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...

You’re Not the Type of Fag Who Cries Himself to Sleep...

...but you do whole-heartedly believe in the medicinal powers of an old fashioned sleeping pill. Forget about all this Ambien and Xanex crap, you, my friend, prefer to follow in the footsteps of the Ghosts of Divas Past. After coming home, alone, after the dramatic subway platform ending of your three month relationship with Blonde Beard, you decide to treat yourself to thirty milligrams of forty-winks and you knock yourself out (like Judy and Marilyn would have) with one of your left over Restorils prescribed to help you survive a Red Eye on your recent ski trip to Chamonix.

The next day you wake up, extremely groggy, and you’re kind of thrilled about the gorgeous warm weather. You don’t have any plans, so, as you lay in the comfort of your comforting comforter, you start to think about how best to spend your Sunday. And that’s when it hits you. You suddenly remember last night. You remember Blonde Beard’s fortieth birthday dinner at Supper. Drinks at The Ritz. More drinks at Barrage. Then you remember that sentence. The one that caused you to forget everything else that was said before or after. Blonde Beard’s sentence that suddenly put everything into perspective for you and your three month relationship: “I just feel that, between work and school, that I’m spreading myself too thin.” You are shocked, but not because of Blonde Beard’s irritatingly lame break-up sentence. You are shocked, but not because that sentence ultimately caused you to confess your love on the West 4th Subway Platform before walking away and bursting into tears. You feel like you've done everything you could in this relationship, and somehow you don't feel like too much of an idiot. Expressing your feelings to someone you love is not a bad thing. And the one thing you know for sure is that when you do express your love for a boy, you definitely expect it to be a good thing. Actually, more like a great thing. But none of these Post-Mortem realizations are all that surprising. What you find to be completely shocking today is that you're not really all that sad. At all. And shouldn’t you be? After all, you told the damn guy you loved him and then he let you walk away. Could you have possibly made a mistake? Well, obviously you were wrong for falling in love with Blonde Beard in the first place, but is it possible that you were never actually in love with him at all?

You remember your first break-up with your first love. You cried for weeks. An entire summer, in fact. And after you broke up with your second love you remember breaking into sudden tears almost daily in the shower, where nobody, not even you, could see your tears even though they were undeniably present on a daily basis. And the third boy you’ve ever said, “I love you” to is Blonde Beard. Shouldn’t you feel worse? Shouldn’t you be crying? After years of being single in Manhattan, is it possible that you’ve gotten too old and jaded to properly experience love and heartbreak? Your existential angst actually pulls you out of bed and keeps you busy sifting through your innermost superficiality for some hint of denied sorrow as you make yourself some (actually rather delicious) scrambled eggs and hop in the shower and sing along the poppy new British Import you bought on eBay, Now That’s What I Call Music 69, specifically to some song called Be Mine! by Robyn, “But you never were, and you never will be mine!” And, get this, even though the silly song makes you instantly think of Blonde Beard, it actually puts you in an even better mood.

So after getting dressed you decide exactly what you are going to do today. You are going to finish making that ridiculously romantic Shutterfly photo book that documents all of the dates you went on with Blonde Beard. And you’re not doing it to be spiteful. Well, you don’t think you are. Anyway. Instead of considering it as a birthday present, you decide that now it will work much better as a Lovely Parting Gift. So the Martha in you hobbles her Hurtful Hernia over to the restaurant that you took Blonde Beard to last night for his birthday dinner. Originally you had wanted to get the waitress to take a photo of the two of you for the last page in the book, but after Blonde Beard poo-poo’d that you decide that you still want to document your Last Supper with Blonde Beard which, ironically, took place at Supper.

And then you go home and spend the day in front of your computer, uploading photos, cropping them, putting them in chronological order, while you wait for Blonde Beard not to call. You title it “Forty Dates With a Thirty-Nine Year Old.” And you end it with a simple, “Happy 40th, xoxo You!” because the x’s and o’s seem to represent the way you feel now much better than the word “love” does. When you finish you actually feel kind of relieved that it’s over. You no longer have to live in fear of Blonde Beard finding out about your Blah-Blah-Blog. You don’t have to worry about him hating you for writing about your relationship and publishing it on the internet. The fact that he doesn’t love you seems somehow preferable to him finding out and hating your Gay Fat guts. And that’s when it hits you. It’s not that you’re too old to experience love and heartbreak, perhaps you’re just too scared to experience it publicly. Anyway...

