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

...but the TSA Agent at the Palm Beach International Airport Security Check seems to think you might be some sort of Gay Terrorist. Okay, it's true, you do live on the Lower East Side, but if you were going to blow something up to make a political statement, your target would more likely be Splash than some random JetBlue flight filled with Snowbirds from Boca. You are not-so-politely asked to stand aside as he sends your backpack through the X-ray machine for another scan, and when it fails the second test you are asked to stand quietly behind a yellow line so you can watch helplessly as the Transportation Security Asshole rifles through your extremely well packed bag. Although being an Anal Retentive traveler makes you constipated, the silver lining is that your bags look as if they've been packed by a Professional Folder at The Gap.

The Transportation Security Asshole pulls so many things out of your little backpack that a small crowd of Breeders begins to form around you "Oohing" and "Aahing" as if the Clown Car at the Circus has just arrived. As the TSAsshole digs further, you begin to worry about what embarrassing thing might be uncovered, and that's when he starts inspecting your liquids. Now, being one of those Felix Unger Fags, you don't bother with one of those flimsy quart-sized Ziploc bags. You, my friend, spent hours in The Container Store looking for clever travel ideas that will enhance your vacations (mostly as a distraction from procrastinwriting), and you found this wonderful little, quart-sized Clear Zippered Cube that works wonderfully. Meanwhile, since it's not a silly Ziploc the TSAsshole starts to empty all of your liquids, including your measly three ounce allotment of Astroglide Lube, to see if it fits into a damn Ziploc. Now, you want to say, "A quarts a quart, right?" but you keep your trap shut as another chunky TSAsshole pulls you aside with his metal-detecting wand and tells you to, "Spread 'em," in a way that completely ruins an on-going arrest fantasy you've had since your very first foray into Gay Porn. You suddenly have the urge to tell them that if they're looking for your bomb that you packed that into your checked luggage, but, thankfully, you bite your tongue as the first TSAsshole finds the offending object and, ironically, pulls a stainless steel Tongue Scraper from your bag. You had no idea that good oral health was so important to Al Qaeda. But you digress.

After your Impromptu Strip Search, you repack your own bag (mostly because you can't bear to watch the TSAsshole attempt to amateurishly shove your professionally trained Ringling Brothers' Clowns back into your little VW Beetle backpack), you somehow still have time to wait at the gate and are absolutely thrilled to get a call from Mr. Write. Although you don't typically love talking on the phone with people you barely know, you are amazed at how easy it is to shoot the breeze with him. You tell the Non-Jewish Jew all about spending Passover with The Ex's family. He thinks it's funny that three and a half years after you and The Ex broke up, that you're the one flying down to Florida to celebrate Pesach with his Aunts and Uncles when The Ex is nowhere to be found! Well, The Ex did actually put in a phoner from LA, but you, my friend, were the one treated like Manna from Heaven since you actually showed up for the Matzoh Fest. You know The Ex's family all secretly want you two to get back together, but you have your sights set on spending your next Passover, not necessarily in Israel, but if everything goes well with your current ridiculous fantasy and it doesn't need a Mr. ReWrite, then perhaps you will be saying The Four Questions next year with Mr. Write's family?

Although you are literally surrounded by babies on the plane, they miraculously sleep during the your uneventful night flight back to JFK. In fact, they are such good babies that by the time you get back to your Home Sweet Hovel you find yourself willing to trade in your Hobosexual Roommate for a complete set of Screaming Septuptlets because at least they would be breast fed and wouldn't have left the kitchen literally overflowing with dirty fucking dishes. But the filth doesn't get to you because you have a cute tan and a date with your cute Playwright tomorrow. Anyway.

The day flies by and, uncharacteristically, you actually get a lot accomplished. Having a nice tan amongst millions of pasty New Yorkers seems to give you more energy, almost as if you've knocked back a bottle of Geritol. Luckily, summer (and your Summer Share in The Pines) is right around the corner and you'll have this kind of Vitamin D energy all the time! But you're getting way ahead of yourself. Right now you need to concentrate on looking cute for your dinner date with Mr. Write. He suggests getting drinks at the same place you had your first date, North Square, and although the repeated date doesn't seem all that inspired, you weren't offering him any better ideas so you happily agreed. At the very least you know it will be quiet and romantic.

