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

...except on Gay Pride. On that day you tend to be very proud. But when you're fumbling around on Connexion looking at all the boys who are typically much more physically available then they are mentally, you decide to send a quick note to a really hot architect that says, "i just read/watched the fountainhead so i'm all about architects. especially ones that are hotter than howard roark and mike brady combined." You're quite shocked when you get an immediate response, but you feel more like an ostrich who wants to bury his head in the sand when you read the email, "hey, we've met. we went to grey gardens together. remember?" Although it was years ago, you certainly remember the night you met. A guy you were dating took you and some of his friends to Grey Gardens for Christmas. And the hot Howard Roark-Brady was one of the friends. And as if it wasn't bad enough that you just hit on the friend, you have also been called out for not remembering him! Come to think of it, you also forgot him once on the street when he said hello and had to explain who he was. Oy. But instead of making a big deal about it, you just swallow your pride and apologize profusely before quickly signing off so you can go kill yourself.

But before you get a chance to log off you receive another email. Luckily it's from someone you've never met (or at least hope you've never met), and he's connected to you through your old boss. He actually comments on something you wrote in your profile, which means he actually read your profile, which means he can actually read. But none of this is important because the guy is GORGEOUS! He's got an amazing profile and a great job. His profile seems smart and witty, and he seems to be just your type. There's only one little teensy-weensy problem. The guy lives in West Hollywood.

You quickly wind up breaking not just one, but most all of your cardinal dating rules: Don't pursue a boy who doesn't live in New York, Don't have too much communication with a boy you've never met, Don't trust an online profile with a professional headshot, and Don't trust an online profile of a boy who blatantly ignores posting his height or weight. But you quickly find yourself caught up in a very intense, frenzied email exchange with what you imagine might be a wee 'ho from WeHo. The good news is that you have plans to be in LA in less than a month, the other good news is that he's looking to relocate and NYC is his first choice.

After a day of silly back and forth emails you find yourself hoping that the WeeHo does move to New York. And even though you know it's a ridiculous thing to hope, the fact that this false hope has somehow seemed to squash your recent obsession with being dissed and dismissed by Blonde Beard on the street last week. All of Blonde Beard's bullshit suddenly fades away, so you let yourself get lost in the WeeHo fantasy.

The emails graduate to text messages, and the text messages graduate to picture messages. In one form or another, the two of you are in constant e-contact all week long. You like that he challenges you to be funny. Although you have confidence in your writing in regards to your communication, you are actually terrified to talk to him. You are a bit phone phobic. You are especially phobic of talking to strangers on the phone. And you're worried that all of the time and energy you've poured into your pretend relationship with the WeeHo could disappear in one awkward phone call. So you put it off.

So one night when you are watching "Becoming Jane" (yes, you are that gay), you immediately pause it when a email pops through from the WeeHo asking you how you like Fall, which seems like a bizarre question until you realize that the WeeHo is asking about a song that he has sent along as, ironically enough, an attachment. You respond:

so funny. when you asked about fall i thought you meant "how do i like autumn?" i was like, bitch, don't go ending my summer a week early! but i am listening to it right now and i like the lyrics. falling is exactly what i strive to do in life. easier said than done.

speaking of which... this is a weird experience for me. i have lots of rules about this online dating thing, and one of my biggies is "don't put too much effort into anybody before you meet in person." the funny thing is that i want to put effort into this. i'm enjoying it. and i can't even meet you! damn, i want to meet you. it's like my own little sleepless in seattle. i should put that in my netflix queue, although i remember it bugging me when i first saw it.

you asked if you were saying too much? not at all. you're saying all the right things actually. and you don't seem guarded. at all. although most of the time i come off as completely unguarded (without an edit button), i am actually quite guarded in certain respects. i learned the hard way, though, that it's not worth being in a relationship with someone who can't break your heart. now i'm busy looking for a guy who can break my heart, but won't.

luckily, after a few years of dating in nyc, my heart has gotten a few callouses. that's a good thing. my hands, however, are still silky smooth. palmolive. seriously, why am i saying all this? it's crazy, right? i should know better, yes? because it should scare you away, no? this conversation is probably the gay equivalent of a 39 year old woman discussing babies on a first date! oh whatever. i'm not scared to put it out there. i want to fall. and i want to fall hard. and it would be nice if someone like kimberly locke would catch me. the problem is that i haven't fallen. after my breakup, i thought i'd fall into another relationship in two seconds. well it's been four years, and, although i've dated a few good guys, good just doesn't cut it. i had good. really good. this time i'm looking for great. so mostly i haven't fallen. tripped a few times, but i've always caught myself. my big worry now is, have i gotten too old and jaded to fall? or will i just abandon ship before i get a chance to fall because something silly spooked me? or maybe i'm just too picky because, unlike that 39 year old woman who is just looking for a sperm donor, perhaps i really know what i want and am willing to wait?

all i really know is that i want to meet you before i write another ridiculous email like this.

And then the WeeHo quickly responds:

I'm a fan of Autumn. You know we don't get that here. I miss it. I always come back east for a dose of autumn and a white christmas.

Speaking of which, yes, this is weird. I get that. I've given up on many of my rules, however. Well, except that I still keep the seat down on the toilet (I don't want my Chi to go down the tubes), I don't leave dishes in the sink (God forbid I don't make it back home, that something should happen and my mother comes to gather my belongings and she finds dirty dishes in sink. She put on my headstone, "Here rests my son, the slob"), and of course, no white after labor day (Patty Hearst was so wrong. She deserved what she got).

Anyway, where was I...oh, yeah...falling is good. And you're not crazy (although you would be if you added Sleepless to your Netflix list, I'm just saying). I remember what it feels like to fall. I'm convinced that it is more my willingness to fall at times the people I meet. I could have "tripped" a few times, but I figured I'd hold out for the free fall. I worry that I may have squandered a few good trips, though. I wonder if a trip could have lead to a fall. Then I think, "Nope. Just wait for the fall."

Is it crazy to put the effort into a series of emails someone all the way across the country who just happens to photograph well ;) Everything starts somewhere. Obviously, the places I've started before have yielded nothing. And yes, I want to meet you too. Although that is completely out of the question at the moment. I have huge zit on my forehead and that would make a terrible first impression.

Also, I want to be much more prolific than I am being right now, but I have to get to my Cirque workout class (excited) and did want to get back to you first (I hate feeling rushed)

So, to quickly recap:

- You enjoy guilty pop too
- Summer still has a week left, although no more white this season
- You're not crazy, nor am I, at least not for this.
- Meeting is not an option at the moment.
- You have a phone phobia
- I have a loaner car

And when you finish reading his email you actually find yourself saying aloud (even though you're completely alone), "This is the man that I’m…” and then just like that, you stop. You don't allow yourself to finish the sentence.

