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

...so unfortunately you have absolutely no idea what to wear to Folsom Street East. Not to mention the wardrobe dilemma over what to wear to the Leather Brunch that Rice Queen #2 is throwing beforehand. But after a quick text-blast, you are assured that cargo shorts and a tank-top is perfectly acceptable as long as you remove the tank upon arrival. Although you'll later worry about the ramifications of which back pocket to hang the tank from, for know you can certainly live with this relatively simple outfit choice.

You can also live with the Bloody Marys that Rice Queen #2 plies you with at his Leather Brunch. In fact, he even supplies you a leather band to wear around your bicep (one of his extras, apparently). All your friends instantly begin to tease you because (although you had no idea) you somehow instinctively put the band around the arm that signifies you are a big ol' bottom. Whatever. Lately you've feeling a bit fucked in general so you just let the leather band stay put and head over to 28th Street with your Gay Posse.

As directed, you take off your tank-top as you enter the fairy fair, and you instantly feel kind of feel like Dorothy in that "Toto, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore," kind of way. But it's certainly fun and all the S&M Boys seem to be thoroughly enjoying themselves. As you wander through the Levi & Leather crowd, you begin to wonder what everybody does for a living? Like the shirtless boy strutting around with bloody welt marks whipped into his back? Does he serve Tall Non-Fat Lattes with whipped cream at Starbucks? Or how about the man sloshing around in head-to-toe rubber with a urinal built into his suit. Perhaps he's an Art Director at Grey Advertising for the Kohler account? The funny thing is that a lot of these guys all seem to be coupled up. All these S&M cast iron pots seem to have found a lid that they are happy to be smacked around with. And that's when the collective pot seemingly begins to boil over as the skies open up and it suddenly begins to pour. It's amusing to watch the half-naked S&M boys (some fully naked) as they race into the Eagle for cover, almost as if a few raindrops will cause them to melt. Perhaps, more likely, it will ruin all their leather. The Rubber Boys, however, seem much less concerned by the sudden change in weather.

The Eagle winds up being a hoot and you end up catching some freebie XXL t-shirt that gets thrown your way. Luckily you're much too small for it and you wind up offering it to some of the shirtless Bears who seem to be jealous of your sudden swag. You give it away to one of the more eager Cubs and order a beer, only before you ever finish the beer the Shirtless Cub politely returns the shirt to you with a quick "Thanks," and you are completely non-plussed when you realize that the Cub just wanted to borrow it momentarily to use as a cum rag. Seriously.

At this point, the rain has stopped and you're definitely done schmoozing with spooogers, so you head down the stairs of the Eagle and walk out onto the street. Almost instantly you run into the Advanced Ski Fag who you made out with last winter and then decided not to pursue because, after all, you were going on the same week-long ski trip. If it ended awkwardly then that could have turned out to be one damn longue semaine en France. But you've actually thought about this boy several times since the trip. You've actually wondered if he could be the type of boy that you could actually date? He's funny. He's smart. He likes to ski. He's cute. And your one big worry seems to have removed itself in the form of his shirt, because the Advanced Ski Fag is shirtless and, although he's not a gym bunny, the goods are not too shabby. A bit Gay Fat, perhaps, but nothing tragic like Man Boobs.

After all that leather, the two of you seem to be craving some red meat, so you catch up at Hell's Kitchen and yap about your Ski Trip last February. The Advanced Ski Fag tells you about how he didn't have that great a trip. You admit, that even though you won the damn vacation, that everybody seemed a bit cold and distant. You're not sure if it's the conversation or the beer, but suddenly your dinner has a definite date quality and you're not at all unhappy about it. And, surprise-surprise, when you wind up back at the Advanced Ski Fag's apartment (which is absolutely gorgeous) you find yourself being overwhelmed by an unusual and uncomfortable feeling, because you are actually comfortable. So comfortable, in fact, that you could actually see yourself Dwelling happily ever after in his apartment.

You accept when the Advanced Ski Fag offers you a glass of water, even though you never touch the stuff (it's your personal version of water conservation), and the kissing begins after a sobering mouthful of the non-vodka. Unfortunately it ain't as good as the apartment. At all. And as if that's not tragic enough, even though you never asked, the conversation somehow segues into the Advanced Ski Fag's sexual problems. Or perhaps it's something colon-related that seems to infringe upon his sex life? Regardless you attempt to tune it out even though you feel a dire need to tell him that it's this actual conversation which is ultimately infringing upon his sex life. Eventually you let him pull you out of the unfortunate T.M.I. moment and into his beautifully decorated bedroom. Unfortunately things don't improve in the boudoir. The underwear never comes off, but that probably has more to do with a double-whammy of Whisky Dick than anything else. Or at least this is what you tell the Advanced Ski Fag when you suddenly find yourself overcome with a headache that was obviously water-induced. You get up, get dressed, and the Advanced Ski Fag walks you to the door and hands you two Advil and your unfinished glass of non-vodka. You give him a quick peck goodbye as you pointedly reattach the leather strap to your other bicep, because, let's face it, the last look was not working for you. Anyway...