When you arrive, Mr. Write is sitting at a table and, as if on cue, the waiter immediately comes over to take your drink order. The Absolut Vodka flows as smoothly as the Absolut-ly engaging conversation does. You like talking to Mr. Write almost as much as you like looking at him. The two of you discuss the reading of his most recent play and about how the Lead Actress made an unfortunate accent choice which Mr. Write mimics so perfectly that you can't help but expose your dimples along with a big hearty laugh. You quickly realize that he has just passed one of your five deal breaking tests: any boy that you're going to get serious with must be able to make you laugh. Seriously. You think back to Blonde Beard and although he definitely wrote some witty emails, in person he was somehow more reserved. Instead of guffaws, Blonde Beard seemed to produce more of an overall "awwww" quality. But right about now, as you are laughing heartily across the table you wonder what exactly was so awe inspiring about Blonde Beard's sense of humor?

After a few drinks, you both wind up being too lazy to leave the bar and decide to let the Cocktail Waitress carry your heavy beverages and your even heavier tab over into the dining room. You both order light fish dishes as you both, ironically, begin to fish into each other's past. Mr. Write tells you how he doesn't really do much dating. Especially online dating. And then he quickly begins to offer a little too much information about the Sociopath he dated during/after he left a four year (open) relationship. And then was promptly dumped. Since Mr. Write said he doesn't date much, you find yourself wondering if the Sociopath was actually a sociopath, or more likely just resided in Chelsea-opath? If there's one thing you've learned from three years of dating, it's that boys in New York are fickle, especially when they find themselves in any sort of an emotional pickle. However you aren't really too concerned about the Sociopath's particular details, since none of it really matters to you. What does matter is that it seems to matter to Mr. Write. A lot. Especially since, for some unknown reason, he is talking about it on your first "official" date. Your Ex-Cousin-In-Law once told you that everything you need to know about a boy you learn on the first date. What you are learning right now is that Mr. Write seems to be equally enthusiastic about you as he is for the Sociopath (notice the present tense). And you don't like to share. Hell, if you're going to end up in a three-way then you definitely want to get some emotionally detached sex out of it! Yet Mr. Write seems to be quite attached. Now, you know you're not completely over Blonde Beard. Far from it, actually. But you do know better than to be yapping about your baggage on a date! What really annoys you is that Mr. Write was supposed to be your rebound, and yet you are quickly realizing that you are more likely his rebound. Whatever. What is also obvious is that although Mr. Write obviously isn't going to be Mr. Right, does this mean that you can't get some sex out of Mr. Write? Right?

After paying the check you walk out the side door and seamlessly segue the conversation onto the lighter topic of politics as you shamelessly segue your trajectory toward Mr. Write's one bedroom apartment off Union Square. You offer to look up the Pennsylvania Primary Election Returns on your iPhone for Mr. Write because he is a fanatical Hillary fan, and he's absolutely thrilled when you tell him that Hillary has been declared the winner! Although you're still torn between Obama and Hillary, you definitely like the idea of having a lesbian in the White House. You also think Bubba will make a wonderfully charismatic First Lady. And you definitely like the idea that Bill will be the last one buzzing his agenda into his wife's ear each night before they retire to their separate bedrooms. And really, how bad could ol' Hillary be if she named her kid after a gay neighborhood?

However, when you finally arrive at Mr. Write's building he kind of just stops and stands there. Almost as if you're supposed to say goodbye. You're so confused that you actually say, "Am I not coming upstairs?" Because if this was the case you certainly wouldn't have walked ten blocks out of your way just to say au revoir on the street. Hell, he already invited you up for a make-out session the first time you went out so what could be different this time? That's when Mr. Write informs you that you are allowed to come up, if you'd like, but he is definitely going to watch the Pennsylvania Returns on CNN. You agree to his odd terms (especially since Hillary has already won), but whatever. At least Mr. Write is passionate about something, right?

