremely bad kisser (talk about the kiss of death), so after two or three hours of terrible kisses you decide you must go home. But the Latin Potato Queen doesn't want you to go yet. He obviously wants more kissing lessons. And he obviously needs them. But you are tired and when you look at your watch you want to die because somehow it is now 3am. He makes you give him your number and when you go home you make yourself a frozen burrito (wonder where you got that craving...) and the Latin Potato Queen calls you make sure you got home safe. Which is kind of sweet. Anyway.

That weekend while you're hanging pictures on your bare walls, you get a text from Rice Queen telling you to meet him at Pieces which sounds a little tragic since it's usually full of Bridge & Tunnel types, but let's face it, you are now officially a Bridge & Tunnel type! So you go to Pieces (pun intended) and the place is absolutely packed! The music is great and since your inner-Elaine needs a lot of space to dance, you quickly gravitate toward the empty stage. Soon after that the GoGo boys start to encourage you to join them on the pool table, but little do they know that how much dancing space Elaine needs... It's not long before those GoGo boys are GoneGone boys and some straight girl is trying to put money down your pants. Of course you are happy for the cash, but this girl makes you work for it by taking off your shirt before she agrees to pay up. You're a bit shy, but it's hot and you are having a blast so what the hell. When you wake up in the morning you have enough money shoved down your tightie-whities to pay for brunch . Anyway.

During your third or possibly seventh trip to the Gayest Place on Earth (Brooklyn Ikea), you realize that you are definitely being checked out by an Asian guy. You're a bit surprised when he actually walks up to you and says, "Excuse me," but you are in absolute shock when he asks, "I'm sorry to bug you but I just wanted to tell you that I love your blog." You are floored to a state of muteness, kind of like Cindy Brady when she was on that TV quiz show: "Baton Rouge, Cindy! Baton Rouge!" And then the guy asks, "You are Andy Towle from Towleroad, right?" You just smile with relief and inform him that, no, you are not Andy Towle. But this is the second time that some stranger has thought you were him. Weird.

Later that night, while you're putting together Ikea crap, you get a call from a Private Caller, and even though those unknown calls terrify you, you end up answering it because you are expecting a call from an old high school friend. Unfortunately you are wrong, and you are more than a little freaked out when the man identifies himself as an L.A.P.D. narcotics detective. The nice D.E.A. agent asks if you might happen know a guy who just happens to have the same exact name as The Ex. Your jaw drops as you curiously inform him, "Yes," while images of The Ex being arrested in a South Central crack den dance through your head. But the officer informs you that he has located The Ex's stolen computer during a recent drug bust and he's trying to get in touch with him. Then he asks if The Ex works in the entertainment industry? You tell him, "Yes, he does. Why?" The Detective says, "I was just wondering because there are lots of famous people in his address book. Like Lisa Kudrow and Danny Devito..." So you say, "And you decided to call me?" Obviously not a gay cop! Anyway.

A few nights later you and your BFF end up at The Eagle where they make you take off your Polo shirt before letting your preppy ass up to the roof deck, which is packed like leather sardines. Since it's not your typical crowd of boys, you are a bit surprised to hear your name called from across the thick crowd. You look up and see an old buddy who used to be one of your straight supportive friends in college, but is now a big ol' fag DJ whose daily whereabouts actually get written up in HX and Next. He's standing on a platform as he motions you over to join him, so, of course, you do. It's not until you get up on the platform that you can actually see what exactly is riveting the crowd of Bears. Basically there's one guy with a whip and another guy getting whipped. Only the guy getting whipped is bleeding profusely and although you really want to call 911, you just stand there and watch until you start to throw up in your mouth a little. Anyway.

Somehow you get your new apartment all put together well enough to throw your BFF a goodbye party before he moves to Rome. So you spend the day running around buying liquor and party cheese and cheap munchies at Trader Joes. The first guest to your early cocktail party arrives over two hours late and by midnight your little, early-ish party is far from over. The Karaoke Nazi takes over DJ duties and every time you turn down the stereo so your 87 year old neighbor won't call the police (please God let her be hard of hearing), someone else turns it up. Louder. The party is fun and at some drunken point during the night you decide to make a toast to your BFF. You tell the story about how you met three years ago volunteering at the Gay & Lesbian Center and how knowing him has changed your life for the better. You wrap up your drunken diatribe by blah-blah-blahing about how you love him very much and you don't know what you are going to do in NYC without your partner in crime. That's when your BFF comes over and gives you a hug and the two of you begin to sob, holding each other while you blubber uncontrollably in the middle of your drunken party.

Around 2:30am when everybody finally leaves, you decide to leave your messy apartment too, and race over to Club Atlantis to meet the Latin Potato Queen who has been texting you all night long. You're kind of hoping for a hook up, but when you get there he's really drunk and immediately attacks you with his bad kisses. And he's wearing this tragic pair of shorts which you which can only describe as lederhosen. However, when the Latin Potato Queen asks if you'd like a drink, you, of course, say, "Yes," and the two of you head up to the bar. But when the bartender comes over the Latin Potato Queen looks at you and says, "I only have ten dollars," and proceeds to put his money back into his pocket as if you are now somehow supposed to pay for the round of drinks that he offered. So you look at the bartender and say, "I'll have one Bud Lite," and pay for it with a ten.

You gulp down the beer and somehow escape but not before a few more tragic kisses are jackhammered into your mouth. When you get home your feet literally get stuck on the sticky floor just as you pass the red wine stain on your brand new white rug. You abandon the shoes and ignore the filth and all the uneaten food and half-empty cups as you climb into your bed and dream about being dirty in bed rather than sleeping in it. Anyway...

You’re Not One of Those Fags Who’s Into P.D.A....

...but you are always amazed and sometimes quite impressed by the gay boys who have the balls to share their dirty gay stuff with the world. Like the boys you stumble upon while taking a leisurely Saturday morning walk on the beach. Although you and your skin cancer just got back to civilization from Fire Guyland less than twenty-four hours ago, your BFF called to see if you wanted to take a day trip to Jones Beach and of course you said yes. However your shoulders seem to be protesting your life of leisure as they have recently raised their Terror Alert from Orange to Red.

Speaking of Terrorists, the P.D.A. boys on the nude beach are the gay equivalent of Suicide Bombers. They are literally fucking in broad daylight. Although the Top definitely has visible signs of advanced HIV, there are absolutely no visible signs of a condom. Anywhere. This becomes quite evident when the Top Terrorist pulls out, spits into his palm, and then lubes up for some more un-gloved love. And yes, you can see all of this because you are actually that close. The whole scene is just so upsetting that you cut your walk short and head back to your friends who you were trying to escape for a brief respite, mostly because they were rather drunk by the time you arrived. You, however, surprisingly Just Say No to an afternoon Corona, mostly because you know you have a long night ahead of you.