Click here to view this photo book.

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

...but lately you have been living in complete fear of being "outed" for writing your Blah-Blah-Blog. In fact, last night at your Gal Pal's Pot Luck was the closest call you've had yet. Since your Gal Pal had generously offered to collect what's left of you after your Hurtful Hernia surgery, you decided to return the favor so you offered to come early and help her set up before her Pot Luck. The fact that your Gal Pal would actually accept your disingenuous offer never actually crossed your mind, but you made the best of it and dragged Blonde Beard along with you. Since you were the first two boys there, you made yourself useful by gaying up the place, keeping her Four Legged Vacuum away from the food, and answering the door when an irritatingly early guest buzzed. There were only a handful of your Literary Lot of friends at the party when the your friend Shaggy arrived. As usual, his Mystery Machine was hidden deep within his baggy pants (rumor has it that the Mystery Machine is so big that Shaggy needs to order his latex Scooby Snacks online). Meanwhile, a big smile took over your face when you saw your allegedly endowed friend through the glass door. Although it took you a while to let him in, somehow you unlocked it one handed without spilling a drop of wine. God forbid you should put down the glass! Only when you open the door the first thing Shaggy says is (actually it's more of an ear piercing shriek), "So I finally read your blog!"

Your face turns ghostly white (as if you're a Guest Ghost Star on Scooby Doo) and your index finger raises to cross your lips violently in order to immediately silence this Meddling Kid! Then you whisper indignantly using the Royal "we" as if you are Queen Fucking Elizabeth, "We don't talk about that in public." And then you fearfully turn back toward the party, wondering nervously whether Blonde Beard overheard or not. Meanwhile, although you may once have off-handedly mentioned that you write a secret Blah-Blah-Blog to Shaggy, you definitely never mentioned it's Na-Na-Name. Somehow the damn thing has gotten on the radar and your friends are starting to talk about it. Even your straight friends. What's up with that? Why the hell is Straight Shaggy reading your Gay Blah-Blah-Blog? Do Breeders really lead such boring lives that they need to live vicariously through your gay shenanigans? Ugh. Although you have been very careful about who you've divulged your secret URL to, your friends have obviously been less discerning. It's like that fucking Faberge Shampoo commercial, "If you tell two friends about 2nd Person with wheat germ oil and honey, they'll tell two friends. And so on... And so on... And so on..." You, of course, always preferred Body On Tap shampoo which was, for some unknown reason, made with real beer, "But don't drink it!"

Meanwhile, the only good part about Blonde Beard's hasty, 9:30pm retreat is that you don't have to worry about one drunken Lit Lot writer spilling the beans about your secret Blah-Blah-Blog. However, after Blonde Beard is gone you are so miserable that even this silver lining doesn't make you feel any better. Neither does the text he sends you soon after he gets home, "Sorry things are so weird right now. Thanks for taking me to your Gal Pal's. Have fun the rest of the night." The message leaves you uneasy. Why are things so weird right now? You decide not to respond, mostly because you have no idea how to respond. But ten minutes later you receive another guilt-ridden text, "PS-You looked very cute tonight," which you also choose not to respond to, mostly because you are depressed. Who knew that it was actually possible for you to make a wise decision under the influence of an entire gaggle of Grey Geese?

The next morning you wake up and feel awful. And for once this is not (solely) due to your hangover. You tossed and turned sleeplessly all night while analyzing Blonde Beard's hasty departure. All you can really come up with is that he is just the most shy person you have ever encountered. Actually, he reminds you of your lame Oh Brother, who is completely socially retarded and only communicates with monosyllabic grunts, yet somehow received his Doctorate from Harvard. Could your intense attraction to Blonde Beard somehow be tied to some bizarre need to work out your troubled relationship with your Oh Brother? And more importantly, is it even possible for someone as socially (look at you-you-you!) extroverted as you to be in a relationship with someone who can't seem to handle the harried social pressure of a Brooklyn Pot-Luck? Meanwhile, you decide that it's time to answer Blonde Beard's text, but you let your fingers do the talking since you're still wrapped up tightly in your warm winter comforter and don't feel like talking. You tap out the message, "I'm confused and don't understand why things are weird. I was really sad last night after you left. Still sad now, actually. Or maybe just hungover." Even though you're not (really) hungover, you add that last part mostly to lighten up the mood of your depressing text so you don't seem like such a clingy sad-sack. Blonde Beard responds immediately: "Sorry you are feeling bad, whatever the source. Sounds like you had some fun if you're hungover." Whatever the source? Is he kidding? Does he really not realize that he's the fucking source? Not to mention the fact that the only reason you over-indulged last night was because you were so fucking depressed that the boy you are falling in love with couldn't stick around the party long enough to meet a few of your friends?