So you go upstairs and Mr. Write immediately turns the TV on with the remote as you immediately attempt to turn Mr. Write on with a kiss. His breath is so fresh and minty, which is nice, but the kisses seem to be lacking all the passion that his politics seem to have inherited. But this is okay because you love a challenge. So you pull Mr. Write down onto the couch and start to grind your hips against his as your hands disappear up his shirt. Touching his tight little body definitely works faster for you than taking a fistful of Viagra, however, although you're definitely ready to play a nice little game of "Intern in the White House," Mr. Write turns out to be the one who could use that fistful of Viagra. Only when you open your eyes you realize exactly why Mister Softee is not into you. Although you were busy getting lost in the moment with your eyes closed, Mr. Write was busy watching ol' Hillary on CNN. Now it is common knowledge, especially to Mrs. Clinton's husband who has practically admitted, in a court of law during his impeachment trial, that his wife is a bit of a turn-off. You're about to turn-off the damn television when the secret of Mr. Write's minty fresh breath actually falls from his mouth and lands on your cheek! You scream, "Are you chewing gum and making out with me?" as Mr. Write plucks the offensive Wrigley chunk from your face and gets up to throw it away. Only when he returns he sits down on the other sofa.

Obviously you are no competition for Hillary, so you stand up and tell Mr. Write that it's getting late and you should go home. He offers to walk you downstairs because he has to walk his dog, and although you're surprised that he'll leave his precious Hillary, you kind of think it's sweet. So you take the elevator and head down 14th Street toward the Sixth Avenue F train. After crossing Fifth Avenue, you all take a pit-stop so that the pooch can take a pee, and Mr. Write asks you if you have plans for this weekend? Although you're not sure you want to have another sexless bi-sexual three-way with Mr. Write and Mrs. Clinton, you do tell him that you have plans Thursday and on Sunday, but that, so far, you are free both weekend nights. That's when the dog is finally done with marking his territory, only Mr. Write doesn't seem to notice. Or move. So while you stand there wondering whether you're missing an F train, you find yourself asking, "How far do you usually walk your dog?" and Mr. Write says, "Oh just to the corner," as if he's just done you some big favor by extending the nightly walk and taking you all the way across the street. You quickly take the hint that Mr. Write has no intention of walking neither you, nor his lethargic dog, an extra half block to the subway station because, just like Obama, both you and the pooch have just lost out to Hillary Clinton. So you say, "Okay, well I'm gonna go now." As you give Mr. Write a peck goodbye as you finally decide that you are now unquestionably going to vote for Obama. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Fags Who Walks Into Things Blindly...

...but you are definitely blindsided as you're walking down 14th Street with Blonde Beard and notice a Blind Man with a terrifying Old Testament Ash Wednesday cross scrawled across his forehead. The visually impaired Religious Zealot's cane is whipping its way toward your knees until your valiant Blonde Beard yanks you of harm's way. The two of you share an uncomfortable giggle, but your giggles quickly turn into hysterics when you actually see another cane carrying Blind Man (this heathen, thankfully, has an ashless forehead) and he's headed directly into the Religious Zealot's path. You both stop in your tracks to witness the impromptu Seinfeld Street Theater moment unfold as the two canes begin to whack each other with absolute confusion. The two Blind Men tap-tap-tap their canes at each other as Blonde Beard asks, "What do you think the odds of that happening are?"

While you were in Florida you and Blonde Beard had a virtual Text-a-palooza which was super flirty and fun, however, at one point it did get a bit weird. During one of your midnight Text-fests, you were actually multi-tasking while chatting online with your Ex-Cousin-In-Law. She, of course, was asking you all about Blonde Beard. You quickly realized that you could easily send her his Match.com profile link so that she could drool over his photos. Not to mention the fact that it would be nice to see his smiling mug while you were so far away from anything remotely gay. Only when you sign onto Match you see that Blonde Beard's profile announces proudly, "Online Now! IM me!" So you do. You decide to keep it short and simple and write, "Ho," which probably comes off a bit rude, but you're less than thrilled to learn that Blonde Beard is scouring the Internet for dates instead of pining away for your gay ass to return with it's new-and-improved tan lines. It's an odd situation, because it's not like you are officially seeing each other. You're still dating other people, so of course he's allowed to also. You just don't want to know about it. Yet now you do. Ugh.