The plan is to head back to the Karaoke Nazi’s house to shower, then head over to Warm Up at PS1 in Long Island City for some hot dancing amongst the Hunky Hipster set, then it’s off to Brooklyn to celebrate COILIN’s graduation from the Columbia Doctorate program. It’s a banner three Borough day that will probably end with some bed spinning in Rice Queen #2’s lovely accommodation for your homeless ass. However, after escaping the Top Terrorist and finally making it back to your Bombed BFF and company, you seem to get the distinct feeling that you are not going to be included in the showering part of the plan. And after what your virginal eyes just saw, you’re feeling very, very dirty. So you figure it’s best to be clear with the Karaoke Nazi and you say in the form of a question, “Oh, I thought I was coming with you guys?” And she kind of gives you this lingering, surprisingly annoyed look as she says, “I have no idea about that. Do you want to come back to my place?” as if you are back in Middle School and she is one of those Mean Girls who takes semantics to a new and extremely irritating level. You really have no idea why your relationship has devolved into these annoying games, but you play along because you really do want to take a shower. So you say, “That would be great because I’d really like to wash up before PS1.” And she acquiesces with a simple, “Alright then.” And even though you are tempted to ask why she seems to hate you so much, you ultimately decide that you’re just really not all that interested so you just let it go.

Unfortunately, when it finally arrives, the Jones Beach beach bus is ridiculously overcrowded. Luckily you push your way to the front and get up enough steps to ding your metrocard. Your friends, however, miss this opportunity and tell you they will grab the next bus. However, by the time the train arrives they are nowhere to be found. You call your BFF for their 411, and wonder if, just in case the train arrives before they do, if you should just head over to the Karaoke Nazi’s house and shower before them. His hesitation speaks volumes, until he finally suggests that you just wait on the train platform for them even though they have also missed the next two buses because of overcrowding issues. So when the train does come you make the executive decision to get on the train and just head back to Manhattan to wash up and drop off your beach chair so you won’t have to lug it around all night. And honestly, you’re thrilled to miss any further patronizing drama with the Karaoke Nazi that might ensue over using too much shampoo or hanging your towel incorrectly.

On the train back you receive another call from the Daytripping Freeloader, which is sweet and you are happy to have the opportunity to complain about your ridiculous beach day, but that’s mostly because you are running out of things to say to the boy who has been calling you at least once, every single day since he left Fire Guyland. Being a bit phone phobic, you never really know what to say during such frequent conversations with a veritable stranger. So your chats tend to be a lot of daily recaps that lack much of a spark. You do, however, appreciate his obvious intention to not lose momentum, which is usually the kiss of death in any long term non-relationship.

Your BFF and Company are at least an hour late to PS1 but luckily you time your arrival to meet them perfectly. Unfortunately the place is an absolute zoo, and this year’s Public Farm theme makes you feel more like a sheep than a patron of the arts as you wait in a beer line that snakes it’s way throughout the entire outdoor installation. It takes more than a half hour to get one beer. And after just a few beers you find yourself extremely late to the Brooklyn Bash.

Everybody but your BFF bails on the party, which is fine because you had been feeling like a fifth wheel all day. The two of you hop on the G train and schlep over to Fort Greene and the graduation party is raging by the time you arrive. It’s really sweet to greet your thirtysomething friend as Dr. Doc and you toast him over and over again until eventually you find yourself sprawled out in his backyard hammock making out with some Brooklyn Bald Boy. Although you have no intention of making a public spectacle of yourself (you never do...), you can’t say you’re that surprised when the other guests actually throw a glass of water on you from the second floor balcony in order to cool you down. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Lip Syncing Fags...

...no matter how inappropriate the song is, you're the type of boy who'll sing your little heart out in the shower as if you were trying out for American Idol. When you're done, you and your boombox prance across the living room wrapped up in a towel as your Hobosexual roommate looks up from his Sex and the City rerun to scowl at you. He is definitely Simon to your Kelly Clarkson. But you're not letting him bother you today. Hell, you're not even letting your Lovely Lady Mumps rain on your parade today. Especially since it's the Gay Pride and you're running late for the parade! The party you wind up at ends up being at a fabulous Fifth Avenue apartment, with a balcony! While catching up with a Medical Student friend of yours, you decide to ask him about the lumps in your neck that feel as if a mother Robin has laid a couple of eggs and decided to hatch them in your throat. He feels them and is visibly shocked. But not as shocked as you when the Mockter Doctor asks, "Have you had a lot of sexual partners lately?" You gulp as you say, "Not really," even though of course you have. Whore. The whole thing just freaks you into having another cocktail or three and you and your ice clink your way out to the sheltered balcony and watch it pour on the poor gays because of some freak thunderstorm.

After the Parade Party, you and the Boy Luck Club head over to the West Village for a Pre-Pier Party on Greenwich that one of your Kinsey 8 Fire Guyland roommates is throwing. This place is also gorgeous, and although his first floor loft has no balcony to the outside, his ceilings are so high that it actually has a balcony on the inside! Unlike the last few parties you've attended, everybody is super chatty and friendly and you wonder if perhaps that has something to do with the fact that you're at a daytime party? You follow Fat Albert's footsteps as he seems to be a magnet for the cute boys, and since he's already got a boyfriend, you don't mind chumming for his sloppy seconds. However there is nothing at all sloppy about the Emergency Room doctor that Fat Albert introduces you to. And unlike Fat Albert, you actually have an emergency! You apologize profusely in the same breath that you begin to describe the symptoms of your Lovely Lady Mumps. And then something wonderful happens. Your temperature rises as Dr. McSteamy reaches out to examine your neck. Softly. Thoroughly. Even though you're so swollen you can't help but swallow a bit of anxious excitement as Dr. McSteamy lifts your shirt to feel what appears to be your kidney as he asks you if it hurts. You reply with a simple, "No," as right now it is impossible to feel pain. Dr. McSteamy instantly informs you with authority that you have nothing to worry about. He's sure that your Lovely Lady Mumps are stress related due to your impending move. The two of you continue your chat and everything in the background seems to fade away. Without all the static it suddenly seems easy to spot the one simple truth that you've known all along: This is how it's supposed to feel when you meet someone special. Although you've been hung up on Blonde Beard for months now, he never made you feel this comfortable. Conversation was never this easy. Dr. McSteamy is exactly the type of guy you could fall for. That is, if you haven't fallen already. He's laughing at your jokes. But more importantly, you're laughing at his.

You begin to fantasize about how you'll finish each other's sentences whenever someone asks the two of you, "How did you guys meet?" You'll both say, "Gay Pride," in unison as you beam with pride and continue your Happily Ever After story with lots and lots of wonderful "We's." Things are about as splendid as they could possibly be when Dr. McSteamy starts chatting with Fat Albert about what a catch you are! So cute, so funny, etc. Yes, you actually hear him say this! And then it's suddenly like someone scratches a record player needle across your fantasy with one horrible screeching word that comes out of Dr. McSteamy's mouth: "We." And, unlike your daydreams, this "we" isn't referring to you. You immediately interrupt their conversation and say with extreme disappointment, "Who's 'we'?" That's exactly when you have your Alanis Morris Ironic moment as Dr. McSteamy introduces you to his beautiful wife. Or busted husband. Whatever.

The Busted Husband immediately takes his cue and swoops into the conversation. Your conversation. You want to say, "Shut up, I will wreck your happy home!" but instead you just smile as you swallow a bit of throw up as the Busted Husband tells you his nauseating "Love at first sight" story. Of course your mind wanders as you try to find the silver lining of this extremely disappointing experience. Ultimately, however, you realize that there are boys out there that you can have a magical moment with. And hopefully one of these days one of them will be single.