For some unknown reason, you keep putting yourself out there for this stranger across the country. And you keep waiting for the moment where he disappears because you've said too much. But for some other unknown reason, the WeeHo keeps coming back for more of your sappy shenanigans. You feel absolutely fantastic when you return to "Becoming Jane." And as the movie continues, you feel like you, too, are somehow Becoming Jane. Somehow living your life as a freelance writer (emphasis on the free) seems preferable to living your life with a man that doesn't make you Fall. But does this make you Proud? Or merely Prejudiced about falling for the right Mr. Darcy? Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Fags Who Swallows His Problems With Copious Amounts of Food...

...but alcohol is a different story. So when Rice Queen #2 offers you a sip from a pint of his Knob Creek on the train to Fire Guyland, you graciously accept. You are really all fucked up over your recent Blonde Beard sighting and can't help running through your unexpected reunion with a fine-toothed beard trimmer. And you think you've narrowed down his adverse reaction into two distinct, yet very different scenarios. Your first theory is that the man hates you. As in detests. After all, he couldn't wait to get away from you, nor could he bear even the most minimal of conversations. This leaves you wondering whether Blonde Beard found out about your Blah-Blah-Blog? And if this is the case then you can't change that because you have no control over it. Although you'd feel terrible if he hates you, what's done is done and you're not going to change his mind about you.

On the other hand, Blonde Beard's bizarre reaction might quite simply be just that; bizarre. After all, he was freakishly awkward in social situations. You experienced that uncomfortable side of him first hand after dragging him to a party at your Gal Pal's. And if he was merely just so scared by the shadow of a past relationship, then his unpleasant reaction was all about him, not you. At least you tried to be nice. Fuck that! You were nice! You were actually happy to see him! Whatever. You're over it. Even though you're not. But you will be. And with that you take another healthy, warm gulp of Knob Creek.

It's pouring when the Fairy Ferry finally arrives, so you and the rest of the Kinsey 8 race to the house and, surprise-surprise, start making cocktails. You skip Low Tea because of the inclement weather, but definitely make it to High Tea. After that it's all a bit hazy, but you have vague memories of dinner that may have or may not have been followed by a strip show. Starring you. Regardless, you'll surely be able to trace back your drunken steps soon enough in the form of unfortunate Facebook tags.

The next day is nice enough for both you and your hangover to lie out on the beach. However, the big excitement of the day (perhaps the month? Make that the year!) happens at Low Tea. You wander in with your Kinsey 8 housemates and begin an immediate Fruit Loop when who do you spy with your little eye? None other than your Internet Crush! He's standing right there, ten feet from you, all alone, with a drink in his hand (of course)! Although you now share a writing gig with him and have been working together all summer, you've never actually met in the flesh. And for some unknown, alcohol-fueled reason, you decide to out yourself. So you just stand there. And stare. Kind of similar to when you guilted Blonde Beard into grunting a few lame words at you on the sidewalk earlier this week. But unlike Blonde Beard, your Internet Crush does not try to skulk away when he catches his stalker's eye. It takes him a minute, but eventually he puts it together and the two of you giggle like a gaggle of girls.

You have a lot of fun talking in person and when you notice that both of your drinks are empty you offer to go get refills. It doesn't take much arm-twisting, and, of course, Ms. Four Letter Word wants a Thirteen Letter Drink, which happens to be the most expensive drink on the Island. But you are more than happy to aid and abet his drunk and disorderliness with a Planters Punch. However the bar line is endless and it takes you a while before you return with the cocktails. Only your Internet Crush is nowhere to be found. Somehow, even though you are double-fisted, you are able to text him without spilling a drop and the two of you ping back and forth trying to find each other, until, eventually, you just give up and finish both cocktails. Which, of course, is a big mistake.

Both High Tea and dinner are both blurs, as is Slip N' Hurl. But apparently the night ends up with you psychoanalyzing your friend Half-Share during a lovely midnight stroll into the Meatrack. You're starving so you make a pit-stop at Half-Share's house and pick up a delicious family sized bag of Tostitos - Hint O' Lime. You're ravenous and can't bear to part with the tasty tortillas, so you end up dragging the bag into the Meatrack with you. You munch your way through the moonlit woods as you pass by men munching on 'mo mussy. You are as fascinated as you are hungry, and the two of your meander down dark paths, passing half-naked men who appear out of nowhere and then slither by. It's so dark that you can't make out any faces, but even though you're as drunk as a skunk, even though your beer goggles are on tight, nobody looks all that pretty.

At one point, you and Half-Share wander up a path and stumble upon a whole group of boys who are wide-eyed witnesses to a public blow-job. You, of course, plop yourself down as if you're at the local drive in and dig deep into your crinkly bag for a big handful of Hint O' Lime. You're busy chewing your tortilla chip cud when the guy who's getting blown turns to the impromptu crowd and looks right at you when he says, "Honestly, I really can’t do this with an audience." You stop chewing the copious amount of chips that you've shoved in your mouth, roll up your half eaten bag, and slink away with Half-Share as you giggle your way out of the Meatrack. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Fags Who Gets Fancy Haircuts...

...hell, you're so cheap you'd probably buy a Flowbie. On eBay, no less. But you are very happy with your $14 haircuts at the Neighborhood Barbers. Unfortunately, it's neither in your neighborhood, nor anywhere close to it. Although you are cheap, you're not actually insane and you wouldn't trust your 'do with just anyone who has a pair of scissors. But you are definitely willing to commute for an exceptional barber who is exceptionally cheap and was written up in the New York Times Style Magazine for cutting John Bartlett, Narcisco Rodriguez and David LaChappelle's famous heads. If Eric Scissorhands is good enough for them, then he's good enough for you. However, never in a million years would you have ever assumed that you'd offer up your gay locks to be coiffed by some straight barber. But stranger things have happened. Anyway.

Although you're usually rather happy with his cuts, today Eric Scissorhands does an exceptional job, and afterwards, even though it's raining, you find yourself floating up First Avenue on your way to work. For some reason you're in an excellent mood, and you're not sure why, because typically you are the type of guy who keeps his eye on the sidewalk rather than on the eyes of those strangers sharing it with you, but for some reason, even though he is huddled beneath a sea of black umbrellas, you look up and lock eyes. Although he looks completely different--he is wearing glasses and has a clean-shaved face--you can't help but recognize the new and improved mug of the boy you fell in love with earlier this year. The boy who subsequently broke your heart. The boy you call Blonde Beard.

