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 Billy Elliot Ballet Fags...

...but you find yourself doing some serious Grand Jetés through the parking lot of the Kravis Center in West Palm Beach because you're late to see one of your Campy friends from L.A. strut his stuff with Lou Diamond Phillips in Camelot. Unfortunately this particular Musicdull happens to be one of your least favorite shows (and honey, that's one damn long list of dreck) and you actually find yourself wishing that Camp Beverly Pills had prescribed you House Seats to some sleep-inducing ballet instead. But one of the side-effects of an evening spent with Camp Beverly Pills is that you always have a fantastically crazy night full of hazy memories and horrific hangovers. So the good news is, even if the show is horrendous, you won't even remember!

When you arrive to the empty lobby and the Door Nazi informs you that you are (surprise, surprise) late and that the opening number has started and you will have to wait twelve minutes before he can show you to your Nap (oops, you meant to write Seat). So, of course, you immediately head to the bar and guzzle down a few light beers (you learned long ago never to order an over-priced Straight Cocktail, especially from a female bartender). Anyway. Eventually the Door Nazi shows you where you'll be taking your two hour and forty minute snooze, and, luckily for you, the Overly Tanned Corpse next to you seems to snore you awake just before all of Camp Beverly Pills' scenes. It's as if he's some (barely) living Snooze Alarm. Meanwhile, your friend is wonderful! He has some ridiculously funny role where he gets to be Sir Lance-a-hunk's one eyed bitch and every time he comes out on stage you burst into inappropriate laughter. It's okay since the only people you really annoy are the actors because everybody else surrounding you is way too hard of hearing to be disturbed. In fact, the audience dialog is hands down more entertaining than anything Alan Jay Lerner wrote in the original book to Camelong, and is definitely the most enjoyable part of seeing the show. It's absolutely amazing at how LOUD these Deaf Seniors will speak to one another during the performace, "WHAT DID RITCHIE VALENS JUST SAY?" And then the slightly less audibly impaired spouse will literally repeat, VERY LOUDLY, word-for-word what Lou Diamond Phillips just said. The entire repetitive experience reminds you of one of those bad cell phone connections where you can actually hear your own voice echo everything that you just said.

Half the audience either leaves or possibly actually dies of old age during the intermission. However, after a bathroom break followed by a chaser of two more light beers you are ready to suffer through till the bitter end. And it is sooooooo worth it, because Camp Beverly Pills is actually cast in dual roles where he has one absolutely wonderful, scene-stealing final moment with Lou Diamond Phillips. Your friend informs King Arthur about something which is probably very touching but you are much too busy beaming with pride to listen to any of the inane dialogue. Not to mention the fact that you are counting down the moments till you can order a proper Gay Cocktail from an inproper Gay Bartender.

You wait at the Stagedoor for Camp Beverly Pills to come out and greet his adoring fans, but they're all 101 and old enough to remember the original La Bamba Boy when he was a big star back during The Great Depression. Unfortunately, you are also old enough to remember the not-so-recent moive. But only on VHS, not Beta. So you shake LDP's hand and give him some blah-blah-blah about how great his Slow was (oops, you meant to write Show. Really.) And then you head over to the Holiday Inn and drop off your overnight bags (don't judge, you had to bring several wardrobe changes just in case). Then the two of you quickly head down to the tragic Hotel Bar where the Cast & Crew is already busy liquoring it up. After a few Stoli O & Soda's you find yourself yapping about being dumped by Blonde Beard and, probably because he's a good friend and knows you need to be taken out for a night of debauchery, or possibly because he's sick of hearing you whine, Camp Beverly Pills quickly gathers an impromptu group of Camelot Fags to take you out for some Gay Cocktails in Floriduh.

Your first Gay stop is, get this, in a strip mall. But the boy following the GPS Voice Prompts assures you that there will be plenty of stripping. You roll your eyes as you are practically dragged into stupid Cupid's. Only when you arrive the doorman informs you that there is, get this, a $20 cover charge. You instantly push past him to peek inside and inform everybody that it is midnight on a Friday night (oops, make that Saturday) and there is nobody in the club. You tell Camp Beverly Pills that there ain't no way that you're paying $20 to go into an empty bar just to talk to The Camelot Fags because you can do that for free at the hotel bar. They, of course, agree, and then you all head over to a little bar called Roosters which instantly conjures up a disturbing image of The Cock filled with older, more Sun Damaged boys. Only when you get there, it's much, much worse. It's kind of tragic in that way where you instantly thank the Gay Gods that you are fortunate enough to live in the Gay Mecca of NYC where the Crystal Queens have the good sense to buy dental implants after their Meth Mouths set in. But, after throwing a few Gay Cocktails down your (fully toothed) neck, none of this matters much. Because, after all, you are out with Camp Beverly Pills and there is fun to be forgotten!