You don't respond to the last text because you really don't have anything to say. Well, nothing that's not snarky. Anyway. You mope around all morning feeling sorry for yourself until your friends begin to badger you about coming to a mutual friend's brunch that you decided to blow off for your extremely unsatisfying pity party. Eventually you concede to the barrage of texts and voicemails and you drag yourself out of bed and head over to the Brunch which happens to be pretty much the same guest list from the Pot Luck. The Lit Lot seems to berate you with questions about why you look so Mopey Fish Face, so you re-hash the story about your Socially Inept Non-Boyfriend over and over while plying yourself with some Hair-of-the-Dog Mimosas. Each time you repeat the story you find yourself saying that you are not willing to have a relationship where you must walk on eggshells everytime you are in a social situation with Blonde Beard, nor are you willing to give up your friendships for a reclusive relationship. And everytime you finish the sad story you always come to the dramatic conclusion, "I think we're just too different to be in a relationship."

However during your fifth re-telling or perhaps your fifth mimosa, Blonde Beard actually calls your cell. You excuse yourself to the Apartment's cinder-block Stairwell as you echo your concerns to your hairy-lipped boy about the so-called "weirdness" in your "relationship." Only you quickly realize that the two of you are not on the same page about what is actually "weird." Blonde Beard explains that he has been on edge lately because he has been worried that his Jealous Roommate was going to kick him out of their apartment. Apparently the psychopath was so up-in-arms about your recent innocuous "renovation" comment that the Jealous Roommate has not only banned you from visiting, but he has also gotten Blonde Beard worried that he will have to choose between his Rent Controlled Apartment and his new Non-Boyfriend. This scenario obviously never crossed your mind, mostly because it is insane, but it does help make sense of why Blonde Beard has seemed so distant lately. So you decide to meet and grab some Thai food at Sea so you can talk in person.

Only your meal in constantly interrupted by all the members of the Boy Luck Club. Nonstop. Apparently your friend, Fat Albert (whose photographs always seem to add 150 pounds to his skeletal frame as if he's some anorexic vampire) has some bizarre need for you to get your ass over to his apartment, right now. Probably so you can watch him not eat the Chinese food that he has apparently just ordered. And then, as if free food wasn't enough of a lure, Fat Albert informs you that he has a present that he wants to give you before he leaves for Europe tomorrow. You are completely torn because you'd love to go over for food and presents, but you really don't want to have another repeat of last night where Blonde Beard goes all Ted Kaczynski and runs away to live off the grid where he can send preemptive Unabomber packages to anybody who dares to invite you to a party.

But the texts are relentless, so eventually you timidly ask Blonde Beard if he'd mind stopping by Fat Albert's apartment for a little while since it's only a few blocks away. Blonde Beard agrees and you get more and more anxious with each footstep that brings you closer to your impending doom. When the doorman announces your arrival to Fat Albert, you hear your photographically challenged friend shout over the intercom, "Send him away!" Although the Doorman knows to ignore Fat Albert's fictitious orders, Blonde Beard takes them at face value and looks around nervously, almost backing out to the street before you can coax him into the elevator. However, to your elation, when you arrive to the Lions' Den Blonde Beard is given a very warm welcome. The Boy Luck Club is definitely on their best behavior and not only are they extremely nice and inviting, but they definitely include Blonde Beard in the various conversations that are typically "Boy Luck Club Only" topics. Although you almost cringe every time a question is directed toward Blonde Beard, you quickly realize that he seems to be holding his own. Quite impressively, actually. Not only does he get the jokes, but he actually tries to crack a few of his own. You begin to wonder why he's so much more comfortable and confident amongst your tighter, bitchier group of friends? Until you realize that this time he's surrounded by a group of four compared to last night's group of forty.

