You're not the type of fag who Plays Games...

...but you are usually well aware when you're being played. Over the years you've developed a few dating Do's and Dont's that have served you well:

1. Be sure your words and your actions send out similar messages.
2. Say what you mean, mean what you say, and try not to be mean when you say it.
3. And never ever play games.

But sometimes, especially when it comes to dating boys, things can get a bit hairy. But isn't that why God invented Laser Hair Reduction? Anyway.

Today is The Cuddler's birthday and you've put a lot of thought into it how to approach this delicate dating dilemma. You want to wish him a happy birthday, but since you fear your time together is nearing its conclusion, you definitely don't want to come off as an over-zealous well-wisher. Since you don't see this relationship as heading anywhere serious, you decide, in advance, that email is the best mode for this particular communication pickle. So you email him a simple mid-morning message that simply says, "Happy Birthday! Hope you have a great day!" A little lame, especially from a writer, but hell, it's the thought that counts, right? And meanwhile, isn't it supposed to be a little lame?

The Cuddler responds pretty much instantly and says, "Thanks for thinking of me. It's been nice getting to know you these past few weeks and I'm looking forward to knowing you better." You take a lot of time composing your careful reply and say, "You're very sweet. What's the plan for tomorrow?" And that's that. A day passes and you don't know what to do. You still don't even know where the dinner is being held. Now you have a real dating conundrum. Should you call to find out the location of the dinner that you don't want to go to? Or should you just let it go? And meanwhile, did The Cuddler ever receive your email? Will you come off as The Asshole? And, more importantly, do you care if you do?

Finally, twenty-nine hours later, The Cuddler calls you a few hours before the dinner and immediately apologizes because he has to cancel his birthday dinner tonight because, get this, "Something Suddenly Came Up" at work. You refrain from telling him that you've seen this Brady Bunch episode, but he rushes off the phone because it's a crazy day at work. Blah-blah-blah. You don't really believe The Cuddler, but is he lying? Is he just being protective? Is he mad about your lame email? Is he really cancelling the Birthday Dinner? Or is he just cancelling you? The whole thing seems designed to confuse you (most likely by his other friends going to the Birthday Dinner.) Are you being played? Anyway.

You're not the type of fag who hearts the Birthday Dinner...

...in fact, you loathe the Birthday Dinner. It's such a blatant violation of the unspoken rules and regulations of the ridiculous privileges that New Yorkers get away with on their birthdays. Chelsea Boys especially tend to use their special day as a way to sucker their friends into paying for ridiculously expensive (surprisingly carb-intensive) meals at restaurants that they'd never otherwise frequent. One day each year these Gluttonous Birthday Offenders put down their beat-up Zagats and dust off their Michelin Guides to choose three-star restaurants that no one in their circle of friends can neither pronounce nor afford. But this is not the worst part. The real kick-in-the-balls comes when all these Gray's Papaya paupers gather together in front of so much unnecessary silver cutlery that even the 700-thread count tablecloth becomes unworthy of mention; once the Maître d' hands out les menus qui sont écrit en français; once your MetroCard carrying friends begin the annual Birthday scavenger hunt for the most expensive dishes on le menu: appetizers, amuse bouches, starters, hors d'œuvres, entrees, side dishes, desserts, desserts for the table, desserts for the fucking table next to you. You know you're in trouble when your poorest, most unemployed artist friend (who, by the way, once told you that H&M is way too expensive) asks the Sommelier to describe the nuances of a rare vintage Château Neuf du Pape. That's when you reach down between your legs and realize you should've worn your protective ice-hockey cup instead of those cute 2xist boxer briefs because the liquor alone will eclipse the already exorbitant food bill. You begin to wonder if there's such a thing as a second mortgage for a rent-stabilized sixth floor walk-up?

But you digress.

You're on the phone with The Cuddler trying to come up with a free evening to get together when suddenly you find yourself caught between a stale baguette and a hard-cover Zagat Survey. You stammer when The Cuddler catches you off-guard and invites you, surprise-surprise, to his Birthday Dinner. You kind of deserve it though, after the whole Match.com wink debacle the other day, even though he took your vengeful, "I-caught-you-on-Match.com" evil-intentioned wink as more of a "ha-ha-aren't-I-cute?" playful sort of thing. You immediately want to throttle your straight girlfriend who convinced you it was too cruel, even for you, to break up with this boy moments before he was another year closer to gray pubic hair. But the absolute worst part of this scenario is that you and your big mouth already told The Cuddler that you were free. Anyway.