The next morning you remember nothing after you obviously pushed the GoGo Boy off the stage, but the photos are undeniable and have you absolutely convinced that you definitely had a Gay Old Time. Although you weren't doing any actual ballet, the photographic proof of your dancing is definitely about as gay as it gets. That, coupled with the circumstantial evidence of seven mysteriously crumpled dollar bills that you find shoved down your underwear during your morning pee. But you digress. When you emerge from your shower you find Camp Beverly Pills giggling in front of his computer and you are completely horrified when he says, "This is my favorite video from last night..." Ugh. Apparently you are True(ly) more of a Spandau Ballet Fag than a Billy Elliot Ballet Fag. Anyway...

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

...but there is nothing you love more than to be sitting on the beach sending snarky picture messages to all your pasty New York friends as they sit at home, shivering, because their cheap slumlords have turned off their furnaces for the season. The only problem is that, for some Global Warming bullshit reason, Florida is actually chilly, while two of the New York Weather Fags (ABC & Fox) are predicting that it's going to hit 80 fucking degrees in the city this weekend! Luckily the clouds clear up long enough to sit by the pool for an hour at your parents' condo, and although it's a sad substitute for the glorious beach, the pool is at least protected from the raging wind so that you don't have to be wrapped up like a gay mummy (in 500 thread count Egyptian cotton, of course).

You're on your best behavior laying obediently on the chaise next to your Mommie Dearest. You're wearing a Straight-Friendly one-piece just like a good little Christina would, as Mommie Dearest yaps away about her latest wire-hanger debacle. Apparently her upstairs neighbor's toilet has recently caused a horrible leak and caused your Snowbird parents' ceiling to cave in. Since your Hobosexual Roommate is prone to causing these types of unnecessary leaks, you wonder if perhaps his Hobosexual Mother might actually live on the 16th floor? But this conversation grinds to an absolute halt when Mommie Dearest's absoulte dearest friend plops down onto the chaise next to you. Apparently, unlike your gossipy mother, her Floridian BFF, Paige Six, really likes to stir the pot. As far as you're concerned, it takes Two to Tango, but you shut your trap because you're on a free vacation and you think Paige Six is a hoot. So when Ms. Six invites your whole family out for an evening of Seafood and Reggae music at Conchy Joes, you quickly accept the opportunity to be her Deep Fried Groupie so you can drink gallons of Red Red Wine and mooch off of the Senior Set's pension plans, of course.

That evening, you all pile into Daddy Warbuck's gynormous SUV and drive over to Conchy Joe's which ends up being a bit of a schlep. But it's all well worth it when the Waiter insists upon seeing your ID before serving you a glass of Red Red Wine. Although you are absolutely thrilled, you find it to be a bit unnecessary when the entire table begins to cackle at the obviously Farsighted Waiter. You glare at Mommie Dearest who is actually choking on an Oyster Cracker that she accidentally inhaled while you were being proofed, so you bitterly move Mommie Dearest's glass of water just slightly out of her reach as you hand the Farsighted Waiter your not-so-new New York License. Ok, now you know you look pretty good for your age (you are gay after all), but does the man really have to do a Double Take as if you're starring in some Damn Doublemint commercial? Then the Farsighted Waiter, who is easily ten years your senior, throws your ID back at you while shaking his head in disgust as he informs you, "I'm actually two years younger than you," as if you have just been pre-qualified for Social Security. You bite your tongue and choose not to explain the difference between Straight Years and Gay Years to the Farsighted Waiter who probably hasn't seen any non-AARP Members since the Category 5 winds of Hurricane Andrew obviously impaired his vision. Regardless, being the youngest looking fag in the room is a nice contrast from feeling like a cent-less centenarian in the under-thirty-only zone you live in below Houston Street that you commonly refer to as Logan's Run.

After several jugs of Red Red Wine, the Reggae Band starts to play and they actually turn out to be pretty good. But what's really entertaining is watching your graying parents pop some Advil and drag all their combined aches and pains onto the dance floor in order to Shake Shake Shake Their Booty. Paige Six somehow drags her Sports Fanatic husband onto the dance floor, even though he's in dire need of a double knee replacement, and Kneeless Joe waddles in place to "I Shot the Sheriff" in the arms of his Drunken Deputy. Eventually, as the Pacemaker Patrons finish up their Blue Plate Specials, the whole dance floor quickly fills up, and, from the copious amounts of Advil you spy being popped by the greedy fistful, it is safe to say that a good time is had by all. Even you end up limping your way onto the dance floor, and with your Healing Hernia and your Balloon Balls, you practically fit right in with the Straight Senior Set.

Only you don't fit in. And not just because you're gay. You don't fit because all these Snowbirds have coupled up and mated for life. And you, my friend, are sorely single. Again. You look around the room and wonder if, decades from now, you'll have someone to retire and grow gray(er) with? For Christ's sake you just noticed (and quickly plucked) a gray fucking chest hair! Or will you wind up living your Golden Years watching Golden Girls reruns from your Craftmatic Adjustable bed? Alone? Or *gasp* even worse, will you be so relationship-ly destitute that you wind up spending the rest of your days wearing Depends Undergarments in your Home-Sweet-Hovel arguing with your Hobosexual Roommate over whose turn it is to replace the Polident? This last pathetic image seems to make you shiver, until you realize that what you assume to be your emotions shaking this deep-seated fear out of the darkest recesses of your Cajun Blackened Heart, the vibration is actually coming from your cell phone in order to alert you of a new text message from your Boy du Jour: the Playwright in Shining Ardour, Mr. Write.