Eventually you are lulled into a false sense of security after receiving an extremely generous pre-birthday gift of a free Frequent Flyer ticket to L.A. (for an upcoming Atlantis Cruise that you can't afford), the Boy Luck Club starts to tease you by discussing very specific details that you only write about in your Blah-Blah-Blog. They use terms that you'd only ever used online, for instance, your face turns bright red when the Rice Queen asks with a wink, "How are the Hobosexual's Bedbugs?" This is quickly followed up with knowing laughter and further interrogation from Half-Share, "Meanwhile when are you moving out of your Home-Sweet-Hovel?" Of course all of this flies right over Blonde Beard's head, but you are left feeling more than a bit uneasy. In fact, this time it is you that flees the impromptu party uncomfortably early. You grab Blonde Beard and inform the Boy Luck Club that you must get going because you have to wake up unreasonably early for your hernia surgery in the morning. As you walk down Fourth Avenue you begin to wonder how much longer you will be able to keep up the closeted blog charade? The one thing you have become certain of, however, is that when Blonde Beard does find out about your Blah-Blah-Blog, that this intensely shy and private boy will probably never be able to forgive you for the hole that you have unknowingly dug yourself into. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Strung Out Fags Who Hasn't Slept For Days...

...but after last night's Magnum-less P.I. (Penetration Incident), let's just say that you didn't sleep very soundly. You even tried counting sheep, but for some reason you kept imagining a Perv-y Sheppard fucking his livestock raw. Meanwhile, today your feet are definitely dragging (almost as if you were in drag, complete with painful 9" Stilettos). You're so tired that you almost fall asleep during your schlep of shame back to your Home Sweet Hovel. However, after sleepwalking up six flights of stairs (while dreaming wistfully about moving into your new building with one of those fantastic new inventions they're calling an elevator), you walk into a Katrina-esque disaster area that used to resemble a sub-poverty-level kitchen. It seems as if your Hobosexual roommate threw some sort of dinner party (even though the Home Sweet Hovel lacks any sort of table surface to eat off of) and then just threw all of the dishes into the sink, obviously for Alice to clean. However, although you keep reminding the Hobosexual that he can "Kiss your Grits!" he somehow keeps forgetting that he's not one of The Brady Bunch kids and that Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore (and that includes both Alices: Ann B. Davis and Linda Lavin). You practice your Lamaze breathing as you tip-toe through spaghetti stains while dreaming about that dishwasher in your new apartment!

You're so tired that your only accomplishment is futzing around on the internet trying to decide whether or not to change your Connexion profile from "Single" to "Exclusively Dating." Although you haven't had that particular conversation with Blonde Beard (yet), you kind of feel compelled to change your status not only because you want to be exclusively dating, but also because it helps you to imagine that you would only do the Magnum-less P.I. with a boy that you were in an exclusive relationship with. Ugh. You were so fucking stupid last night, but you try not to beat yourself up because, after all, you are only human.

Later that afternoon, you end up dragging your BFF out to Jackson Heights because you have to drop off a $100 check to the Real Estate Agent who reminds you of Benning's famous character from American Beauty, only a bit more Jewish and lot more whiny: Annette Weining. Only when you get to the office, it's an absolute mad house. Or more specifically a mad Open House. Everybody and their unemployed Uncle wants in on the cheapest real estate east of the Mississippi. While you're filling out your check you over hear one of the agents talking about your friend Jet Blew who has apparently gotten lost in the Bermuda Triangle of the Receptionist's inept attempt to transfer his call to Annette Weining and you wonder if he'll be moving into Melrose Place too? You, of course, will be playing the Heather Locklear role.

The whole ordeal takes way longer than you expected so you end up racing back home to change into something cute because you have a plethora of evening plans that begin with a 5:45pm dinner (yes, you realize that it is absolutely ridiculous to schedule anything smack in the middle of Happy Hour, but The Ex wanted to get a Blue Plate Special and since he's paying, you do your best not to complain even though you are failing miserably). However, The Ex is pissed (rightly so) when you arrive at DB Bistro on Gay Standard Time, which today happens to be thirty minutes late. But The Ex used to live with you so he probably assumed you'd be late and subsequently lied to you about the ridiculously early reservation time. But when you arrive, the fancy restaurant is packed with Pre-Theater Diners munching on $32 Hamburgers. When you place your order, you briefly consider asking the waiter how much extra it would cost to add a slice of cheese, but decide to stick with what's on le menu. You and The Ex have a really nice time catching up, and you listen sadly while he tells you about his father, Jerry the Hugger's funeral, which happened while you were hemorrhaging euros and gallivanting around Europe. He also tells you all the gossip about the movie he's currently directing in Texas with half the cast of High School Musical (which sounds dreadful, but ultimately much less painful than the train wreck of a musical that you end up seeing in Previews: Cry Baby).