Between your Lovely Lady Mumps and your imaginary break up with Dr. McSteamy, the Pier Dance ends up being mildly annoying yet extremely sweaty. Surprisingly, you don't recognize anybody. And honey, you know a lot of New York boys. Hell, you've dated most of them. But the pier seems like it must be full of Circuit Queens who have flown in for the "Event," which everybody seems to think will be either Madonna or Jennifer Hudson. But as the evening wears on, the DJ seems to be having a Madonnathon with all the songs from her new album. And since Madge needs to promote it, and since she's living in New York since she filed for divorce, and since she has never ever done the pier dance before, it seems perfectly viable to you that tonight will be the night! So you squeeze past the Tweekers and push your way as close to the stage as you can physically muster! You are sooooooo excited, not to mention convinced that Madonna is about to pop onto the stage when the MC comes out to introduce this year's surprise guest! Your heart palpitates and your Lovely Lady Mumps throb to the drum-roll as he finally introduces..........Jennifer (I just swallowed the) Hudson. And if this isn't enough of a buzz-kill, the American Idol bitch actually has the gall to lip-sync. Needless to say, you are less than impressed. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those "Wham-Bam-Thank-You-Sam" Type of Fags

...but that's pretty much how you left it with Baby Daddy after the whole "You want to fuck that Muscle Boy, don't you?" incident. Of course you ended up fucking that Muscle Boy, but even though you'd really like to date a funny boy, you kind of assumed that you'd be laughing with him, not at him. You and Baby Daddy texted back and forth a few times afterwards, but nothing ever came of it. In fact, Baby Daddy was the one who ultimately let the ball drop. Although you're not really sure why exactly he disappeared, you're definitely not worrying about it. Hell, it's summer and there are boys in Speedos to oggle!

Speaking of which, it's an absolutely gorgeous day so you and your BFF take the train to Jones Beach to work on your tan lines. And the boys are even more gorgeous than the weather. There's this one Hispanic boy in particular that has definitely caught your eye, and although your taste in men rarely overlaps, you and your BFF are literally about to wrestle over him. Luckily it's a moot point because the Hot Papi is there with his boyfriend and, get this, their two kids! Talk about a dick deflator. The kids, however, are extremely well behaved, and, you have to admit, it's pretty damn hot watching him be a Papi. You and your BFF spend the afternoon concocting an entire back-story for the two Gay Daddies. Since one of the boys is white and the other Latino, you decide that they must have each used the same white surrogate mother so that the boys are technically half-brothers. Your back-stories, of course, quickly morph into fantasies where the Hot Papi leaves his hubby after falling helplessly and hopelessly in love with either of you. Preferably you.

Both of you are still eyeing the Hot Papi when you are packing up your stuff to head back to the city, when suddenly, almost as if your fantasy has willed it to happen, Hot Papi walks over to you and says, "Hey, isn't your name [INSERT YOUR NAME HERE]?" and you are absolutely stunned because Hot Papi is right! You say, "Yeah," but it's obvious that you are confused and can't place him, even though you honestly can't imagine ever forgetting a face as sexy and handsome as his. However, Hot Papi goes on to explain that he met you at G the night you met Baby Daddy. You remember meeting a bunch of Baby Daddy's friends, but you were pretty hyper-focused on Baby Daddy that night so you cut yourself some slack for not remembering Hot Papi. You're also pretty sure that Hot Papi looks better in a skimpy Speedo than he did fully clothed that night at G. Anyway. You and Hot Papi quickly start yapping about Baby Daddy and so you ask how he's doing. Hot Papi informs you that Baby Daddy was actually supposed to be at the beach today, too, but that his daughter refused to go. You want to ask if all the Gay Daddies belong to some secret club but instead you say, "Tell Baby Daddy I said, 'Hi'," and Hot Papi promises you that he will indeed.

On the train back to the city, your BFF can't get over the fact that you had met the Hot Papi before and forgotten him, so he informs you that you have been disqualified, and he has won the the Hot Papi game of Fantasy Boyfriend by default. You reluctantly agree, but then decide to text Baby Daddy about the bizarre beach incident, just to see what will happen. You write, "You missed a beautiful day at the beach today. The weather wasn’t too bad either ;-)" and you get a response almost immediately, "I was supposed to go today but my daughter didn’t want to go. Next time I guess. Hope u had fun." Which is a lame blow-off and you know you should just let it go, but you decide to continue to taunt Baby Daddy with, "Your Hot Papi friend already told me. Too bad. It would’ve been nice to see you in a skimpy Speedo ;-) On my way back to the city now." He returns with a vague response full of zero questions, “LOL. Maybe go in a couple of weeks. Should be fun," so you decide to finally drop it. You really don't know why, but it's obvious that Baby Daddy is as just-not-that-into-you as you are just-not-that-into-him! But then you wind up receiving another post-blow-off text which really surprises you, but when you pull out your phone you realize that it's not actually from Baby Daddy. It's from the Portuguese Brazilian From London, who has, once again, commuted back to New York and is wondering if you'd like to get together tonight. Christ! Your Saturday night is starting to look like it's suddenly about to get redeemed.

Later on, after a few drinks at Duplex with the San Francisco Treat and Rice Queens I through III, you head up to Vlada to meet the Portuguese Brazilian From London. However, he's late, which is annoying since he picked the place and the time, but you kill some time yapping with Vlada's big bull dyke bouncer, aptly named Tonka until the Portuguese Brazilian From London shows up and, although it's been months since you've seen him, you quickly remember why you liked him so much. Hell, he's smart, funny and handsome! What's not to like? Oh yeah, the fact that he lives in London and has a New York boyfriend suddenly come to mind... However, the two of you end up having such a fun time flirting and chatting that you begin to get a bit melancholy. Why does it have to be so fucking hard to meet a great guy? And when you do finally meet one, why does he have to be so fucking unavailable? Your catches always turn out to be more like Catch 22's, and you almost decide to call it a night and head back to your Home-Sweet-Hovel to huddle over some Häagen-Sweet-Daz, but then something magical happens. The Portuguese Brazilian From London makes you laugh. The fact that he can make you giddy during your Pity Party ultimately pulls you out of your funk, and before you know it, the two of you are in a cab headed to your place.

You're a bit terrified that your Hobosexual roommate will be up watching Sex and the City reruns, but luckily the coast is clear and the two of you end up making your own lost episode of Sex in the City. You, of course, are playing Carrie, and, luckily, the Portuguese Brazilian From London, winds up playing a dual role of Mr. Big combined with dirty old Samantha. However, as soon as it's over, before you can even grab a Kleenex from the tissue box, the Portuguese Brazilian From London is literally pulling up his pants and tightening his belt. You feel ridiculous wiping cum off your chest while this man is, most likely, coming up with excuses to tell his New York boyfriend about why he's getting home so late. Even though the whole thing suddenly feels ridiculous, you walk the Portuguese Brazilian From London to the door, lock it, and then hop in the shower because you suddenly feel like that dirty old Kleenex you just used up and threw away. Anyway...

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

...anymore. You definitely have more than your share of hair, but luckily this includes your head, and the rest of your body can be easily manscaped away down the drain. Actually, that's not true. You definitely need to vacuum the tub after clipping, unless, of course, you want to gamble on the slim chance of having a hot Roto-Rooter serviceman come to your damsel-in-distress rescue. But luckily for you, you're on Fire Guyland with O.P.P. (Other People's Plumbing) so you just wash that shit down the drain and head off to Tea.