You instinctively smile. He does not. And then you wait for your heart to drop and be replaced with butterflies, moths, and bats. Oh my! But none of these critters bother to show up to give you a bout of gay ageda. You're a bit shocked by your lack of reaction, actually. Are you over him? And if you are, then why are you still thinking him five months after your three month relationship ended? You've even thought about contacting him lately. But now the gay gods have dropped Blonde Beard right into your lap. Almost like a rain drop. However, all of this crap races through your head in less than a nanosecond, and as he approaches you say, "Hey." Kind of just like that. No exclamation point. No question mark. Just a simple period that you punctuate with a hearfelt smile. Blonde Beard says, "Hey," looks away, and attempts to continue his Mary way down First Avenue.

You are in such shock that you literally stop in your footsteps and turn toward him as he attempts to make his gay getaway. Then you say, pointedly, "How are you?" in a manner that commands him to stop and acknowledge the simple moment that he has just made exponentially more awkward than it ever had to be. Blonde Beard says, "Good." But then he literally turns away from you and begins to walk away. Although you are literally dying inside, you make one last attempt to normalize this de-humanizing encounter, and you call after him, "What are you up to?" For the first time you notice that Blonde Beard is standing next to a woman who is almost as visibly confused by the bizarre situation as you are, and Blonde Beard informs you, "Just going to lunch with my co-worker. How about you?" Although you are happy to have finally received a question from this man you were in love with, your mouth answers with a simple, "Just headed to work," even though the expression on your face says, "Do you really hate me so much that you can't bear to cobble together an entire sentence for me?" And with that, Blonde Beard just turns around and walks away.

You just stand there. You actually laugh aloud, but not because you think the situation is at all funny. Your jaw is agape. You are wounded. The only thing in tact at this point is your hair. At least your hair looked good. You'll always have that. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Fags Who Dwell in the Past...

...although your blog definitely does. However, you've been doing your very best to catch up to real time lately, but now you need to slow down for a bit so you don't gloss over some of the more ridiculous things that have recently happened. Like when you met Rice Queen and Rice Queen #2 at Star Lounge, for Josh Wood's Friday Night party at the Chelsea Hotel . Since lately you've been hemorrhaging money over ridiculous and frivolous things like furniture, your budget doesn't have much left over for the more important necessities, like booze and dates. So you guzzle down a bottle of Two Buck Chuck over a lovely, yet lonely dinner of left-overs before racing to Chelsea in order to compete heavily in the Bar Rush event during the coveted free vodka hour.

You, of course, are very competitive in this particular event and during the last few, precious minutes of the open bar, you make your way through the frenzy and decide to utilize the coveted, yet time-tested technique of double-fisting vodkas in order to ease you into the cool-down period. After that, however, everything gets a bit hazy. You remember having fun with your friends and the swarm of Gaysian boys who surround them like some impenetrable Gay Wall of China. You remember running into the Indian Guy that you may or may not have made out with on Fire Guyland, however you really have no idea if you may or may not have also made out with him at the Star Lounge.

The next thing you know, Blackout Barbie is waking up. At noon. And one thing's for damn sure, she ain't in Ken's bed. The "trick" is apparently on you, because you ain't Indian Guy's bed either. Your head is pounding as you inspect your surroundings as you attempt to piece together disparate memories of last night's events. Luckily the Naked Guy in your arms is actually even cuter than Indian Guy, and somehow it feels nice and comfortable holding him. You have a vague memory of sitting in some diner you can't remember while munching on a big-ass delicious burger with crispy fries across from the Naked Guy who's name you also cannot remember. You suddenly remember talking to him about his Berlin t-shirt, and about how he just returned from a trip there. But when Naked Guy starts yapping about that hysterical thing you allegedly said while you were ordering drinks in Barracuda, you find yourself laughing along cautiously, almost as if you're not hearing this humorous joke for the very first time. Meanwhile, when the hell did you go to Barracuda?

Even though you feel like shit, the two of you lie around in bed, making out and yapping about nothing for hours. This is mostly because you are terrified to get out of bed and face the day, but partly because you love feeling Naked Guy's naked body. It's beautiful. Yet much, much too young for you. Although you're super turned on, every time it gets a little bit hot and heavy, Naked Guy starts to talk. And talk. And talk. Mostly about himself. Which would actually be interesting if your heads (both above and below your shoulders) weren't pounding for different kinds of attention. Once your downstairs head realizes that there ain't no head gonna happen, you reluctantly get out of bed in order to take care of the head above your shoulders.

You're putting on your pants when Naked Guy points out a picture of his mother who is literally wearing a broach that says, "Jesus Loves You." That's when you notice the cross dangling around Naked Guy's neck and you immediately point to it while shaking your index finger all about while you ask in your best Karen Walker imitation, "What's up with that necklace thingie dangling around your neck, honey?" Naked Guy laughs and explains that he is rather religious and asks if you have a problem with it. You joke, "I have a bigger problem with jewelry on my men than I do with religion. And I haven't had any problems with religion ever since I gave up going to church for Lent."

Before you leave, Naked Jesus Guy gets up to write down his number on an envelope for you. Only before he writes it down, he decides to read the letter inside. It's from his best friend, and for some unknown reason, Naked Jesus Guy decides to recite it to you and your hangover. Although you're in too much pain to pay much attention, you are certainly struck by one sentence in particular that says, "I thank the Lord for bringing us together." All of this is just a bit too much for your hungover heathen ass to process, and suddenly, now that you are standing, you feel more than a bit woozy. You finger some toothpaste around your morning mouth before saying goodbye and escaping to the insanely bright, unbelievably unsympathetic, blinding afternoon sunlight.

It takes you a moment before you realize where you are. Let's face it, it really wouldn't surprise you if you were in Hackensack. But you're not. Although right about now you find yourself wishing that you had woken up in New Jersey, because you literally feel ill when you notice that you're smack in the middle of Blonde Beard's block. Looking over at his apartment building. Actually, you've been thinking about him a lot lately. Like a crazy amount. Like when you wake up alone in your bed (most) every morning. Like when you pass by one of the many restaurants you had some romantic meal in. Like so much that you've even been considering getting in touch with him lately. Just to see what the hell happened. Just to see if perhaps he's got regrets, too. After all, it's not like you fall in love everyday. But unfortunately, it's not like you've fallen out of love so quickly either. And here you are. In the West Village. Feeling like shit. Suddenly feeling pathetic and lonely as you begin your walk of shame over to the West 4th Street subway station. It's hot. And muggy. And extremely humid. And the weather is the least oppressive thing bombarding you while you stand on the same platform where your relationship with Blonde Beard ended. Will you ever get over him? And more importantly, why on earth are you more into him now than you have been for months? Why is the memory of Blonde Beard getting stronger instead of fading away? You are flooded with fond memories from the past that do nothing but make you want to cry while you wait for the F train. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Fags Who Leads a Double Life...