You certainly want to Cry, Baby, but that has as much to do with the Mid-Western Giant Breeder that's kicking your seat in time to the horrendous score, than it does with the horrendous show. Somehow you make it through the ghastly Broadway remake of the dreadful John Waters film (trust me, this one feels more like Jeri Curl than Hairspray). Meanwhile, you're busy mentally decorating your new apartment while the ridiculous show drones on, and you count down the moments till your post-theater escape. Afterwards, just like trained seals, the Broadway audience jumps to their feet and gives the poor actors a standing ovation (which is fine, because it's not exactly their fault that they were cast in this dreck. Unlike the audience, at least the actors are being paid for their nightly humiliation).

You pummel over Blue Haired Old Ladies With Walkers and even stomp on a Toddler's Tootsie because you can't get out of the theater fast enough since you are definitely Jones-ing for a Gay Cocktail. Outside, you air-kiss The Ex and shudder as you wish him a safe trip back to Bush Country. Then you race over to The Ritz to meet your anorexic friend, Fat Albert, and a crazy Russian boy (who, of course, you used to date). The Soviet Dicktator (who recently moved to London) is back for a visit and has arranged a Boys Night Out. The Dicktator notices you as you walk into the shockingly empty bar and his expression immediately elevates into one of the warmest stoic frowns you've ever seen. You congratulate The Dicktator about some new Comrade you've heard he's dating back in London to which he immediately begins an interrogation, "Who told you that?" A bit embarrassed, you begin to backpedal, "I'm sorry. Are you not seeing him anymore?" But The Dicktator quickly begins to use his old Soviet-era interrogation tactics as he backs you into a corner beneath a dimly lit "Exit" sign that somehow suddenly floods your retinas with a blinding surge of wattage that seemingly doubles as a truth serum. Eventually you submit to The Dicktator's probing question, "Fat Albert told me!" And with that, The Dicktator relinquishes you to hunt down your anorectic friend to further his investigation.

Luckily, you find Fat Albert before The Dicktator does, and you immediately apologize for passing along his benign non-gossip to the KGB. But while the two of you are talking, some random boy makes a bee-line for you and interrupts your apology as he extends his hand,"I don't think we've met." You are a bit taken back by the formal introduction that feels much more Ritz-Carlton than Ritz Gay Bar, but you introduce yourself because, after all, he's cute. And although you thought he was just some random patron, The Cute Interrupter turns out to be part of The Dicktator's little group of Comrades who have gathered to toast his triumphant return to Amerika with generous shots of Stolichnaya.

A few Stoli O's later, the tears you shed during Cry Baby have long since dried up and you quickly find yourself yapping about The Cute Interrupter's boyfriend (all the good ones are always taken...) as well as the various places that you've both lived. You even attempt to play the Lame Name Game, but he doesn't seem to know any of the same Left Coast Fags that you do. But then he asks the inevitable question, "What do you do?" Ugh. This question always makes you squirm because you hate talking to anyone who receives a weekly paycheck about how you are a Starving Writer (on a diet of course) who's living off his savings in order to write the Great American Govel (Gay Novel). However, not only do The Cute Interrupter's eyes not glaze over, but they actually seem to light up as he tells you that he works for Genre Magazine. "What a coincidence," you laugh lamely, "I read Genre Magazine! Now if only I could write for it..." And then The Genre Gent reaches into his wallet and produces his business card and hands it over, to you. Your eyes almost pop out of your cartoon head when you see his high powered position, and then you instinctively bow toward this Gay Rupert Murdoch Publishing Czar, much like a Japanese Geisha would, and you accept his gracious business card as if it were your most coveted possession. And then you do something you've never done before. You tell The Genre Gent all about your anonymous Blah-Blah-Blog which has really started to take off (oh come on, if you don't sell yourself nobody else will!) And the Gay Cocktails really start to kick in as you begin embellishing the truth with heaps of relentless networking about how your Blah-Blah-Blog was recently written up as one of the Best Gay Blogs, yadda, yadda, yadda.