You chat it up with anybody who will listen to your mumbling stubble, but nothing memorable happens as the evening progresses from Low to High Tea (and FYI that's not because you blacked it out. You just chose not to remember.) Anyway. Suddenly one of your Kinsey 8 housemates taps you on the back and informs you that you are verrrry late for dinner. So you and the San Francisco Treat start walking along the boardwalk when all of a sudden the lightning illuminates your aging frown lines. Micro-seconds later, it's raining Cats and Dogs, and, since you have a paralyzing fear of pussy, you and the San Francisco Treat race home as fast as you can. Unfortunately your drunk little legs aren't quick enough to spare you from the Cat Spray and you are absolutely soaked by the time you arrive home.

You, of course, instantly change into a cute new t-shirt that's even more form-fitting than the wet one, and then you enjoy a lovely pork dinner that one of the Kinsey 8 cooked while you were out not remembering High Tea. After dinner the boys are obviously feeling frisky and your living room turns into an impromptu wrestling match. You, of course, avoid the potential for bruises and unsightly black eyes, and grab your digital camera so you can document them as they begin to unravel.

And unravel they do! Your anorexic friend, Fat Albert, who more-or-less runs a Fortune 500 company from 9-5, somehow winds up smack in the middle of a gay old time. Rice Queen #2 grabs himself some Spanish Rice and Fat Albert's pants instantly fall off, probably because his body is too rickety to defy the effects of gravity. You, of course, run downstairs to gossip with the Kinsey 8 about how 1/4 of your Quarter Cher are about to break the unwritten Fire Island rule of hooking up with a housemate! Your BFF races upstairs with you to witness the tragedy unfold, but by the time you return, the bedroom door is not only closed, but locked! Although you wait quietly in the hall for a photo-op, you are quickly shamed by the undeniable fucking noises that emanate from Behind the Green Door. You and your BFF giggle like a gaggle of girls and then head to your room to get gussied up for Sip N' Twirl.

You are brushing your pearly whites when the other door to the shared bathroom bursts open and Rice Queen #2 races in, naked, and he's as shocked as you are by the evolutionary Eden-like situation where you are unabashedly introduced to his unwelcome serpent. Luckily, Rice Queen #2 quickly grabs the roll of Charmin before disappearing behind the shelter of a fig leaf while you quietly click your heels together and say, "I wish I was at Sip N' Twirl!"

Afterwards the remaining Kinsey 8 heads out to Sip N' Twirl and fortunately it's not too crowded. You quickly gravitate toward the pool table and it's not long before the two Hotties playing Stripes and Solids suddenly make you want to sink your 8 Ball into a game of Pocket Pool. Stripes is Armenian and Solid is, well, solid. Although you are definitely more into Stripes, it quickly becomes apparent that Solid is more into you. However, having just manscaped, you find yourself a bit disconcerted by the tufts of hair that prominently form an undeniable Ring Around His Collar. But you decide to take the road less traveled and convince yourself that this is just some natural, hairy Ruff collar from the Elizabethan period.

Unfortunately when you go home with Solid you realize that his Ring Around The Collar is actually a floor length, head-to-toe, Chia Pet cape. Especially on his back. Chia Pet is the hairiest boy you've ever seen. His chest is so covered in fur that you can't even find a nipple. Although he has a great body, the kissing leaves something to be desired and nothing seems to make up the fact that your fingers seem to get tangled as you attempt to touch the Chia Pet. You may or may not fall asleep, but when you eventually come to your senses you realize that it is definitely time to go home. Chia Pet tries to convince you to stay but you are afraid to camp out and wake up in the bush. So he walks you to the outside gate with his raging hard on, which, surprisingly, is less hairy than the top of his shoulders. Then you race home and devour a delicious left-over pork chop. Unfortunately you lose your appetite when you actually have to yank one of Chia Pet's gray back hairs that's stuck between two of your teeth. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Fags Who's Good With Names...

...but you never forget a face. Well, perhaps you should qualify that statement. You never forget a face that you meet when you're sober. Unfortunately, when you do meet new people, nine times out of ten you've got a cocktail in your hand. But don't judge! You're a very social boy! For some miraculous reason you feel great when you wake up Saturday morning on Fire Island. Even though you had a terrible night of rejection, today you can't seem to even remember the Massssculine Man's first name. Anyway. The rest of your Kinsey 8 housemates are already awake (surprise, surprise), and you immediately head to the barren fridge to scrounge around, unsuccessfully, for something non-cocktail related. That's when your friend Half-Share saunters in with his housemates (whose names you can never seem to remember), and before you know it, one of the mixed-up Marys in your house is busy mixing up Bloody Marys, because really, wouldn't it be impolite not to offer your unexpected 11:00am guests a cocktail? Of course, the Gentlemen Callers are parched and the mid-morning vodka flows freely as you give them a quick tour of the Kinsey 8's lovely abode.

It's a beautiful day so everybody ends up out by the pool as all the other surrounding homes begin to groggily come back to life. You're a bit surprised when Fergie's "Glamorous" begins to blare from a neighbor's ailing stereo, almost as if your neighbors are alerting The Pines about some Gay Disco Air Raid. You are in shock, however, when you notice a (and you use this term lightly) boy across the way prancing across his deck while he plays Runway. He's wearing nothing but a pair of white stiletto pumps coupled with a itsy-bitsy white Brazilian-cut Speedo. The whole look is accessorized with a giant pair of white Jackie O' plastic sunglasses. You immediately point this rare Fire Island specimen out to your friends, "What is that?" And without missing a beat, Half-Share says, "You mean the Sleestack?" And then he begins to hiss as if he's one of the Lizard-like creatures chasing Will and Holly from Land of the Lost.

Instead of feasting upon green olives, limes and tomato juice, you all decide to head into town to grab breakfast. Everybody promises to wait for you and your Bloody Mary to freshen up with a quick shower in the outdoor stall next to your pool. However, sometime after you put the shampoo in your hair, and sometime before you get a chance to wash it out and open your eyes, you start to hear your next door neighbors yelling frantically about how, "It's showtime!" Your curiosity is certainly piqued by the ensuing giggling, and you begin to feel like you're missing out on something rather exciting. That's when you open your eyes and realize the laughter is emanating from your neighbor's roof deck. You look up and count at least five neighbor boys peering down at you lasciviously from their porch perch, cackling at your, um, nakedness. You, of course, are mortified, but really, what can you possibly do? You attempt to ignore them, yet you end up taking the quickest shower possible while trying to convince yourself that it would probably be much worse if the neighbor boys weren't the least bit interested in seeing your "Shower Show."

