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

...but there is nothing you love more than to be sitting on the beach sending snarky picture messages to all your pasty New York friends as they sit at home, shivering, because their cheap slumlords have turned off their furnaces for the season. The only problem is that, for some Global Warming bullshit reason, Florida is actually chilly, while two of the New York Weather Fags (ABC & Fox) are predicting that it's going to hit 80 fucking degrees in the city this weekend! Luckily the clouds clear up long enough to sit by the pool for an hour at your parents' condo, and although it's a sad substitute for the glorious beach, the pool is at least protected from the raging wind so that you don't have to be wrapped up like a gay mummy (in 500 thread count Egyptian cotton, of course).

You're on your best behavior laying obediently on the chaise next to your Mommie Dearest. You're wearing a Straight-Friendly one-piece just like a good little Christina would, as Mommie Dearest yaps away about her latest wire-hanger debacle. Apparently her upstairs neighbor's toilet has recently caused a horrible leak and caused your Snowbird parents' ceiling to cave in. Since your Hobosexual Roommate is prone to causing these types of unnecessary leaks, you wonder if perhaps his Hobosexual Mother might actually live on the 16th floor? But this conversation grinds to an absolute halt when Mommie Dearest's absoulte dearest friend plops down onto the chaise next to you. Apparently, unlike your gossipy mother, her Floridian BFF, Paige Six, really likes to stir the pot. As far as you're concerned, it takes Two to Tango, but you shut your trap because you're on a free vacation and you think Paige Six is a hoot. So when Ms. Six invites your whole family out for an evening of Seafood and Reggae music at Conchy Joes, you quickly accept the opportunity to be her Deep Fried Groupie so you can drink gallons of Red Red Wine and mooch off of the Senior Set's pension plans, of course.

That evening, you all pile into Daddy Warbuck's gynormous SUV and drive over to Conchy Joe's which ends up being a bit of a schlep. But it's all well worth it when the Waiter insists upon seeing your ID before serving you a glass of Red Red Wine. Although you are absolutely thrilled, you find it to be a bit unnecessary when the entire table begins to cackle at the obviously Farsighted Waiter. You glare at Mommie Dearest who is actually choking on an Oyster Cracker that she accidentally inhaled while you were being proofed, so you bitterly move Mommie Dearest's glass of water just slightly out of her reach as you hand the Farsighted Waiter your not-so-new New York License. Ok, now you know you look pretty good for your age (you are gay after all), but does the man really have to do a Double Take as if you're starring in some Damn Doublemint commercial? Then the Farsighted Waiter, who is easily ten years your senior, throws your ID back at you while shaking his head in disgust as he informs you, "I'm actually two years younger than you," as if you have just been pre-qualified for Social Security. You bite your tongue and choose not to explain the difference between Straight Years and Gay Years to the Farsighted Waiter who probably hasn't seen any non-AARP Members since the Category 5 winds of Hurricane Andrew obviously impaired his vision. Regardless, being the youngest looking fag in the room is a nice contrast from feeling like a cent-less centenarian in the under-thirty-only zone you live in below Houston Street that you commonly refer to as Logan's Run.

After several jugs of Red Red Wine, the Reggae Band starts to play and they actually turn out to be pretty good. But what's really entertaining is watching your graying parents pop some Advil and drag all their combined aches and pains onto the dance floor in order to Shake Shake Shake Their Booty. Paige Six somehow drags her Sports Fanatic husband onto the dance floor, even though he's in dire need of a double knee replacement, and Kneeless Joe waddles in place to "I Shot the Sheriff" in the arms of his Drunken Deputy. Eventually, as the Pacemaker Patrons finish up their Blue Plate Specials, the whole dance floor quickly fills up, and, from the copious amounts of Advil you spy being popped by the greedy fistful, it is safe to say that a good time is had by all. Even you end up limping your way onto the dance floor, and with your Healing Hernia and your Balloon Balls, you practically fit right in with the Straight Senior Set.