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

...although you are definitely compulsive. But impulsive? Well, maybe just a wee bit, however when it comes to dating? Not so much. Okay, okay! So you're more impulsive than most. Perhaps even a hell of a lot more. Only you like to think you're getting better. Right? You giggle to yourself as you and Bald Boy hop in a cab outside of The Eagle and head toward the West Village. When Bald Boy asks you awkwardly, "What's so funny?" you tell him about the conversation you had with your Gal Pal, mere hours ago, about how you thought you were over having one night stands. Bald Boy gives you a hearty laugh which quickly turns into a lengthy kiss after you stare into his piercing blue eyes for a moment too long.

Although you're the first to pull away from the embrace, you continue to hold Bald Boy's hand as the yellow cab races down Ninth Avenue. That's when Bald Boy asks, "Who says it's going to be a one night stand?" You smile at his optimistic confidence, but since this is not your first time around this particular tree-lined Chelsea block, you can't help but wonder where this 2am testosterone fueled union will lead? And when Bald Boy tells you in the form of a question, "Let's just sleep together, okay?" you respond by squeezing his large palm. Honestly, that's all you are craving at this particular moment. Kisses and intimacy from a complete stranger, with a healthy dose of possibility, of course.

Bald Boy's studio apartment is on one of those old fashioned West Village blocks with new fashioned prices. When you walk into the apartment you can instantly tell that it's not a rental. Nothing is cheap enough for a New York landlord: cardboard doors outfitted with fist-sized holes, windows that don't properly close and refrigerators that are so old they should be called ice-boxes. You should know since you are actually describing your own Home-Sweet-Hovel! But Bald Boy's apartment actually has walls that make right angles! Complete with appliances that have fancy features like ice-makers and self-cleaning ovens! Best of all, Bald Boy's confident yet soothing personality is easily perceptible from the way he has decorated the place. As usual, you immediately ask to use the bathroom, partly because you have to go, but mostly because you want to see how dirty it is. Bathrooms never lie. Although you don't inspect his medicine cabinet (that kind of intimacy is best saved for a second date), you are happy to find an immaculately clean salle de bains that smells like fresh fluffy towels instead of mildew. You also like that the bathroom isn't overflowing with product. You've found that boys who spend too much time worrying about how good they look, never seem to have time left over to worry about how good you feel.

You wash your hands and head into the bedroom where, in your absence, several candles have miraculously been lit. However you barely even notice them because you are magnetically drawn toward those piercing blue eyes. You and your kisses are quickly yanked into Bald Boy's bed and, although your clothes are just as quickly removed, Bald Boy whispers into your ear, "Let's keep our underwear on, okay?" And nobody is happier than you, except for maybe your Whiskey Dick. But you're thrilled to just lie in the candle-lit bed, soaking up Bald Boy's affectionate kisses while exploring everything not covered by his Calvin Klein briefs on his amazingly smooth swimmer's build.

Eventually your kisses turn into spooning and as you are falling asleep in Bald Boy's arms you have an overwhelming feeling of safety. Somehow in your last conscious thought before you doze off, you realize that tomorrow, when you wake up with a sobering hangover, somehow you know you won't regret your decision to spend the night. Perhaps that's how you've matured? Maybe it's not the one night stand that you have a problem with anymore? Possibly it's just the idea of having one with someone you'll regret waking up with?

And when Bald Boy's alarm goes off seemingly five minutes after he set it, you instantly realize that you were right. Instead of slumping off to his bathroom, Bald Boy hits his snooze button and pulls your arms around him into a tight hug. You kiss the back of his neck as you bathe in the warmth of his torso. The snooze button is pushed repeatedly, and the lack of sleep somehow acts as a double-negative as your combined exhaustion is somehow replaced with warm kisses. With tongue! In the morning! Without having ever brushed your teeth! You are in shock at all the rules you are breaking, but find yourself helpless to fight your morning hormones as you continue to grope each other until the last possible second when Bald Boy has to leave for work. Although the underwear never comes off, the poor guy doesn't even get a chance to take a shower before going to work. You inspect your bed-head as you gather up last night's outfit from the floor for your impending walk of shame while your follicularly challenged friend brushes his teeth. Although Bald Boy is the one spitting toothpaste from his mouth, you are the one who practically does the spit-take when he sticks his head out of the bathroom and asks you, "Would you like to come to the beach with me this weekend?" Although you find yourself to be completely and utterly stunned, even though you want to scream, "Yes!" you somehow find yourself yapping about some wine tasting party that you've been invited to on Saturday night. And that's when Bald Boy confidently tells you to "Blow it off." Anyway...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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