Afterwards you quickly wrap yourself up in a towel and head back into the house. Only when you walk through the kitchen door you are shocked to find the Sleestack sashaying around your kitchen. He clacks his way over to you in his high heels and introduces himself with an apology for missing your "Show." Unfortunately he was too busy cooking breakfast for you and your housemates. You are actually at a loss for words, but that mostly has to do with the fact that you cannot look away from the Sleestack's eyebrows which have been plucked beyond recognition. You excuse yourself and sneak into the living room to ask Fat Albert and the rest of the Cosby Kids why exactly the Sleestack is cooking breakfast? But nobody seems to know. Apparently this is something that the Sleestack just does. And no one is more shocked than you by the delicious frittata that your new houseboy has whipped together from a kitchen that you assumed was barren. It's kind of like the Sleestack does the Jesus trick where he feeds an entire town of hungry disciples with just one fish and a cup of wine. Only you know this is just a silly theory because the Sleestack would probably have a Y chromosome if he were actually Jesus.

After a busy day of cocktailing by the pool, you all decide to go to some house party that ends up being so far away that you feel like you've actually hiked to Montauk. However you are rewarded for your long journey because every inch of the expansive house, indoors and out, is packed with boys, boys and more boys. When an impromptu wrestling match begins, you and your BFF quickly escape to an upstairs balcony and watch boy after boy get thrown into the pool. Each wet boy eventually emerges with a wet T-shirt and one or more battery operated iPaper Weights that used to be functioning iPods and iPhones. You love the dry deck of your protected patio, not to mention the birds-eye view of all the pretty Pines party boys. But that's when two entitled boys saunter out from the house and, like Christopher Columbus, seem to re-discover your new-found real estate. One of these boys is holding a camera and yapping to his friend about taking a photo. It's obvious that he wants you to move, mostly because he asks his fancy friend, "How are we going to get them to move?" as if you weren't actually there. The ridiculous boy is actually trying to wish you away, without ever asking you to move. This whole preposterous scenario continues for a moment or two more, before Entitled Boy waves you away with his camera and asks you and your BFF, "Could you move?" only its more of a direct order than a question. Your BFF just kind of stares at them in disbelief until Entitled Boy informs you, "We live here. And we need to take a photo." You and your BFF kind of simultaneously roll your eyes at their rude request, but you both eventually move out of the way as the Entitled Boys quickly barrel through. You, of course, decide that it's time to head over to Low Tea.

Low Tea is packed and everybody is complaining about how the cups have gotten ridiculously small, yet somehow the steep cocktail prices have remained the same. You and your BFF order a couple of Britneys and begin to wander through the thick crowd in order to size up the possibilities with a simple Fruit Loop. Somewhere along your Mary way, you end up running into the Entitled Boys and you can't seem to stop yourself from racing over to them and interrupting their deeply shallow conversation. You wave your hands in their faces, and say (with a big grin on your face), "Could you boys move? I need to take a photo."

Although a quick, playful flash of your dimples usually lets you get away with snarky comments like this, these Entitled Boys ain't buying it. In fact, they're actually pissed. You're kind of surprised, yet ultimately amused, as Entitled Boy starts reading you the riot act. But you're in shock when this virtual stranger looks directly at you and says venomously, "I've met you a bunch of times and you never remember..." and then Entitled Boy actually goes on to address you by your name! You just stare at his foreign face, looking for something vaguely familiar. Anything. Yet if he were in a police line-up, you'd swear on a court bible that you've never seen him before. But that's when something wonderful happens. Entitled Boy notices the confused look on your face and begins to second-guess his idiot-savant ability to recall your name. And that's when he starts to rattle off a bunch of names in an attempt to guess Yours, "Jason... Preston... Shane... Jesse... Mark..." This is when you move on to complete your Fruit Loop as the unmemorable Entitled Boy continues listing names. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Fags Who Blows Off His Friends For a Boy...

...however, if a blow job is involved, then you can't be held responsible for any selfish actions. Luckily your friends understand this. Well, your gay friends. Anyway. So there you are. At the Jersey Shore. In bed with a recently debriefed Bald Boy. And you're kind of in shock. Although you definitely don't consider yourself to be a size queen (actually you're a big fan of average), you are definitely a bit surprised by his small, err, stature. And honey, you've seen quite a few statures in your day. Even though this particular stature is hard and ready to rumble, it's actually the same exact size as you are, when you're ready to fumble and completely flaccid. Seriously.

Luckily you are extremely attracted to Bald Boy and his amazing swimmers build, so you quickly move from flaccid to placid and, once you get over the initial visual shock, the whole experience actually turns out to be pretty damn hot. Bald Boy is a little dirty and he starts to push you around in the bed, telling you things like, "You like that." He has no questions. Just authoritative statements. The best part is that he's always right. You do like that. In fact you like everything that Bald Boy is doing.

In the morning you make some delicious eggs, but while you're cooking you suddenly have this feeling that you're playing house. This is something that you are vaguely familiar with since you lived with your Ex for over a decade. But oddly enough you're only on day three of your Two Night Stand and, although you know you'll be leaving this afternoon, you are perfectly content playing Martha Stewart and making eggs while you both plan a day of wandering through Ocean Grove's annual flea market. Although it's an odd feeling, you are thoroughly enjoying it because this is definitely what you want. You want to play House. You especially want to play Beach House! Even though you're quite aware that something a bit intangible is missing, you are definitely enjoying your fantasy weekend way too much to spend much time analyzing it. After all, there are fleas to be marketed!

The two of you roam the flea market like an old married couple, wondering if you can make use of other people's useless things, but the only purchase is an old mirror that Bald Boy buys for the landing at the top of his staircase. Even though you can't really picture the spot he's describing, like a good wife you agree that it will look absolutely fabulous. Afterwards you both race home in order to beat the rain clouds that are storming toward the little town. Luckily you win the race and wind up having thunderous sex during an extremely violent electrical storm.

Afterward, Bald Boy gets a call about a dinner invitation and he looks over at you, lying naked on the bed and asks pointedly if you'd like to come along, even though he knows you have to leave in a few hours. Only now you don't want to leave. You're enjoying yourself, or rather, you're enjoying escaping yourself. You love playing Beach House and the two of you are having a really pleasant time. The idea of schlepping to Billyburg for a wine tasting party is becoming less and less appealing. But you remind Bald Boy that, indeed, you have to leave, but he looks deep into your eyes as he tells his friend, "He's not sure yet." And, one thing's for sure, Bald Boy is absolutely right.

Ultimately, surprise-surprise, you wind up texting your Wine Tasting friend to cancel. Although you know texting her is totally lame, you decide not to call because you don't want to be talked out out of your selfish decision to keep playing Beach House. Later on at the dinner party, which is wall-to-wall gay couples, you finally realize exactly why you it is that your game of Beach House is purely fictional. Although there are four other couples, there is only one boy at the table that you're enjoying talking to. And it's not Bald Boy. The friend is absolutely hysterical and the two of you wind up laughing and giggling like a gaggle of girls about the silliest little things. When you ultimately find yourself wishing that this particular boy didn't have a boyfriend, that's when it suddenly becomes crystal clear that, although you've had a picture perfect weekend playing Beach House, you have yet to share a hearty laugh with Bald Boy. The last time you remember belly laughing was back in the city when you got a glimpse of your BFF's horrendous free S & M haircut he got at The Eagle. Just before you left the city to play Beach House with Bald Boy. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Size Queen Fags...