Only you don't fit in. And not just because you're gay. You don't fit because all these Snowbirds have coupled up and mated for life. And you, my friend, are sorely single. Again. You look around the room and wonder if, decades from now, you'll have someone to retire and grow gray(er) with? For Christ's sake you just noticed (and quickly plucked) a gray fucking chest hair! Or will you wind up living your Golden Years watching Golden Girls reruns from your Craftmatic Adjustable bed? Alone? Or *gasp* even worse, will you be so relationship-ly destitute that you wind up spending the rest of your days wearing Depends Undergarments in your Home-Sweet-Hovel arguing with your Hobosexual Roommate over whose turn it is to replace the Polident? This last pathetic image seems to make you shiver, until you realize that what you assume to be your emotions shaking this deep-seated fear out of the darkest recesses of your Cajun Blackened Heart, the vibration is actually coming from your cell phone in order to alert you of a new text message from your Boy du Jour: the Playwright in Shining Ardour, Mr. Write.

During the drive home you have a total interstate text fest with your Non-Jewish Jew and you tell him all about how you are driving down to West Palm tomorrow so you can ask The Four Questions during Passover with The Ex's family (even though The Ex won't even be there). You find it extremely sexy when Mr. Write practically orders you to pack up your bags and, "Come home! Someone else can ask the 4 questions." But the contrary Shiksa in you immediately taps back, "I only have 1 question to ask of you: Why is it that on this night a bitter aging fag would give up the increasingly rare opportunity of being the youngest boy in the room?" You click send and wait patiently for a witty response from Mr. Write, but you are jarred out of your Four Question Fantasy as well as your car seat while everybody in Daddy Warbucks' Gas Guzzler partakes in a collective chorus of, "OH MY GOD!" You look up as Daddy Warbucks skillfully swerves off the two lane road in order to avoid running over an oncoming motorcycle that has just flipped over and is sliding its way toward your over-sized 4WD along with the leather clad couple who are also tumbling toward you on their way to become one big collective speed bump. Luckily, Daddy Warbucks (who thankfully hasn't had a drop to drink) somehow maneuvers his Beige Behemoth and completely avoids what could have easily become yet another Retiree Roadkill statistic. You all jump out to help the poor people who are somehow still alive even though their Harley has shed a few key parts down the road, including it's Handlebar.

Somehow you are the one who ends up calling 911, even though you are thoroughly drunk and have absolutely no idea where the hell you are. After slurring a few unintelligible "Um, I dunno's" to questions that you are ill-equipped to answer, Paige Six grabs the phone from you and informs the dispatcher where to send help. The Bloody Driver is obviously in a state of shock as he seems to be pacing back and forth and worrying more about his Handlebar-less Harley than he is about his Wailing Wife who is inspecting the various cuts and scrapes covering her dark Bain(daged) Soleil legs through her now-shredded jeans. To calm him down, Mommie Dearest tells the Bloody Driver that you will move his Handlebar-less Harley out of the middle of the road, which seems completely reasonable until you and your Healing Hernia attempt to lift the damn thing. Although you haven't been allowed to go to the gym for over a month, could it be possible that you have lost that much strength? Or, please God, is the Handlebar-less Harley just ridiculously heavy for one drunk gay boy to lift? Luckily the police show up and "I Shot The Sheriff" ends up helping you roll the Scrap Metal out of the road.

Before you leave the scene of the crime (without ever being asked to make any sort of statement or to leave any contact information) you are happy to see that the Bloody Driver has finally stopped worrying about his Scrap Metal and has sat himself down to console his Wailing Wife. And then you pop back into the SUV with the Straight Senior Set and begin your drive back to the Ocean Front Condo. Paige Six immediately begins to spin the simple story into the biggest thing since Hurricane Wilma thrashed through the state of Florida and Bamm Bamm'd everything in it's path into tiny little Pebbles. Meanwhile, when you finally remember to check your phone to see if Mr. Write ever responded, you find yourself equally pummeled by the Category 5 text message you have just received from Blonde Beard. He's obviously received the Shutterfly Photo Book that you spent days making for his 40th birthday in order to document your entire relationship. As you read his words, your heart sinks even faster than your non-relationship did after you stupidly dropped the L-Word on Blonde Beard. The message simply says, "Got your gift. Thanks, it was very thoughtful." Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Fags Who's Too Chicken to Discuss His Feelings...