...hell, everything about your life is single, single, single!  Seriously though, at twenty you came out to your parents after your college boyfriend dumped you (single, single, single!) and although you called them for emotional support, after you came out you wound up being the one who had to console your hysterical mother.  But from that moment on, you've pretty much lived one single, single, single solitary life where everybody knows that you're a big ol' fag.  However, what everybody doesn't know is that you're a big ol' fag with a Blah-Blah-Blog. 

Some people do know.  Your close friends.  Their close friends.  And so on.  And so on.  And so on.  If you could do it over you wouldn't have told anybody.  Not a soul.  But now you live in fear that eventually you're going to hurt someone who you really care about.  Like when you were dating Blonde Beard.  To this day you're not sure if he dumped you because he found out about the online chronicle of your dating life.  And honestly, this is probably why you can't seem to get over the hairy cheeked non-boyfriend.  The idea that you might have jeopardized your chance at a meaningful relationship because of your narcissistic online endeavor is really just too much to process.  Even three months after he left you crying your girlie little eyes out on the West 4th Street subway platform.  Cue the violins and grab yourself a hankie.  

Anyway.  Enough about Blonde Beard.  Back to you and your relatively new brown beard.  Tonight's a busy night.  You've got a fancy birthday dinner with the BLC at Cipriani Dolci.  In Grand Central Station of all places!  And then if the BLC feels up to it, you've been invited to yet another birthday party for yet another Blah-Blah-Blogger who somehow figured out who you were.  You have no idea how these Hardy Boys are solving the mystery of You!

As you're getting all dolled up for the fancy-schmancy dinner that you can't afford, you remember to check out Zee Blogger's evite to get the 411 on his birthday party.  Although you've already changed at least six times, as you pop your head out from an old, yet dressy blue Armani shirt from your fancier days, you can't help but sigh when you realize that Zee Blogger is having a, get this, Pink Party.  Ugh.  You're already running late and, let's face it, unlike Molly Ringwald, you are not so Pretty in Pink.   Eventually you decide that the Calvin Klein underwear you have on will have to do.  Although it used to be white, you ruined it while washing it with a red towel while doing a free load of laundry out on Fire Island.  Pink underwear is what you get for being cheap.  But you digress. Even though you're running late, now that you're looking at Zee Blogger's invitation, you suddenly get curious about who's on the guest list.  You are immediately thrilled to find your Internet Crush's name at the top of the list!  Of course he's also figured out who you are, however you've never actually met and your cheeks instantly flush at the idea of meeting your favorite Gay Movie Star in person!  It's all very exciting as you continue to scroll through the pages and pages of RSVP's (yes, Zee Blogger is that fabulous), but your heart literally stops on the third of five pages when you notice that, gasp, your Hobosexual Roommate's name on the fucking guest list!  Suddenly you have this paralyzing fear that you'll run into him and the BLC boys will start calling him the Hobosexual to his face!  Or worse, what if the Hobosexual asks Zee Blogger how exactly he knows you?  If they have a conversation you know that it will inevitably contain the term "Hobosexual!"  And if somehow neither of those doomsday scenarios play out, then surely your Internet Crush will out you after a few cocktails have been thrown down his neck.  After all, you've read about his drunken shenanigans on his blog.  Meanwhile, are there any gay boys who don't have a blog?

Although dinner at Cipriani Dolci is absolutely fantastic, you spend the entire meal sweating about filing for Chapter 11 after they swipe your credit card.  And if that's not bad enough, you are terrified that the BLC will end up wanting to go to Zee Pink Party where they will inevitably meet the Hobosexual!  So you end up doing what you always do when you're nervous.  You order a Stoli O' and Soda and boldly tell the waiter to "Keep 'em comin'!"  Inevitably this makes the check less affordable, but it will also make Zee Pink Partee much less awkward.  And, typically, it would also have the added benefit of making the sticker shock of the steep check more palatable when it finally arrives.  However, you are shocked into a state of girly giddiness when Fat Albert grabs the check and generously pays for all of you!  On his birthday!  Hell, had you known you were going to win Restaurant Lotto you would've ordered a flock of Grey Geese!  And an appetizer.  Made of Goose Liver, of course.

After the lovely dinner the BLC wants to go to Zee Pink Partee, so you make them promise, under no circumstances, that the word "Hobosexual" will ever fall from any of their bitchy tongues!  Even though, of course, you know they'll revel in torturing you all night long just because they love to see you squirm.  When you finally arrive, not only is everybody wearing pink, but everybody cheeks are flush pink because there is something wrong with the air conditioning.  Apparently there are just too damn many Hot Boys at Zee Pink Partee and the A/C just can't handle it.  So you and your blue pit stains begin to mingle amongst the pinks as you wait in fear for the Hobosexual to jump off his freight train, complete with his bindle hanging from a stick, which, after learning his Internet nickname, he will certainly beat you to a pulp with. 

Maybe it's because you're trembling with fear, or maybe it's because everybody is just way too cute, or possibly it's because it's about seven degrees hotter than hell in Zee apartment (and you're talking Celsius), but you don't really talk to anybody other than a boy you went on a Revenge Date with who's name you can't remember.  However, Zee Blogger is glad to see you, and you wish him a Happy Birthday and compliment his beautiful apartment which is like a little slice of Hell('s Kitchen).  Of course you ask about your Internet Crush, but Zee Blogger says he came early and has already left.  What's up with that?  And although you practically have to bite your tongue not to ask about the Hobosexual, you decide it's best to keep your big mouth shut and just live your rocky double life while sipping on your double Absolut on the rocks.  Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Fags Who's Afraid of Commitment...