...but when you leave Bald Boy's studio apartment, you find yourself wondering if you could live in place that was so small? His bed, toilet, and refrigerator are all within a five-foot radius. However, if it meant that you could afford a beach house, then you would probably choose to shit where you slept also. You kiss Bald Boy goodbye while pondering his bold invitation to spend the weekend at his beach house on the Jersey Shore. When you hit the street to make your Walk of Shame after a One-Night-Cuddlefuck-Stand, you instantly realize that you left your laptop & backpack at your BFF's house last night. So you and your unbrushed teeth call your BFF and head up to his place before he leaves for work, and when you arrive he is absolutely miserable. You can't help but laugh as he shows you the hatchet job that the crackhead barber at The Eagle gave him last night beneath the four watt bulb. It definitely looked better in the dark. Although you definitely feel bad for his harried dilemma, you can't help but remind him that you did try to talk him out of it...

When you finally get home you notice a text from Bald Boy that says, "I was serious about the offer to visit this weekend." So you respond, “And I am seriously considering it! What if I went down with you tonight and took the train back tomorrow so I wouldn’t miss my friend’s party?" Bald Boy writes back immediately, "That would be fantastic! Whatever works best for you. I was hoping to be on the way out of town around 1 or 1:30.”

Although you're still a bit foggy from the combined effects of booze and lack of sleep, you end up doing a bit of work before packing your bag and heading back over to Bald Boy's house to begin he second day of what has now become a Two Night Stand. Bald Boy buzzes you in and tells you to make yourself comfortable while he goes upstairs to get his Ex's dog. You share an kiss before he leaves and then you suddenly feel a bit awkward, mostly because you are now wondering if you are making a tragic mistake. But, you tell yourself, if you wind up having a terrible time you will just hop on a train and come home. It's a bit weird sitting alone in Bald Boy's apartment. You don't know this boy at all and yet you are about to take a vacation with him! Hell, you haven't even had sex yet! However, you can't help but be touched by his confident move of inviting a relative stranger to his beach house for the weekend. You love how he's just thrown caution to the wind, which, honestly, is why you accepted the impressively bold offer in the first place. That's when he returns with the dog who races over to greet you with a salutatory sniff of your balls, just like the boys greeting each other last night at The Eagle.

Traffic is terrible and it takes you an hour just to get to the Holland Tunnel from the West Village. But it's all good because you both seem to have lots of questions for each other so time seems to fly by. The beach house turns out to be amazingly beautiful and you feel instantly comfortable in a way that you know you've made the right decision to come. After you get situated, Bald Boy takes you on a tour of Ocean Grove which turns out to be the cutest little town ever, and you certainly enjoy his passion for his Home Away from Homo. You wander down Main Avenue looking at all the little Methodist's tented cottages and all beautiful Victorians, painstakingly restored by the Gays. You enjoy the ocean while taking a romantic walk along the boardwalk before heading over to Nagles for a very late lunch. But as you are walking into the restaurant you're a bit freaked out when Bald Boy asks you, "So what are your hobbies?" Suddenly you feel like you are on a Match.com job interview and your mind quickly goes blank. Do you even have any hobbies? Drinking doesn't count, does it? Bald Boy fills in your silence by asking you if you like to read. You say, "Of course," and then begin to discuss various books that you have both read recently. Although the conversation is interesting, you begin to notice that there isn't a lot of laughing going on. In fact, it's actually rather dry. Bald Boy is not really funny. At all. But he's so nice and extremely smart and unbelievably sweet that you begin to wonder if you could see yourself having a relationship with a boy who doesn't make you laugh?

That evening you are both so exhausted from your First-Night-Stand that you decide to stay in and watch Being Julia on DVD as you lay in each other's arms. Although the cuddling is very nice, you begin to wonder whether you're ever going to have sex with this boy? But, luckily, the kissing begins just as the movie ends and soon you find yourself being yanked toward Bald Boy's bedroom. And this time the underwear finally comes off. Only suddenly you find yourself in the precarious position of wishing it hadn't. You can't help but picture yourself suffering on an insufferable Disneyland boat ride while an endlessly repetitive soundtrack reminds you that, "It's a Small World After All!" Anyway...

You're Not the Type of Fag Who Has One Night Stands...

...anymore. Or at least this is the bullshit that actually comes out of your mouth during your daily boy update with your Gal Pal. For some reason you just feel like you're over one night stands. Perhaps you've gotten *gasp* too old, or perhaps you've learned that these hook-ups never seem to turn into anything worthwhile. Lately you've been pretty clear headed about finding someone substantial, and you decide that this elusive species of gay boys are probably looking for someone substantial themselves. Although you like to believe that, deep down beneath your shallowness, you, too, are substantial, you can't help but wonder whether you've been hiding this lesser known trait to the world? Or instead of being substantial, have you just been acting a bit substandard? It's not like you have anything against a one night stand. Hell, some of your best friends have come out of these situations. Well, best acquaintances. Whose names you never seem to remember. But you digress. It's not a moral issue, more like a whore-al issue. How do you expect to find the man of your dreams if you keep acting like a hooker? Let's face it honey, you're not Julia Roberts and this ain't no Pretty Woman.

Later that afternoon, during Happy Hour if you must be exact, you get a text from your BFF telling you to meet him at XES for a Gay Cocktail, and although his misspellings don't initially cause any misgivings, when you arrive at Happy Hour you quickly realize that your BFF is already quite Happy. This is audibly evident thanks to his tongue ring which seems to get heavier with each drink, and ultimately works like a breathalyzer for discerning how many cocktails he's had. Considering that he can no longer produce the letter R without chipping a tooth, you can quickly surmise that your BFF is on his fourth Tanqueray and Tonic. This, of course, means only one thing to you. You better catch up. And quick!

It's a gorgeous night, and after the XES Happy Hour ends, you both decide to go to a place with an outdoor space. Although it is typically not your scene, now that you are sporting a bushy new beard, you uncharacteristically suggest going to The Eagle. Your BFF thinks this is a grand idea, mostly because he lives a block away from the bar, but partly so you can drop off your backpacks at his place, and, of course, mix yourselves a free cocktail. You ask if you can trade in your bright red preppy-ass Lacoste for something a bit more butch, and you are pleased as punch with a form fitting Graphic Tee sporting a '60s muscle car. Unfortunately, the bouncer at The Eagle is less than pleased with your new outfit and tells you that you aren't allowed inside with the T-shirt. Apparently, the Fashion Dicktator, who is donning nothing more than Leather Chaps and Nipple Rings, thinks your cute T-Shirt is too, get this, busy. So you stand there, dumbfounded, until he says you can come in if you take it off. Now, it's not like you don't go to the gym four or five times a week, but it's also not like you feel comfortable being half naked in public. But your BFF (who's wearing a much more acceptable stained Wife-Beater) says, "Just take it off" as he pushes past you and Anna Winwhore on the way to the bar.

Although you worry about what a brown shirt hanging out of your back pocket might mean amongst the Leather Crowd, you put it there anyway. You hesitantly make your way up the stairs, however, once you set foot on the massive deck, your confidence goes through the non-existent roof! Between the Flat Ass wearing nothing but a jock strap, and the hairy Chia-Pet wearing nothing but sneakers, you've never felt so good about your body before! You briefly consider donating your entire ensemble to the worthy cause of clothing these Gents, but, unfortunately, your Cub-Sized clothing wouldn't cover too much of these Bare Bears. This is when your BFF turns to you and says, "Toto, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore." And you ask, "Don't you mean Ken's Ass?"