...but, as you pull a frozen chicken breast out of your freezer, you realize that it has become glaringly obvious that Blonde Beard is definitely a Chicken shit. And it kind of blows your mind. How is it possible that he could be so undeniably intimate with you, for months, and then just run away like Chicken Little after the L-Word came falling from the Sky (after too many Skyy Vodkas, of course...) You truly don't understand his issue, but as far as you are concerned there are two scenarios: 1) Blonde Beard doesn't feel the same way about you as you feel about him, or 2) Blonde Beard does feel the same, but he's too scared to express it. Neither doomsday scenario is acceptable. At all. So there you have it. It's officially over. Buh-bye, Blonde Beard. Don't let the razor nick ya on the way out! Next!

You sit down on the Hobosexual's lumpy futon couch and rest the Zip-locked Frozen Chicken Breast on your swollen Balloon Balls when you realize that your revelation about Blonde Beard neither surprises, nor disappoints you. And honestly, when you think about the relationship in such broad terms, it doesn't even seem like that big of a loss. But here's what's making you dazed and confused, not to mention driving you slowly insane. If the loss is truly no big whoop, then why on earth were your feelings sooooooo intense for Blonde Beard? Was your tearful subway meltdown just an "in the moment" kind of drunken thing? Or were your intense feelings more like a fast-acting, yet short-lived drug? Perhaps after years of dating Flaky Fashionista Fags, maybe you confused Blonde Beard's promptness and politeness as something that was actually unique and special and worthy of your deepest emotion? Or perhaps it's just that the sex was just so damn good that you let your girlie emotions get the best of you? And meanwhile, if you truly feel so Non-Plussed about the end of your Non-Relationship with your Non-Boyfriend, then why on earth are you so obsessed with the fact that you don't feel worse? Let it go already! Hell, if you're just in denial about the whole damn thing then why can't you just enjoy it before the other designer shoe drops?! And that's when you stumble upon what's really bothering you: After years of being single in New York, has your concept of love become so superficial and Chelsea-fied that you've finally become one of those "out of sight, out of mind," emotionally compartmentalized fags? Anyway.

When your Boneless Balloon Balls are thoroughly numb, you put the Zip-Loc bag on the kitchen counter so it can continue to defrost, and then you pop a Pain Killer and hobble down the six flights of stairs in order to get your Gay Fat ass out of your Home-Sweet-Hovel. You head over to your writing space to do some procrastinwriting, however, by the time you schlep up the three flights of stairs and claim your second-favorite dark little cubicle, your Gay Fat ass is, ironically, feeling light headed. With all your Blonde Beard lollygagging this morning, you forgot to have a breakfast chaser with your one-calorie Pain Killer. However, your dizziness turns out to be a blessing in disguise when you check your email and see that Dr. Mary-Ann-Not-Ginger has sent you the results of your Scrotal Sonogram. Being single and sober would be a tragic combination to receive the lovely news that your aging Balloon Balls are actually suffering from a painful case of varicose veins that was obviously aggravated by your Hurtful Hernia Surgery. Varicose Fucking Veins?? How humiliating is that? Your Blue Balls are like the gay equivalent of some Blue Haired Lady in Boca! Do you even have testicles? Or is your scrotum actually holding a couple of over-sized Blue Haired Lady Ovaries? Oy Vey(arie)...

Luckily there's another email from the Portuguese Brazilian From London to help distract you from your Old Girl Troubles, and, even though it's a bit ridiculous, you are happy to set up a date with him when the old chap returns to New York for the weekend. After a busy, light-headed day of Procrastinwriting, you drag your Balloon Balls over to the Gay and Lesbian Center to see a Michael Cunningham interview because he's been one of your absolute favorite authors ever since you read A Homo at the End of the World. Only instead of listening to the old Literary PowerHouse's interview, you spend The Hours drinking the free wine and texting your new literary PowerBottom that you recently met on Connexion: Mr. Write. He definitely gives good text and you can't wait to meet him.