Regardless, you were very excited to come back and see Blonde Beard, but since you are both busy gay boys (you with your endless social life, and Blonde Beard with his pesky job and irritatingly selfish night-school classes), and the only overlap in your schedules was on Wednesday. Unfortunately you have had long standing plans with the Boy Luck Club, but you just have to see Blonde Beard so you both decide to meet for a quickie before meeting your gay posse at Food Bar.

After the Blind Kneading the Blind incident, the two of you horny boys rush back to Blonde Beard's place and waste no time getting busy. Luckily his Jealous Roommate is nowhere to be found, so there are no restrictions regarding noise level. You, of course, sniff him from head-to-toe to see if there's any kind of Mothball odor, and there's not. Well, not really. There is kind of this odd musty smell which seems to emanate strictly from his beard and you begin to wonder if perhaps that was what you were assumed was the Mothball odor? You wonder what products he uses to wash that hairy thing because it kind of smells like Old Man. And Old Man Smell can easily be confused with Mothball Smell because oftentimes the two scents are unfortunately combined. But you don't waste much time wondering about this because you are quickly distracted by other hairy parts of Blonde Beard's beautiful body.

After an intensely satisfying sexual experience, you definitely notice a bizarre distance again. While you'd rather cuddle and discuss the various towns where you two should buy your imaginary beach house, you are definitely aware that Blonde Beard seems preoccupied with counting the moments until your imminent departure. It's weird because he is so emotionally available to you until he gets off, and then he's Mr. Wham-Bam-Thank-You-Sam. Is it because he needs his crack fix? Anyway. Since you are a sweaty smelly mess you ask if it'd be okay to jump in the shower, and that's where your ulterior motive exposes itself as you begin to sniff through all of Blonde Beard's fancy grooming products for something that smells like Mothballs or Old Man. But nothing does. Afterward, you share an awkward, slightly distant goodbye yet definitely make plans to see each other on Saturday night (which is always a good sign since he could've easily offered you a much lamer night of the week), then you rush over to Food Bar to meet the B.L.C.

Upon your arrival you are shocked when everybody seems to instantly know that you have been freshly laid. "How on earth?" you ask as you inspect your sweater for a Monica Lewinsky-esque cum stain. "Oh please," they say. "Your hair is still wet." You, of course, protest, "I could've been coming from the gym!" but your Cheshire Cat grin does nothing to back up your lies. The B.L.C. quickly begins their By-The-Book Interrogation and you start giving all the glowing details about Blonde Beard. You tell them how you met on Match.com yadda-yadda-yadda, yet you decide to leave out the details about the fact that he may or may not be a Crackhead. Somehow you worry that this information might come back to haunt you if this relationship actually goes somewhere. Your friend Half-Share (whose actually upgraded to a Full Share next summer, yet in a less glamorous house in The Pines) begins to ask you about Blonde Beard since he's also doing the Match.com thing and is just as irritated and jaded about it as you are. Only when you tell him Blonde Beard's screenname, Half-Share's face instantly drops in shock. This, of course, convinces you that Blonde Beard is indeed a Crackhead, until Full-Share informs you that he was just chatting with your man on Match.com. And get this, it was recently. You are completely blindsided as the B.L.C. gives a collective giggle to your latest dating foible. That's when you find yourself wondering, "What do you think the odds of that happening are?" Anyway.

You're Not the Type of Fag Who Can't Make a Decision...

...but you do tend to waffle back and forth on your way toward anything conclusive. Your Ex liked to call you "contrary," and you liked to call him "asshole," especially since you knew he was right. After all, you're a Libra and you like to endlessly weigh all sides of any argument before deciding anything. Especially when good sex is involved. Correction: great sex. So before your date with Blonde Beard you actually make out a list of Pros and Cons. You need to see it on paper because your heart and your head are telling you completely different things. And you're not talking about your penis head because that head is telling you exactly the same thing that your heart is: Crack-schmack... Go for it.