...after all, you were in a relationship that lasted over a decade! And now you love looking for your next one. Even if sometimes the trivial pursuit sometimes seems like searching for a needle in a haystack. The good news is that you're in New York and there's a lot of gay hay to roll around in. Anyway. You are in complete shock as you sit in your Gal Pal's office and listen as she tells you about how The Most Hated Man In New York just broke up with her! Although you try to be a good friend and listen, you can't help but begin to wonder if being afraid to commit has less to do with being a gay man and more to do with being a man. After all, these two Hets are practically made for each other! They've been together for about six months now, and, out of all the relationships you've witnessed (including your own), theirs is the one relationship that you actually want to emulate. You watched as they fell in love and you were so jealous of their excitement for each other that you even reveled in listening to all the detailed heterosexual minutia of their romantic courtship. You watched as their lives slowly shifted from Single to Coupledom, and somehow this transformation seemed both natural and desirable. Instead of becoming some scary Mr. & Mrs. Stepford version of themselves, they each remained true to who they were, yet just became a better version of themselves if that makes sense. Happier. You watched, not even from afar, during every step of the way and after each relationship milestone you found yourself wishing, "That's what I want."

Only now, a measly six months later, completely out of Left Field, your Gal Pal is attempting to explain exactly why they broke up. Only nothing she says is making any sense. At all. In fact it's so frustrating that you almost begin to cry! But ultimately you realize that her explanations don't make any sense to you because they don't make any sense to her. As far as you can deduce the The Most Hated Man In New York is nothing more than a typical New York commitment-phobe. Obviously another reason to hate him... Everything was going swimmingly and then BAM! Faster than you can say "Cold Feet," this boy is out shopping for leg warmers and wool socks.

Luckily you don't have this typical male phobia. However, when you really think about it, it's certainly has been a while since you've been in a substantial relationship. Like years. Years! You begin to worry that somewhere along your Mary way, you've actually become unable to commit to having any sort of relationship. But doesn't that seem preposterous?! After all, falling in love is what you want more than anything out of life. Isn't it? Or perhaps, gasp, you're just in such a state of denial that you can't even realize that you are sabotaging yourself? Or even worse, maybe you've just become one of those fucked-up boys who refuses to be a member of any club that will have you? After all, there have been plenty of boys along the way who have definitely wanted to pursue something with you, yet ultimately you weren't all that interested. On the other hand, the boys that you are interested in seem to have the one similar trait of being rather uninterested in you. It's like some giant gay pyramid scheme where everybody is looking for some sucker who isn't selling the same bullshit that you are. The only problem with pyramid schemes is that eventually there is nobody left to buy anything. And at this very moment even you're feeling a bit skeptical about the bullshit you're trying to sell yourself about your stand on commitment.

Before you head back into the writing room to get some work done, you assure your Gal Pal that The Most Hated Man In New York is just having cold feet and you wouldn't be surprised if he emerges from his funk feeling more confident than ever. Even though you don't say it, you are definitely imagining him on his knees with Tiffany Box. And as usual, you'll be her Bridesmaid because you're never the Bride. However, when you finally get back to that blinking cursor on your laptop's screen, instead of writing you suddenly find yourself with this uncontrollable urge to look up Blonde Beard on Match.com. After all, even though things weren't perfect, he's the one boy who you really did find yourself falling for. You, of course, remember his Username and even though you know it's a huge mistake you suddenly find yourself clicking that little "Go" button to conduct the search. And as you predicted, Blonde Beard's profile is definitely there. Just like it was when you first saw his follicled face last January. You just stare at his profile photos for a moment and wonder if perhaps Blonde Beard just got cold feet? But then the masochist in you forces yourself to read his whole damn profile. You're like some gay Eve snacking on the forbidden fruit as you devour all the words about the type of man who Blonde Beard would be willing to commit to. Although the words ultimately make you feel a bit queasy, you attempt to console yourself since his words are just that: words. But this doesn't make you feel any better. At all. Anyway...

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

...you're just a poor starving writer (who's hungry, yet needs to diet). Well, maybe you are a little cheap. Okay, okay already! A lot cheap. So when you're walking along 23rd Street on your way to meet Bald Boy to go see Iron Man, you quickly hold your phone up to your ear when you notice one of those irritating do-gooder suburban kids who is canvassing for "INSERT GOOD CAUSE HERE." Usually the mock-phone call is enough to deter these Post-Giuliani Sidewalk Solicitors (who are even more common than Pre-Giuliani Homeless People), but this Connecticut Kid ain't having it. He actually has the gall to interrupt your fake phone call! You feign annoyance as you ask your fake friend to hold on, and when the Connecticut Kid asks if you have a moment for "INSERT GOOD CAUSE HERE" you say, "Sorry, I'm my own favorite charity." But Connecticut Kid is persistent and when he starts yapping about how Children International could really use your financial support you actually find yourself saying, "Oh, fuck the children!" And although you are kidding (sort of), the Connecticut Kid is not at all amused. But you are late for your date so you just smile and say, "J/K" because you don't actually have the time nor the patience to say the words "Just Kidding."

You're only five minutes late but Bald Boy is standing outside the Chelsea Clearview and he looks kind of amazing. Even with his, ahem, shortcomings, he's really a fantastically attractive man and you were willing to give it another chance when he asked you out. Who knows? Maybe this time he'll make you laugh. You kiss hello and are kind of surprised when Bald Boy directs you to the ticket line because if you were the early one even your cheap ass would have picked up two tickets while you were waiting. And when Bald Boy finally gets up to the ticket window you quickly fumble through your wallet to hand him some money, but you're taken aback when Bald Boy says, "One please." It's just a bit weird. You begin to wonder if you're on a date or if you are now officially just friends? But you go ahead and buy yourself a ticket and head into the theater. Anyway.

Bald Boy orders popcorn and a soda, and since you're not having dinner until after the movie you realize that you should probably eat something, too. So when the Concession Stand Hoodlum holds up the next size popcorn and asks, "Would you like the larger size for fifty cents more?" you ask Bald Boy if he'd like to Supersize the popcorn and share it (even though there are other things about him that you'd rather Supersize). Bald Boy says sure, and then pulls out exactly half of the cash register's total (apparently you are subsidizing the cost of his soda, too?) and that's when you begin to count up all the properties that Bald Boy owns (1. Studio in the West Village, 2. Beach House in Ocean Grove, 3. Rental Property in Ocean Grove...) and suddenly it becomes very clear how he can afford all those mortgages.

The movie turns out to be fantastic and the popcorn hits the spot! You begin to wonder if maybe you were just a bit grouchy because you were so hungry? So you decide to give Bald Boy the benefit of the doubt and suddenly you think it might be nice to hold his hand. You put your arm up onto the shared armrest and not-so-accidentally brush your arm against his. Bald Boy obviously notices because he turns his head and looks right at you in the middle of the scene. You smile because you feel a bit silly, but you'd still like to get in some hand-holding before the movie ends. But Bald Boy literally just moves his arm away and digs back into the popcorn that you got stuck holding. You are left remembering how nice it was to go to the movies with Blonde Beard and how you would sink down into your seats and hold hands and rub shoulders from the previews to the closing credits. Sigh.