However, when your cell vibrates to alert you to what you assume to be another flirty text from Mr. Write, your butterfly-anxiousness is quickly replaced with rolling eyes when you notice that this particular SMS is from your Hobosexual Roommate. He informs you that he has put your chicken in a bowl of cold water because (get this) it has started to go bad. Now, you know this is not in the realm of possibility because, 1) It is April not August, and your Home-Sweet-Hovel is barely warm enough for your toes to defrost, and 2) Even if the frozen-solid chicken breast has defrosted and actually gone bad, that it couldn't smell because it is tightly sealed away in a Zip-Loc bag. So you text the Hobosexual back and ask him to put your poultry in the refrigerator for you, as you will be home soon to take care of it. He immediately writes you back and informs you, "i put it in the fridge but i wouldn't eat it cause it really smells." You know that this is preposterous because the Hobosexual would never eat any kind of non-processed food that didn't come in a package from Trader Joe's.

After the Michael Cunningham interview and an inappropriate amount of free wine, you head back to the Home-Sweet-Hovel and are surprised to find that the apartment really does smell. Bad. Kind of like rotting chicken. However your rotting chicken is sealed in a Zip-Loc bag, which has been put away in a sealed refrigerator. So like Toucan Sam, you follow your nose and open the sink cabinet where you find the offensive Specimen. Days it's been since the overflowing trash bin has been taken out. And it reeks. You want to kill the Hobosexual because, had he taken care of this smelly situation hours ago, then your apartment wouldn't smell like Flesh and Blood. So you tie up the garbage bag and place it in front of the door because, between your Blue Veined Balloon Balls and your Hurtful Hernia, there's no way you are doing another twelve flights (round trip) to bring out the trash. So you whip up a delicious chicken dish and go to bed early. Of course, when you wake up the next morning, even though the Hobosexual had to move the smelly trash bag in order to get through the door, he couldn't be bothered to take it downstairs on his way to work. God forbid he should do something around the house when he has his old, Varicose-Veined Gay Mommy to do it for him. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Fags Who Waits by the Phone for Your Boy to Call...

...but that's mostly because you're much too busy waiting anxiously by your laptop for an apology email from Blonde Beard. The last thing he said to you was that he would contact you on Sunday. And, of course, now it's Monday and not only have you not been contacted, but you have also woken up in severe pain. Heartache would actually be preferable to the excruciating testicular "kick-in-the-balls" kind of pain that you're feeling. At first you were proud of your swollen balls, but now they're seeming a lot less, as Fergie would say, Glamorous. But, since you have your priorities set (for lack of a better word) straight, before calling Dr. Mary-Ann-Not-Ginger to schedule an emergency appointment, you log onto Connexion and change your online profile from "Exclusively Dating" back to, sigh, "Loser Party of One." Oops, excuse the typo, you meant to write "Single."

Dr. Mary-Ann-Not-Ginger barely takes thirty seconds out of her busy day to examine your Balloon Balls (which, given their current size are at least worthy of a two minute gawk, or perhaps even a paparazzi tabloid shot on Gawker), and then she writes you a prescription and sends you downstairs for a, get this, Scrotal Sonogram. You wait and wait and wait for what feels like forever before you are finally taken into a room and informed that you must take all your clothes off and put on a humiliating hospital gown with the opening to the front. Ugh. You do as you're told, however, without the support of your Calvin's, the weight of your pendulous scrotum practically brings you to tears. Although sitting down in a hospital gown that opens to the front happens to be the most disturbingly unbecoming pose you've ever donned (not to mention the most un-lady-like), gravity forces you and your Balloon Balls to take a seat so you don't have to add crying to your list of woes.

Eventually you are called into a little room by an unintelligible Russian Technician who is surrounded by lots of expensive medical equipment whose operating manuals hopefully come in languages other than English. Ms. Gorbachev instructs you to "Move your pen-iss," which takes you a moment to fully understand, but eventually you realize that she needs help with her Soviet Penis-troika so you happily move your junk out of her way. She lubes up your balls with gobs of petroleum jelly while you lay there and try to think about anything less humiliating than this particular experience. So, of course, your mind instantly turns to your recent Non-Break-Up Break-Up with Blonde Beard.