You're instantly struck by a cowering boy who is sitting down beneath a four watt light bulb, in the middle of the roof deck bar, getting his, get this, haircut by a man whose pupils are so dilated that you begin to be convinced that the dim bulb might actually be giving off enough light for a decent cut. But when a Crooked Mohawk is shaved onto the twenty-two year old, you wonder whether you should help out by flashing your cell phone upon the poor boy's head. That's when, out of nowhere, an extremely sexy, in shape, surprisingly hairless boy walks up to you and practically penetrates you with his piercing blue eyes as he asks, "Do you have a profile on Connexion?" to which you happily answer, "Yes." And when he begins to rattle off your stats and details from memory, "You're a writer, right?" The two of you fall quickly into a conversation so your BFF disappears and returns with beers for everyone as he informs you that he has decided to get a free haircut.

You are torn. Although you would really enjoy the freudenschade entertainment of watching your BFF make a terrible decision, you decide that you must be a good friend and beg him not to. But you're practically Talking To The Hand as he sits down in the moon-lit chair and attempts to tell the Cracked Out Barber about the type of free make-over he'd like to receive. You and Bald Boy wind up giggling and flirting your way through your BFF's entire denigrating hair-removal process. At one point you worry whether the Cracked Out Barber might have actually scalded off some hair with his dangling cigar, but you are having too much fun watching your BFF getting his free haircut. That's when Bald Boy begins giving you some free kisses. And the delicious kisses tend to be more successful under such low-lighting. Bald Boy's fantastic kisses quickly pull your attention away from all things hairy. The next thing you know, your BFF interrupts you with a tap on the shoulder and informs you, "I'm going home. Everybody's ugly." You attempt not to laugh at the yarmulke that has been recently shaved onto the top of his head as you say your goodbyes. And then, after a beer or two, you find yourself hailing a cab back to Bald Boy's apartment, for what you expect to turn out to be a substantial one night stand. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Coffee Date Fags...

...but when a boy you've been eyeing on Connexion for years suggests getting together for a Cup o' Joe, you jump at the chance. You've been chatting online all week and although he had an Endoscopy this afternoon, he told you he'd call afterwards if he felt up to meeting. And he has kept to his word, so off pack up your laptop and head over to Joe's to meet your next Blah-Blah-Blog victim. However, as you head down Sixth Avenue the pit in your stomach begins to fill with butterflies, or more likely moths, when you realize that this is the same coffee place where you first met Blonde Beard last January. The idea of possibly starting a new relationship while reminiscing about a failed one seems like a very, very bad omen. Only when you walk up to the place you realize that you are indeed wrong! You have somehow confused Joe's with Jack's and have gone to the wrong establishment! Although you are thrilled, you also realize that you are now late, so you call up your date and explain the situation while you walk the few extra blocks to meet a new boy at a new venue that someday you'll probably have to shun because of painful, caffeinated memories. The Endohottie is waiting for you outside and you apologize for your dyslexic mix-up. He's dressed very well for someone who just had an invasive medical procedure, but that probably has more to do with the fact that he designs menswear and has an outfit for every outlandish occasion. He could, however, use a lesson or two in Accessories as his tortoise shell sunglasses aren't winning any catwalk races against the Hare. If anything, these glasses are more prone to scare the Hare into conceding.

Even though it's beach weather, you end up ordering a hot tea and instantly end up regretting it. Since Joe's is packed, you both decide to go for a walk and head over to Sheridan Square in search of a park bench. You find a nice spot in the shade next to a few Homeless Trannies who are so down and out they aren't even in drag. But you aren't even noticing them because your attention is focused completely on these tiny little metal objects that are stuck all over the Endohottie's left ear. On one hand they kind of look like tiny adhesive electrodes that the doctor forgot to remove after his invasive procedure, but in the shimmery light of Christopher Street, they are definitely giving off a Rhinestone effect that is surely going to invoke some kind of Tranny Jealousy. You almost hear a creepy woman's voice say, "Look away from the Ear, Carol Ann!" but you are quickly distracted from the decorative medical objects as the two of you begin a pissing contest of all your various ailments. You match his endoscopy with your colonoscopy, and he quickly meets your call and actually raises you with a remissive case of Testicular Cancer. Thankfully, you have nothing to compete with The Big C, but you do tell him about your own testicular tribulations, specifically your varicosal veins that you initially mistook for a cancerous lump. Although you are having a fun chat, suddenly you feel like you should be feeding pigeons with what little is left over from your Social Security Check as you reminisce about the golden days of Hollywood before the Talkies took over. Aren't dates supposed to be hot and exciting? So you try to imagine yourself kissing the Endohottie. Only instead of getting lost in his lips, you find yourself drawn back to the adhesive electrodes while wondering if the testicular cancer has left the Endohottie with One Ball in the Corner Pocket?

The Homeless Trannies, however, don't seem all that interested in your little game of Pocket Pool. They're much more interested in screeching at each other about who's Adam's Apple is more feminine. You both decide to leave before you are enlisted into the Tranny Tantrum for an unbiased opinion, but the timing is good because the Endohottie has theater tickets and has to go home and change, where hopefully he'll remember to remove the Rhinestones. You decide to walk with the Endohottie on your way toward the subway, however, as you pass by a pizza place that is mysteriously not named Ray's, you hear your name yelled out from the open window. Although you're slightly worried about the potential disaster of being caught on a coffee date, you are thrilled to look up and find your BFF shoving the last bit of a slice into his mouth. So you say your goodbyes to the Endohottie and run inside to say, "Hi." Your BFF instantly gives you a disapproving look as he points toward the Endohottie and asks, "Who was that?" You haven't even begun to explain when your BFF points to the big dumb cup in your hand and asks, "And what is that?" You look at the tall cup which is now too cold to drink, and before you get a chance to answer your BFF has figured it out, "Ewwwww. Were you on a Coffee Date?" You laugh as you drop the paper cup into the trash can as if it is infected with cooties and say, "Is it Happy Hour yet?" And you both head over to XES to get a real, non-caffeinated adult beverage. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Fags Who Has Professional Headshots Taken for his Online Dating Profile...

...as if! Facebook-Schmacebook! When it comes to your blog, you don't even have a Face! But when Half-Share sends you a cute group photo from last weekend on Fire Guyland, you quickly crop out the entire group and post it on Connexion. You've found, for some unknown reason, that posting new photos seems to renew interest in your profile and attract new boys. And now that you've said, "Buh-Bye, Swedie Pi!" you could definitely use a new Milkshake to Bring All the Boys to the Yard. Even though you've got your fingers crossed for a New York Super Fudge Hunk, in the warming weather your Mojo definitely seems to be melting to the point where you'd happily take the Rocky Road and settle for something Half Baked. Moments after you post the cropped photo there's a knock on your bedroom door and you are surprised when your Hobosexual Roommate is standing there with an unidentified perky young girl who you've never even seen before. "I'm sorry," he lies. "I didn't know you'd be home so I scheduled a few potential roommates to come see your room." Although you want to say, If you wanted to know my schedule then maybe you could have... Oh I don't know? Asked? But you are moving out of the Home Sweet Hovel next month and the Hobosexual's next victim is smiling perkily and, although you know you should be screaming for her to, "Run Forrest! Ruuuuuuuuuun!!" you are also ruuuuuning late for an Out Magazine party to preview the Marc Ecko Summer Collection (yawn) but, more importantly, you are late for some free Three Olives Vodka!