After the movie the temperature outside has dropped considerably and you're kind of happy because this has obviously prompted the Children's International Solicitor to go home to Greenwich where he can worry about the suburban children who are in dire need of a new Nanny to drive them from Piano to Karate. Since you're both starving, you decide to walk down Eighth Avenue to grab a quick bite at Vynl. You chat while waiting for your dinner and quickly become highly aware that you're the one doing all the talking. But Bald Boy is the one busy asking all the questions. Although you know you should be asking questions in return, you don't really have any great desire to do much probing. And that's exactly when you realize that you're really just not that into Bald Boy. It's not like you like to hear yourself talk, but it just seems easier to fill the void with your chatter than to come up with reasons to listen to his chatter.

When the check comes you, surprise-surprise, split the bill exactly down the middle. Then, since it's chilly, you head to the 14th Street Subway entrance and as you're about to descend into the A-C-E station, a confused Bald Boy asks you, "Aren't you going to take the F home?" You actually say, "Huh?" because as far as you were concerned this dud of a date was, at the very least, going to end with you getting laid. But you quickly cover yourself and say, "I can take the E and switch at West 4th," but then you go on to add in a frisky manner, "but I assumed I would come over to your place?" Bald Boy tells you that it's late and that he's really tired. This is ultimately extremely annoying because he's the one who picked the movie time as well as chose to eat afterwards. Hell, he's the one who asked you out in the first place! So when the train arrives at West 4th you say your goodbyes and, once again, you find yourself standing on the platform at the end of yet another relationship (if you can even call it that). Luckily this time you aren't crying uncontrollably while you wait for the F train to take you back to your Home Sweet Hovel so your cheap ass can jerk off to some free porn on Xtube. 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 Desperate Fags...

...but the Boy Luck Club seems to feel differently after you relay the Blonde Beard "Best" email story to them over an impromptu sushi lunch at Kodama (45th Street near Eighth). You are in absolute shock as Rice Queen informs you that he gets desperate emails like the one you sent to Blonde Beard all the time. "But," you attempt to defend yourself, "I was just trying to be nice! I didn't want him to think that I was the one who gave him Herpes!" But Rice Queen isn't having it, "It doesn't matter," he says. "About six weeks after I check out of a relationship, I will inevitably get an email like yours and it's obvious the boy is wondering what happened and, I'm sorry, but it just comes off as totally desperate."

Desperate? As in des�per�ate (dspr-t) ADJECTIVE: 1. Having lost all hope; despairing? Could that possibly be how Blonde Beard perceived you? Perhaps that's why Blonde Beard wrote you back and used "Best" as his final closing word to you? Perhaps he thought you were just being desperate and didn't want to lead you on with an overly affecionate "Sincerely" or get really racy with an "XOXO"? Typically you would just look at this ridiculous Best situation and tell yourself that obviously Blonde Beard is scared to show any kind of true emotion. That Blonde Beard has obviously become so jaded and fucked up from years of gay dating in New York that he has decided that the Best way protect himself is by emotionally dibesting from a relationship instead of actually having a conversation that could actually expose a true feeling. And here you are actually expecting the Boy Luck Club to back you up on this issue while comforting you with enlightened mantras they learned on Oprah or Dr. Phil. That's when Half-Share chimes in with his two cents, and since he was the only White Boy ever to date Rice Queen, you are desperately sure that Half Share will come to your rescue. But he actually agrees with Rice Queen about your email coming off as some desperate need to find closure. You look to your anorexic friend, Fat Albert, but he is too busy shuffling his food around his plate to make it appear as if it were actually eaten, and obviously he doesn't notice your visual plea for emotional support when he, too, sides with Rice Queen and Half Share on this particular Gay Dating Conundrum. Fat Albert even goes as far as telling you that you obviously scared Blonde Beard away by prematurely expressing your love for him. You are in shock! "Even after dating someone for three months?" you ponder aloud as your friends all nod their heads in agreement that three months is much, much too soon to express love. They explain that exposing your love for a boy is the kiss of death. Someone even goes as far to describe the whole experience as, "A real dick deflator."

You leave lunch with all these new ideas floating around your head, haunting you. You actually give the situation some real thought since these are your good friends and you know in your heart that, unlike the emotionally unavailable Blonde Beard, these boys actually have your Best interest at heart and definitely have no agenda (besides, of course, finding you a boyfriend so you'll stop yapping about your endless gay dating dilemmas.) But it's all good. You live and you learn, and perhaps next time you will play your cards a little closer to your chest instead of letting all these silly gay boys play Slap Jack every time you reveal your (Jack of) Hearts. And these are the thoughts swirling around your head as you tear through various outfits in your closet in order to cuten yourself up for your date with the Swedish Engineer that you've been chatting with on Connexion.

That's when you remember a comment that Swedie Pi made about how he had a thing for men in suits. About how he liked to think of them as special gifts that he got to unwrap. And with that, your wardrobe woes are solved as you pull out a blazer to wear over a form fitting Lacoste shirt, which, although not a suit, is about as dressed up as you've ever gotten for one of these silly internet Meet n' Greets. You worry that his time you may have let your expectations get the best of you. Usually you like to meet these boys right away without putting a lot of time and energy into excessive emails and playful phone calls, however, Swedie Pi has been busy working in Sweden and so you've gotten yourself worked up to the point where you are definitely one Desperate Fag.

You're really looking forward to meeting your Swedie Pi, and the date seems promising and unique since he's invited you to an Gallery Opening in Little Italy for a Multimedia Artist named Bill Shannon. You really have no idea what to expect, but when you arrive at the Douz and Mille gallery you are rather surprised to find a Buxom Blonde with a clipboard, looming from the preferable side of her velvet rope, and you and your Brunette Blazer gulp as she searches her list for your name and then promptly removes the velvet barrier and grants you access to an elevator which whisks you quickly up to the fifth floor. When the door opens again, you are instantly blinded by a giant, blinking Motel-like sign, which upon closer inspection actual reads "MURDER," which is exactly what you plan to do to your heart if it finds itself desperately creeping down onto your sleeve during this date which you've been looking forward to for weeks. You promise yourself that you will play it cool tonight. You will not come off as desperate. You will not Deflate Dicks. You, my friend, are not desperate! And, luckily for you, your forearms are sleeved with a form fitting cotton American Eagle blazer that is way too tight for anything to slip out beyond your emotionally stable, yet somewhat limp wrist.