After your shameless self-promotion you are absolutely famished so you grab another celebratory Gay Cocktail and head downstairs to dance. The KickAss DJ has got the whole floor up on their feet, but when he plays MIKA you find your big Gay Fat ass ascending to the top the banquette so you can really let loose. You sing along to your court of young adorable boys as you inform them, "Big Girls, You Are Beautiful!" and you, of course, are The Biggest Big Girl as your arms flail around in time to the music... And that's when it suddenly hits you, or more like scrapes against you like a recently groomed Blonde Beard. None of these delectable drunk boys, no matter how young, hung, hairy or smooth, absolutely none of them are even remotely on your Gaydar. Even though you are Out and About, grinding amongst a sea of P.Y.T.'s on the dance floor, the only place you really want to be is lying in Blonde Beard's arms on his overly soft mattress (which definitely needs to be upgraded; sooner than later) as you tell him all about the amazing new contact you made at Genre.

So just like that that you decide to say your goodbyes to Fat Albert, The Dicktator and, of course, Genre Gent before you hop on the subway to go back to your Home Sweet Hovel. Although you'd rather go to Blonde Beard's, it's late and your boy is definitely making Z's. Luckily the subway arrives almost as if on cue which makes you feel like you've just picked up a Monopoly Chance card which says "MTA Error in your favor! This weekend the A Train is Running on the F Line! Advance immediately to Second Avenue without transferring!" However, your luck instantly runs dry when you get back to your Home Sweet Hovel and you find your Hobosexual Roommate sleeping on the little couch. Again. Unfortunately he wakes up as you tip-toe through your Lifeless Living Room, but he doesn't just wake up. He's so strung out that he actually jumps up and shrieks. You apologize for waking him, but you take the opportunity to ask him why he's sleeping in the Living Room. Again. To which he responds, "The bedbugs are everywhere. They're on the futon couch now, so I have to sleep on the little couch." You want to ask him why he doesn't just sleep in his own damn bed in order to keep the infestation in his bedroom, but he offers you an explanation without you having to ask, "I haven't slept through the night in months. I even threw my mattress away last week."

And that's when the light bulb above your head starts to flash uncontrollably because you realize that your Hobosexual Roommate has officially gone insane. Either that or you are the only fag on earth who is immune to Bedbug bites. Even though you've never once been bitten, you've definitely scoured the apartment for signs of the alleged infestation and found absolutely zero evidence. You begin to wonder if the Hobosexual has caught a bad case of crabs and is in denial? But you begin to lose both your patience as well as your Stoli O' Buzz as he tells you, complete with big saucer-sized pupils, that you will have to have all of your clothes drycleaned and then put away in storage. The Hobosexual's Imaginary Bedbug situation was all fine and dandy, but if he thinks you're actually going to spend a dime on his delusion, then your sleep deprived roommate better prepare himself for a rude awakening. So you inform him, in the nicest possible way, that you'll be happy to do whatever it takes to get rid of the Bedbugs, but you will definitely need to see a Bedbug before you start paying for their extermination. And that's when the Hobosexual begins to groom his sweater as if it were his baby Gorilla, and you are in shock when he actually produces several pieces of, get this, lint, and attempts to convince you, in all honesty, that the wool he pulled from his pilling sweater is, indeed, a Bedbug. You begin to wonder if he might actually be sleepwalking and having a simultaneous dream, or if this bizarre dialog is actually coming out of your nightmare? But you just politely say, "Goodnight," and tell him that you will discuss it in the morning. And then you go straight (for lack of a better word) to bed and spoon your pillow while delusionally imagining that it is Blonde Beard instead of a Bedbug. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those S & M Fags...

...unless of course it's a night like tonight where you find yourself at one of those Stand & Model bars (can you say G Lounge?) where the only kind of pain that is inflicted upon you is strictly emotional (unless, of course, you count the misery of feeling physically inadequate amongst the artificially enhanced Chelsea Steroid Queens). But while you're busy chatting it up with the Boy Luck Club, an email comment from one of your Blah-Blah-Blog Readers beeps through to your iPhone and you quickly find yourself reeling as if you had just been iPunched in the stomach:

"I love your blog but even at the risk of never reading about your shenanigans again, I think now might be a good time to stop writing about your relationship with Blonde Beard. If you really like him and you want things to work out, you don't want entries like this floating around the Internet, because if he ever sees that you wrote about his drug problems on your blog, anonymous or not, he might (and probably should, to be honest) freak out..."