While Ms. Gorbachev rubs her Transducer over your Junk, you mentally escape the humiliation by creating a Pros and Cons list in your head. Although the Cons seem to substantially outweigh the Pros, and even though the two of you were so substantially different that it would have been practically impossible to achieve a long term relationship, you can't help but wonder, "Why the fuck hasn't Blonde Beard called you?" Regardless, you are somewhat relieved that the stressful relationship has ended before you had to come out of your Blah-Blah-Blogger Closet. Your unexpected relief kind of reminds you of the way you felt when you lost contact with your Homophobic Birthfather, even though that troubled relationship ended because you came out of the closet. Anyway. The whole situation is just too confusing and too difficult that it somehow actually seems easier not to have it. So the silver lining of your whole Blah-Blah-Blogged relationship is that you're not really all that broken-up about breaking-up with Blonde Beard. Although you don't feel particularly sad, you definitely feel, particularly and undeniably, confused. You run through the embarrassing chain of events that led to the demise of your Non- Relationship with your Non-Boyfriend and you begin to wonder if perhaps Blonde Beard might somehow be mad at you for ruining his 40th birthday? But all you fucking did was tell him you loved him after paying for everything. Note to self: Next time definitely confess your love before the check comes.

Eventually, Ms. Gorbachev finishes probing your nether regions and runs out of the room as she mutters something gruff and unintelligible which you decipher as, "Get dressed." You stand up, carefully wipe the goop from your throbbing Balloon Balls, get dressed, and when you open the door Ms. Gorbachev is absolutely nowhere to be found. Defeated, you just leave, feeling even more confused than you already do, not to mention slightly defiled (but not in that good gay way that you've become accustomed to).

The hospital ends up sucking a lot of time and energy out of your day that would have been much better spent laying in bed, so when your phone reminds you of an HIV test you made weeks ago when you still had a sex-life, not too mention testes that weren't tortured by even the lightest touch, the last thing you want to do is drag your ailing balls across town to Callen-Lorde to get tested (especially since the prospects of ever having sex again seem to have recently become extremely unlikely). Unfortunately, it's much too late to cancel, so you schlep across town on the M23 bus and wait for your name to be called for your $10 Rapid HIV test at the Community Health Center.

After Miss Hot Tranny Meds pricks your finger for a bit of blood, you habitually get up and start to limp back to the waiting room so you can slowly drive yourself crazy during the twenty minute wait while visions of your accidental Magnum-less P.I. (Penetration Incident) with Blonde Beard dance through your head. You're almost out the door when Miss Hot Tranny Meds asks you in her deepest baritone. "Where do you think you're going? You signed up for a complete set of STD tests." Ugh. Miss Hot Tranny Meds sends you downstairs for a blood test, and when you return, both ends of your digestive system are thoroughly swabbed as if you are one of the Perps on Logo's newest show, CSI: Fire Island. During the commercial break, Miss Hot Tranny Meds informs you that your HIV test came back Negative. Although you should be thrilled, you actually find yourself wondering whether it's possible to have a relationship that will last longer than the six-month gap between your Bi-Annual HIV test?

Anyway. When you get home and drag your aching Balloon Balls up the six flights of stairs to your Home-Sweet-Hovel, you instantly race to your computer to check your email for an apology from Blonde Beard that you're never going to receive. Only when you check your Inbox it actually contains something that proves to be even more ego-stroking: an email from a very, very cute Connexion boy. It says, "hey! i'm a writer, too. what kind you ask? i'm the trying-not-to-be-lazy kind. i'm actually just a playwright, so not a real writer. you can google me, i ain't lyin'." You, of course, instantly Google Mr. Write and are absolutely shocked to find a Wikipedia entry that includes so many credits and prestigious accolades that, one thing's definitely for sure, Mr. Write "ain't lyin'."

Blonde Beard who? Anyway...