While you're in the bathroom doing some vitally important last minute nose hair trimming, you can't help yourself from listening to the inane conversation going on in the living room of your Home Sweet Hovel. The trimmer buzzes away while buzz words like Fung Shui and Generational Discourse grab your attention to the point where you burst out laughing. Shouldn't the Perky Girl be asking more probing questions like, "Do you ever do your dishes?" or "What do you wipe yourself with during the weeks when you run out of toilet paper?" or possibly even a simple, "Do you ever use soap when you bathe?" But no! Instead these twentysomethings are yapping about the Fung Shui of a lumpy futon that was recently plagued by the Hobosexual's imaginary Bedbugs.

You escape and head over to Eighth Avenue & 17th Street in Chelsea to meet a bunch of your friends who have absolutely no idea why you told them to meet you at Marc Ecko, yet instantly dropped their interrogation when you said, "Free Vodka." Actually, you don't even know what this party is for! One of your Blah-Blah-Blog friends, the Non-Party-Boy Party-Boy (aka NPBPB) was nice enough to forward you the invitation because he knows how partial you are to anything free and gay. You walk in off the avenue and when you find your friend Half-Share and you instantly know that something must be gravely wrong when you notice the grimace on his face. When he notices your deep concern, Half-Share shakes his head as he gives you the terrible news, "The vodka is either grape or cherry flavored." That's when Jet Blew takes a big gulp, finishing his glass before informing you expressionlessly, "It's absolutely vile."

Your friends, of course, ask you to pick them up some refills as race to the back of the store to get in the bar line so you can do your own taste test. That's when you recognize someone you know from the Ski Fags, and you quickly realize, now that it's warm and sunny outside, the two of you have absolutely nothing in common. So you wind up in one of those deep, "You look great! -- No, you look great!" Chelsea conversations until you feel an ominous tap on your shoulder. All the Ghosts of Your Dating Past start flashing through your head as you take a big breath of the grape and cherry scented air. However, when you turn around and see the Shoulder Tapper, you have absolutely no idea who the hell he is. Now, although you are terrible with names, you are pretty damn good with faces (unless of course you meet the Faces when you are drunk, which is mostly when you meet the Faces. Okay, okay. So you're terrible with names and faces.) But the Shoulder Tapper just stares at you for a loooooong moment with a big, shit eating grin on his Face. You, of course, don't say anything. You're pretty sure that you've never slept with him. Well, okay, possibly there's a slim fifty-fifty chance. So you smile, just in case. And that's when the Shoulder Tapper tells you his name (which does sound vaguely familiar, yet doesn't quite ring your Tinkerbell) and that's when he says, "You told me to say hi if I figured out who you were. So I'm saying hi this time." All you can do is gulp when he says, "I love your Blah-Blah-Blog."

You are absolutely stunned! You've been so diligent about remaining anonymous and are completely floored that the Non-Party-Boy Party-Boy has somehow easily identified you from at least a hundred Chelsea Boys in what now feels like a Gay Police Line-Up (for the vodka bar, of course). Arrested doesn't even begin to describe the way you feel. Frozen is more like it. You are like a Deer caught in NPBPB's extremely natural-looking Highlights. And that's when he says, "Well, I've got to go now." And this twist in the conversation actually helps you untie the one in your tongue, "That's it? You're not even going to talk to me or ask me anything?" This is when NPBPB informs you exactly where you fall in his gay pecking order, "I've got tickets to see Patti Lupone in Gypsy tonight. Sorry." And with that, the Non-Party-Boy Party-Boy disappears into the crowd, just as quickly as he appeared, and races off to his next Non-Party. Luckily, you have finally reached the bar and it is now your turn to order. And since you are a bit shaken from the Tap-and-Run outing, you tell the bartender (who you somehow recognize from G even though he has his shirt on) that you'd like one Cherry Soda and one Grape Soda, and you complete your own impartial taste test on your way back to your friends.

Half-Share and Jet Blew instantly see the look of horror on your face and they shake their heads in agreement while continuously sipping their flavored vodkas, "Isn't it absolutely vile?" But you explain that you've just been Outed! Half-Share quickly quips back, "Honey, did you really think people would think you were straight in that outfit?" "What?" you ask, "Is my T-shirt too tight?" To which Half-Share responds with a silent, yet dramatic eye-roll. You say, "Oh come on! It's more Straight-Tight than Gay-Tight." And then Half-Share says, "What do you expect when you shop from the Baby Gap clearance rack? But don't worry," he says. "It looks good on you." You laugh as Half-Share rolls his eyes again.

After a couple more trips to the bar, even though you have actually grown partial to the Welch's Wodka, your friends, who obviously have more mature palates (combined with more mature wallets), decide to go around the corner and head over to XES to pay for the privilege of not having to drink Cherry and Grape flavored Vodka. XES is absolutely packed to the gills with Sauced Sardines because they are apparently having a Genre Magazine party. You look around aimlessly for the Genre Gent you met over the winter (yet lost touch with), hoping you can, once again, hit him up for some freelance work. But the bar is way too crowded and you quickly give up your search when you run into your BFF and his co-worker, Pussy Galore, as they're ordering drinks at the bar.

At 8:30 Half-Share and Jet Blew decide to go grab a bite to eat at a restaurant you can't afford, so you all kiss goodbye and the next thing you know you are dancing on a platform, singing passionately along to the new Madonna vs. Justin Timberlake song as if you were the one who only had Four Minutes to save the world. That's when a Columbia Photographer from Colombia starts snapping his flash all around you. You, of course, camp it up for him as if he's your personal strobe light, and you are the Last Model Standing. Afterwards the Columbia Colombian actually says with a completely straight face, "I want to do a session with you." You instinctively roll your eyes and he says, "No, seriously! I need new shots for my website and I think you'd be perfect." You stare at him for a long time, waiting for Alan Funt to emerge from behind the wall and say, "You're on Candid Camera!" but he doesn't. After a beat or two you realize that the Columbia Colombian is being serious and not just feeding you a, for lack of a better word, line. You actually believe him when he says, "I just like your energy." And that's when you are immediately embarrassed by the situation which is simultaneously flattering yet equally objectifying to the point where you have no choice but to giggle and cover your mouth like a Japanese school girl wearing too much Hello Kitty. Although the Columbia Colombian is not typically your type, you find yourself drawn to his unexpected compliments in the form of a kiss. And it's absolutely amazing.

After what feels like a half hour, you look at your watch and feel like someone is playing a practical joke on you when you realize that it is now midnight and you have that awful realization that you still haven't had dinner. Although the Columbia Colombian asks you to come back to Astoria with him, you are feeling unsure. You tell him (and you actually believe yourself in the moment) that one night stands are no longer your thing. That's when the Columbia Colombian gives you his business card and says, with all seriousness, "I'm really serious about doing a photo shoot." You kiss him good night and put his card in your pocket. And when you wake up the next morning and find yourself thinking about the Columbia Colombian in some of your earliest hungover thoughts, you end up Facebooking him a message which says, "All right Mr. De Mille. Facebook is ready for my new close-up." Anyway...