You make your way through the maze-like gallery, passing several video installations that make absolutely no sense to you, as you scan the various rooms for your Swedie Pi. Your eye quickly spots an open vodka bar, and although everything else in your focus begins to fade as your liver begins to salivate in a classic Pavlovian response. However, somehow during the ten steps that separate you from your sober sal(i)vation, somehow you take your eyes off of your 80 proof prize as 100% of your attention segues away from the dark blue lettering on the Svedka bottle and settles quickly upon the dark blue eyes of the Swede who is smiling at you. "Hello!" he says in an accent that is sexier in person than it was over the expensive international phone call, and your heart actually skips a beat as it begins its descent down your tight sleeve. Swedie Pi introduces you to the Gallery Owner and several other VIP's that irritate you mostly because you have to feign interest in them when you really want to be concentrating solely on your Swedie Pi. The whole experience is surreal because a documentary film crew quickly surrounds you as if you are Michael Moore's next docuventary victim. You stare directly into the camera as the Cameraman attempts to document your first few words with your Swedie Pi, however, everybody is surprised when your first words turn out to be the Cameraman's full name. The cameraman's full face emerges from his viewfinder as he says, "Oh my God," and gives you a warm, welcoming straight man hug which is more like a quick pat on the shoulder while his crotch seems to retreat so far across town that it may have actually have to pay a toll when it eventually decides to make its way back across the Hudson River.

You haven't seen the Cameraman since you shot the series finale of the sitcom you both used to work on and you are in shock. Partly because it's been years since you've seen him, but mostly because this handsome boy that you used to lust over has actually gotten a bit Straight Fat during these past few years of Reruns. You instantly ask your TV friend, Rerun, "What's Happening?" and Rerun explains that he has been shooting a documentary on Bill Shannon ever since the sitcom ended. You are happy to have a little bit of Artist Street Cred as you introduce your Swedie Pi to Rerun. But Rerun is busy working so he runs off to film something that is, surprisingly, somehow more interesting than your date with Swedie Pi (which is, surprisingly, even better than you expected.) You order a drink as you peruse the exhibit and attempt to fathom how on earth a video installation artist who films himself bopping around the city on makeshift crutches can actually make money? Or warrant a documentary film crew? You and your Swedie Pi discuss these and other issues as your first date goes along swimmingly until you make your way back to the bar. You, of course, order another Svedka, but are surprised when your Swede orders a Sveven-Up... "You're not drinking?" you ask, confused as to why anyone would order a Soft Drink at an Hard Bar? Swedie Pi explains that he is very Jet Lagged and that alcohol would just put him to sleep. You feel a little funny about drinking alone, and you worry that the liquor might act as your Emotional Truth Serum but you quickly get over it as the bartender hands you your free Svedka & Soda.

Afterwards you are both hungry, and although you live steadfast by the rule of No Food on a Meet n' Greet, you have already broken all your other Gay Dating Rules with Swedie Pi, so you are certainly not about to let this Jet Lagged Fag go to bed anytime soon. You wind up sitting at the counter at Café Gitane because the place is packed and the woman behind the counter takes a shine to you as she tries to plop a big basket of bread in front of you and you say, "We're Gay so we don't eat bread." In fact she likes you so much that she makes you forgo a table when it becomes available just so she can chat with you boys. The conversation just flows. The two of you have so much fun talking that the Waitress refuses to believe that you are actually on a first date. And to her credit, it doesn't feel at all like a first date. In fact, although you are sitting together for the very first time, somehow it feels like you two are an old established couple, bickering about directions as you drive through Stockholm in the Volvo that your Swedie Pi bought for you after you sold your first book.

Your desperate fantasy continues as Swedie Pi tells you all about a Bed and Breakfast in Madrid that he bought for his Mother to run. Then he goes on to explain how it's his dream to open a small hotel in New York one day. You instantly imagine yourself sitting beneath a rainbow flag at the Front Desk of the Hellsea-Clinton B&B in a beautiful Brownstone that the two of you renovated shortly after trading in the Volvo for a pair of matching Metrocards and abandoning The Netherlands for New Amsterdam. But as the clock strikes midnight, your Metrocards expire as your Cinderfella Fantasy quickly turns back into a delicious Pumpkin flavored dessert that is quickly turning you into a Gay Plumpkin.

So you split the check and walk your Swedie Pi up to Houston Street where you hail him a taxi because he is much too tired (and rich) to bother with the subway. You hold the cab's door open for him as you attempt to break your very last dating rule and lean in to give your Swedie Pi a goodnight kiss. You are practically patting yourself on the back at this point for somehow keeping all your desperate B&B redecorating fantasies all to yourself instead of pulling out an Ikea Catalog and exposing all your fabric swatches and color schemes to your Swedie Pi. However, even though your mouth somehow seems to cooperate this evening and doesn't reveal your innermost Dick Deflating Interior Decorative feelings to your Swedie Pi, you find yourself quite surprised when your welcoming lips receive nothing but a little peck. After such a great date the bizarre goodbye actually feels more like the Kiss of Death as Swedie Pi hops in the cab and leaves you and your Deflating Dick standing alone like Hand Solo on the sidewalk. You're actually so surprised by the quick turn of events that, instead of walking home, you find yourself hurrying back to Café Gitane because, although you have no intentions to bear your gay soul to your Swedie Pi, you decide that it is somehow okay to run your desperate gay ass back to ask the cute Waitress what she thought about your date. She's actually just as shocked as you are when she sees you return, alone. However the only thing she really tells you is that, surprise-surprise, she thought that Swedie Pi seemed a bit more reserved than you, but she does remind you that he was suffering from Jet Lag. As you walk home you begin to go over the entire five hour first date, replaying the whole thing in your head while desperately worrying whether or not the new and improved, non-desperate you may have been so desperate to not come off as desperate that you may have actually come off as aloof and uninterested? Anyway...

You're Not the Best Fag in the World...

...but practice makes perfect, right? Except, of course, when it comes to Softball. When it comes to Pitching and Catching, you, my friend, are an even bigger fag on the Field than you are in the Bedroom. But you've been rather glum ever since The Ex had to have your Kitty Cunt put to sleep, and some of your sporty writer friends have taken notice (mostly for a welcomed distraction from their own procrastinwriting). So somehow the Lit Lot convinces you to turn your frown upside down as they drag you to the East River Park for their weekly Softball game against Heeb Magazine.