Meanwhile, the only person freaking out right now is you. The Boy Luck Club immediately notices the sobering change in your typically drunken demeanor and they try to comfort you about the strange situation that you have unexpectedly found yourself in. You started your Blah-Blah-Blog mostly as a goof, but after a while you realized that writing about your ridiculous dating foibles, was not only cathartic, but there might actually be a Silver Lining that might hopefully bring some attention to your writing and ultimately help attract a Literary Agent that could help sell your damn novel. So far, it's all been good, except for the fact that you never had a Plan B for when you fell in love. Especially not so damn quickly. And definitely not so damn publicly. So you say goodnight to the Boy Luck Club and shuffle your Gay-Fat Ass (actually at this point you may actually be creeping into Straight-Fat territory) to McDonald's on Eighth Avenue, and you order $3 worth of Food (you use the F-word lightly) from the Dollar Value Menu in order to drown your sorrows on cheap, yet Manly portions of TransFat across from, ironically, a Fat TransMan.

The next morning your alarm wakes up your depressed gay ass way too early for a Saturday because you have to schlep out to The Pines in order to check out a Quarter Share (even though all you want to be checking out is a Quarter Pounder) with your future Fire Island Housemates. You almost miss the 9:16am train because your Cabbie keeps making wrong turns because he is much too busy yapping Farsi into his cell and can't seem to retain the fact that you needed to go to that obscure destination they call Penn Station. Luckily you make the train with less than thirty seconds to spare, and plop yourself down between Rice Queen and Rice Queen Too, who, ironically, dated each other in college long enough to realize neither of them liked White Boys too much. You pretend to sleep while listening the two yap about their recent outings to The Web as they compare notes on their overlapping dates. At one point White Rice actually shares an Asian Boy's number with Brown Rice (which you find a bit odd) until you realize that Brown Rice is just entering it into his phone to double check if the number had already been stored which would, of course, mean that they had dated. Everyone is shocked when the fact neither White Rice nor Brown Rice has slept with this particular Asian Boy, so it is quickly decided that he must be Sticky Rice. You, of course, open your eyes at this point to learn the meaning of this new urban slang which is explained to you as an Asian Boy who would prefer to sleep with another Asian Boy over one of your two friends.

After spending the last of your cash and taking out a loan from White Rice to pay for the $24 round-trip ferry ride (which is explained to you by the Sayville Ferry Girl as a Winter Rate, although you consider it more of a Winter Rape), you are tickled pink when you realize you have sat your Gay-Fat Ass down next to Robin Byrd herself! You love-love-love the Original Public Access Fag Hag who would somehow always get her guests to expose themselves during a striptease during the final credits to "Baby Let Me Bang Your Box." So, of course, you discreetly take a photo with your camera phone because, even though it becomes blatantly obvious from her "mature" appearance that her shows have probably been rerun longer than The Brady Bunch.

Eventually you get to The Pines and meet your Real Estate Agent who reminds you of that actor in Ghost (you know, the one who played the Subway Ghost?), only this guy is much, much scarier. And in the same way that the Subway Ghost wasn't able to get off the Subway, this Realtor actually can't get off Fire Island because he lives in The Pines year round. Which is, ironically, nothing more than a Gay Ghost Town from Labor Day till Memorial Day. For a while it seems like yours is the first conversation the Ghostly Realtor has had since they shuttered the Blue Whale's doors after last Summer's final Low Tea, but you quickly tune him out because you get a text from Blonde Beard about meeting up in Rockville Centre later on. Somehow you agreed to accompany him to, get this, a two year old's birthday party. On Long Island. After telling Blonde Beard what train you'll be on, you end wandering up and down the boardwalk, touring luxurious, yet freezing cold beach houses, none of which have running water. This dry situation presents a constant drainage problem for your girly bladder which, as usual, overfloweth with Diet Pepsi. At the end of the day, you and the Rice Queens end up being drawn to a super cute place on Beach Hill that, shockingly, you all agree upon, and you tell the Ghost Realtor to draw up the papers so you won't be late to the toddler's birthday party.