You call your Ex-Cousin-In-Law, the Dating Guru who has published several books on the topic, but has yet to settle down herself (or perhaps you should simply say, "has yet to settle"). Although she's a successful writer now, she still sees everything from an Actresses point of view as acting was always her first love. So when you tell her all about your Blonde Beard "Is-he-or-isn't-he-a-Crackhead" dilemma--about how you are considering confronting him on this particular issue on your next date--the Ex-Cousin-In-Law instantly starts shaking her head before turning all Stella Adler on you. She explains that you are seeing your upcoming date with Blonde Beard like a writer would. You're seeing the entire beginning, middle and the untimely, tragic end before you ever go out on the damn date. And then she has the audacity to tell you, "And that's a boring scene. Yawn. Can I get my money back please?" You are a bit dumbfounded (not to mention mildly humiliated) until she explains further, "If you start the scene without knowing where it'll end, then you're taking the audience on a journey. Wouldn't you rather go on a journey?" And you've got to hand it to her; a journey sounds like a much more appealing date than a fucking drug intervention. When she presses you, you have to admit that you could've canceled the date if you wanted to, but, for some reason, you chose not to. And that's when she explains to you, "That's because you want to go on this journey. Because you want like him." And you know she's right. You decide that you'll begin tonight's date with Blonde Beard without any assumptions of how it will ultimately end, because, after all, you don't have any idea what will happen.

So you meet Blonde Beard at the new Vynl on 15th and Eighth and you try to begin the scene like an actor instead of a writer. You're practically doing voice exercises by the time Blonde Beard arrives, and you try to cover your embarrassing tracks by kissing him. But Blonde Beard shifts his head to offer you a hairy cheek because he thinks he might be getting sick. You wonder to yourself, "Would a Crackhead really care about getting someone sick?" And then, of course, the Libra in you considers the alternative, "How did he get sick? Has he been doing too much Crack lately?" Your list of Pros and Cons grows as the evening progresses, but honestly, even though you are actively looking for any kind of sign, you really aren't adding too many Cons to this inane, imaginary roster. In fact, the Pros continue to grow to the point where you have to shake your imaginary pen because you're worried that it has actually run out of imaginary ink.

After dinner you go back to his place. You pretend to feign interest in the Prom Dress rerun of Project Runway while yapping with Blonde Beard's Jealous Roommate while, in actuality you are scanning the supposed Crack Den for drug paraphernalia. But you notice nothing out of the ordinary. Nada. Rien! And after enough face time with the Jealous Roommate, the two of you happily retire to Blonde Beard's bedroom and lie on the bed as he shows you an article in Dwell magazine about his new boss. You ask yourself, could a Crackhead really pull an impressive job like that out of his Crack Pipe? You think not. But then he puts on some Cocteau Twins, which he has already told you is his all-time favorite band, yet when the song "Sugar Hiccup" begins to play, he informs you that it had to have been written while they were on Heroin... Your antennae instantly go up and you're about to add another Con to your imaginary list until you realize that the lead singer of Depeche Mode, your favorite band, was definitely a notorious junkie who almost killed himself. You realize that you are really grabbing at straws now.

But then the kissing starts. Or actually the non-kissing since Blonde Beard doesn't want to get you sick. So you sniff him head-to-toe in search of his Mothball Crackhead Pheromone, but beyond his super sexy, manly odor, there is nothing. Yet somehow when you look deep into his eyes during the moments when neither of you are speaking, there is something. It's at this moment that you realize that your Ex-Cousin-In-Law was right. You are glad you went into this date as an Actress would, instead of a Writer; you are glad you didn't begin the date at the end by making unsubstantiated accusations; you are glad because this non-kissing is a much better ending than the one you would had already written in your head. Are you sure Blonde Beard doesn't have a drug problem? No. Are you willing to give him the benefit of the doubt? Well, until any actual hardcore, Betty Ford-like evidence is uncovered, that answer will have to remain an undisputed, the-Pros-outweigh-the-Cons, yes. Anyway...