Although your recent Creatine diet has definitely added to your sporty look, in actuality you feel much more like Old Spice than Sporty Spice. Your Straight Boyfriend wants you to play Short Stop, but you put an even Shorter Stop to that bad idea and place yourself safely in the outfield. Unfortunately the Pop Up Balls start tracking you down as if they're frenzied Paparazzi and you're Bald Britney sans panties. And if that isn't bad enough, once you've caught the damn ball you are actually responsible for throwing it to someone who is inevitably very, very far away. The whole humiliating experience does absolutely nothing but remind you how you used to feel when you were playing Kickball during recess and all the other Sixth Graders on the field would start moving in to catch your wimpy kick. However, now that you are thirtysomething you no longer have to endure an impromptu game of Schmear the Queer after causing your team to lose the inning. So this time around, instead of trying to impress anyone, you decide that keeping your dimpled smile in tact takes precedence over catching any damn ball that isn't attached to a scrotum. Unfortunately your Straight Boyfriend is not quite as lucky when an evil Ground Ball changes its mind and becomes a Pop Up as it ricochets off a rock and pounds him in his chiseled jaw instead of going into his glove. You, of course, instantly scream in horror, "Not the face!" because, yes, you are that gay, and, yes, your Straight Boyfriend is that good looking.

Luckily your Straight Boyfriend's wound is just as superficial as you are, but you watch it closely, just in case it needs some ice or possibly even a little kiss to make it feel better. After the game you end up on the back patio of a dive bar called Duke's on Avenue C, and you are very happy drinking $3 Stella's. Eventually enough cheap beer turns your seemingly innocuous conversation into a drunken Truth Fest. For some unknown reason, your Home Schooled Hipster friend has decided that you are definitely misrepresenting yourself with the way you dress. And he actually tells you this. You are a bit surprised because, although everything you own was purchased off a Clearance Rack at either Century 21, Filene's Basement or Loehmann's, the Home Schooled Hipster thinks you come off as a Vapid Chelsea Queen. And he actually tells you this. Even though, in reality, he thinks you are a much deeper person than that. You are completely speechless as you nod in awe at the Home Schooled Hipster, mostly because you are kind of secretly thrilled that your minuscule clothing budget somehow can still qualify as "vapid." You end up taking his back-handed compliment as if you were some Gay Jesus turning your other (butt) cheek for another Slap (that Ass!)

On your way home you swing by Plan B because one of your Blah-Blah-Blog friends invited you to some Eschelon International party celebrating the launch of some Gay Matchmaking Reality Show. You, of course, are solely drawn by the promise of free Vodka, Hors d'Oeuvres and a Gift Bag to boot, but when you arrive you find yourself endlessly amused by handful of the D-List stars. It's so ridiculous that you half expect to find Kathy Griffin roaming around with a camera crew. But the venue is so dead that the Reality TV Stars (and you use this term lightly) might actually out number the few hungry freeloaders that actually schlepped over to 10th Street and Avenue B for the Freebies. You wash down some free sushi with some free vodka as you watch Jill Zarin and her Gay Husband from The Real Housewives of New York City mingle with Ethan Zohn, the million dollar winner of Survivor: Africa. However, the whole Reality Experience ends up being just a bit too real for you, so you grab your gift bag and walk the few blocks home.

Even though it's relatively early, you find yourself crawling into bed with a new book called Band Fags written by one of your Lit Lot friends, however your thoughts quickly turn to your Kitty Cunt who, without fail, used to climb up on your chest and sit on your book whenever you tried to read in bed. And suddenly you feel very alone. Even though the hustle and bustle of screaming drunks outside your window is usually quite comforting, tonight the commotion has an isolating effect. You put down the book and pathetically cuddle your pillow as you try to remember what it was like to spoon your Kitty Cunt and listen to the purr of her unconditional love. And that's when you remember Blonde Beard. Or try to remember. His face is already becoming a bit hazy in your memory. You want to call him. Not because you miss him, or necessarily even want him. All you really want is to not be alone. To be held by someone. To hold someone. Just for tonight.

As usual, you begin to deconstruct the reasons for the demise of your Non-Relationship with Blonde Beard. Although you never seem to come up with any concrete answers, you always come to the same conclusion that the Non-Relationship would never have gone anywhere. You go over the long list of Cons in your head but, as always, these negative qualities all seem to pale in comparison to the overwhelming feeling of loneliness that has taken over you. At this point, even Blonde Beard's herpes don't seem to deter you. You don't want to be alone, yet you don't want to call him. The idea of being turned down during this vulnerable moment would actually be much more unbearable than suffering through it alone. And that's when it suddenly hits you. You never fully understood Blonde Beard's sudden retreat, although one thing is for sure, he began to pull away immediately after your Run-In with his Jealous Roommate (which was more like a Run-Away because the big baby couldn't deal with any sort of confrontation even though he completely fabricated the entire ridiculous fight in his own crazy ass head). However, that next morning was when Blonde Beard told you that he had just found out that he had Herpes. The thought never crossed you head before, but now you are wondering if perhaps Blonde Beard may have thought that you were the one who gave him the gift that keeps on giving?

Luckily you are not drunk enough to actually call, but you are definitely still buzzed enough from the free vodka that you do end up writing an email: "hey, i'm not sure what actually happened between us, but it just occurred to me that you may have been concerned that i might be the one who gave you herpes? anyway, i thought you should know that i was tested for EVERYTHING and came back with a clean bill of health. honestly it didn't even occur to me to pass along this info till now. sorry for that. had a crappy weekend. my cat died of kidney failure in LA so i didn't even get to say goodbye. glad you liked the photo book. i had a lot of fun making it. kind of ironic that our last supper was at supper. i'm telling you, you can't write this shit! hope you're doing well." And before you can second guess yourself, you hit send.

You prepare yourself for a long wait. Perhaps an infinite one where you never receive his reply. But, less than ten minutes after you send it you receive this: "Hey, I hadn't thought of that either, actually, but thanks for offering it up. Glad you got a clean bill of health. I'm truly sorry to hear about your cat. hope you're coping with it okay. Best, Blonde Beard"

Best!? Fucking Blonde Beard actually wrote you, "Best!" You are in a state of complete and utter shock! Someone you thought you loved has just Bested you! It is just so insane! Here you were, feeling all sad and lonely and wishing you were lying in the comforting arms of this boy who turns around and Bests you! You quickly turn off your computer and crawl back into bed with your advance copy of Band Fags and you can't help but chuckle at the very first line, "Friends hold you back." Suddenly it becomes very clear that Blonde Beard was definitely holding you back. Holding your emotions back. Holding your love back. Your vapid, Chelsea Boy love. And just like that you realize that it is Best that you never ever contact Blonde Beard again. Anyway...