When the train arrives at Rockville Centre (tragically, it really is spelled like that), you give some quick double Euro-Kisses to the Rice Queens because you are excited to get off the train and give some lengthy French-Kisses to Blonde Beard who is waiting for you on the platform. As usual, your eyes quickly weed through the Pastel-ish Suburban Crowd and immediately lock onto Blonde Beard's piercing blue eyes which draw you in like a Tractor Beam from the U.S.S. Enterprise. After you get your kiss you head over to the Breeder's party in order to celebrate the two year anniversary of their successful Breeding. Although it's not something that you'd typically relish doing on a Saturday, you were touched when Blonde Beard asked you to join him, not to mention the fact that you were excited to meet some of his friends. Besides, today is your Two-Monthiversary so you probably would have agreed to eat broccoli or even gone Women's Shoe Shopping with him if that's what he asked you to do.

You are both completely out of your element in the extremely spacious Long Island Home, and you keep staring mistrustfully at the plethora of Pastel Colored Suburbanites who seem to be, get this, enjoying their Nanny-less babies even though the Rugrats are spitting up and screaming and eating things off the carpet. Your eyes are also constantly drawn toward the staircase which is freaking you out because it is inside the living quarters instead of out in the dirty common hallway so it can be shared with apartment dwellers where it can do double duty as an ashtray to accommodate neighbors who are too lazy to schlep down six flights to get their nicotine fix. You suffer through the endless opening of the presents by a baby who is more interested in the discarded ribbons and ripped wrapping paper than he is interested in his actual toys. Suddenly one of the other childless Manhattanites happily informs you with a gleam in her eyes that your train is ten minutes earlier than you all thought it was, so you all mumble your goodbyes as you rush outside. You are so anxious to make this train that you end up squishing yourself in through the back liftgate of a Jeep Liberty so you won't have to suffer through an extra half hour with disturbing staircases and manipulative blonde babies.

You and Blonde Beard board the Long Island Railroad and duck away from the other Manhattanites into the first available seat. You worry that it might be rude, until Blonde Beard informs you that, "The party is over!" And before you know it you are back in Penn Station which is, unfortunately, full of Amateur Suburban Drunks who are wearing green and actually singing "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling" even though all their eyes are glazed over. You consider informing them that St. Patrick's Day is still forty-eight hours away, but then you'd actually have to talk to them, so you just leave because, after all, there is gay sex to be had.

Back at Blonde Beard's stair-free apartment it gets hot and heavy pretty quickly. You find yourself sitting on top of him, hypnotized by his blue eyes in that now familiar way where you forget absolutely everyone and everything that is beyond your peripheral vision. That's when Blonde Beard looks up at you and whispers, "Thanks for coming along with me to that horrible baby party today. I know you didn't have to go, but it really meant a lot to me." You instantly get all veklempt, and even though you know you shouldn't say it, you can't stop the words from coming out of your mouth, "Of course I went with you. I'm falling in love with you..." And just like that, on your Two-Monthiversary, you drop your first L-bomb. In all of your thirtysomething years, you've only ever said it to two other boys. Even though, this time, you didn't really say it, yet, you certainly just gave some foreshadowing of what was to come with this practice sentence, almost as if you were a sophomore in High School taking your PSATs.

And then you just wait. And wait. And wait. But all you get is crickets. Although Blonde Beard's body language stays consistent, and his eyes never ever veer away from your stare, he does not return your oral sentiment. Eventually the silence embarrasses you so you look away. On one hand you feel like you have just exposed your poker hand prematurely, while on the other hand, even though Blonde Beard obviously does not feel ready to meet your call, you trust that he is not bluffing. Although you feel extremely awkward, you do appreciate his confidence to savor the tender moment without feeling the necessity to parrot those words back to you before he is ready. So to break the silence you find your abandonment issues taking control of the situation as you quietly request, "Please don't hurt me." To which he quickly whispers back, "Don't hurt me either." And although you want to say that you would never hurt him, you instantly remember the comment from that boy who reads your blog and you begin to worry that maybe you already have? Or maybe you're even worse, like some anonymous Robin Byrd who profits off of your guest stars by emotionally exposing them on your narcissistic blog. Anyway...