During the drive home you have a total interstate text fest with your Non-Jewish Jew and you tell him all about how you are driving down to West Palm tomorrow so you can ask The Four Questions during Passover with The Ex's family (even though The Ex won't even be there). You find it extremely sexy when Mr. Write practically orders you to pack up your bags and, "Come home! Someone else can ask the 4 questions." But the contrary Shiksa in you immediately taps back, "I only have 1 question to ask of you: Why is it that on this night a bitter aging fag would give up the increasingly rare opportunity of being the youngest boy in the room?" You click send and wait patiently for a witty response from Mr. Write, but you are jarred out of your Four Question Fantasy as well as your car seat while everybody in Daddy Warbucks' Gas Guzzler partakes in a collective chorus of, "OH MY GOD!" You look up as Daddy Warbucks skillfully swerves off the two lane road in order to avoid running over an oncoming motorcycle that has just flipped over and is sliding its way toward your over-sized 4WD along with the leather clad couple who are also tumbling toward you on their way to become one big collective speed bump. Luckily, Daddy Warbucks (who thankfully hasn't had a drop to drink) somehow maneuvers his Beige Behemoth and completely avoids what could have easily become yet another Retiree Roadkill statistic. You all jump out to help the poor people who are somehow still alive even though their Harley has shed a few key parts down the road, including it's Handlebar.

Somehow you are the one who ends up calling 911, even though you are thoroughly drunk and have absolutely no idea where the hell you are. After slurring a few unintelligible "Um, I dunno's" to questions that you are ill-equipped to answer, Paige Six grabs the phone from you and informs the dispatcher where to send help. The Bloody Driver is obviously in a state of shock as he seems to be pacing back and forth and worrying more about his Handlebar-less Harley than he is about his Wailing Wife who is inspecting the various cuts and scrapes covering her dark Bain(daged) Soleil legs through her now-shredded jeans. To calm him down, Mommie Dearest tells the Bloody Driver that you will move his Handlebar-less Harley out of the middle of the road, which seems completely reasonable until you and your Healing Hernia attempt to lift the damn thing. Although you haven't been allowed to go to the gym for over a month, could it be possible that you have lost that much strength? Or, please God, is the Handlebar-less Harley just ridiculously heavy for one drunk gay boy to lift? Luckily the police show up and "I Shot The Sheriff" ends up helping you roll the Scrap Metal out of the road.

Before you leave the scene of the crime (without ever being asked to make any sort of statement or to leave any contact information) you are happy to see that the Bloody Driver has finally stopped worrying about his Scrap Metal and has sat himself down to console his Wailing Wife. And then you pop back into the SUV with the Straight Senior Set and begin your drive back to the Ocean Front Condo. Paige Six immediately begins to spin the simple story into the biggest thing since Hurricane Wilma thrashed through the state of Florida and Bamm Bamm'd everything in it's path into tiny little Pebbles. Meanwhile, when you finally remember to check your phone to see if Mr. Write ever responded, you find yourself equally pummeled by the Category 5 text message you have just received from Blonde Beard. He's obviously received the Shutterfly Photo Book that you spent days making for his 40th birthday in order to document your entire relationship. As you read his words, your heart sinks even faster than your non-relationship did after you stupidly dropped the L-Word on Blonde Beard. The message simply says, "Got your gift. Thanks, it was very thoughtful." Anyway...

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

...but after your horrible experience in Fort Lauderdale you have absolutely no energy for any emotions whatsoever. After Hairy Potter's paranoid delusions put you out on the street, you spent one of the worst nights of your life sleeping it off at the Delta Ticket Counter. Then you slept through the entire flight back to Laguardia, probably snoring the whole way, but when you finally get home you have never been so happy to schlep your thirtysomething years of baggage (along with your luggage) up six flights of stairs to your Home Sweet Hovel. Thankfully, your Hobosexual Roommate is away for the rest of the week visiting Who The Hell Cares in the lovely town of Who Really Gives A Shit. You, of course, go straight to bed so you can take a restless nap.

You know it's nothing you had any control over, but you are really freaked out by Hairy Potter's bizarre accusation that he saw you making out with That Black Guy In The Bathroom. All day you keep waiting for him to call and apologize, but it never happens. And even though you are thrilled that you will never have to see Hairy Potter again, you are also really sad. He was really upset with you, because he really thought something happened, and you almost feel like calling him up to explain your non-delusional version of the story. But you know it won't matter. Hairy Potter probably wouldn't even take your call, and what would you do then? Have an intervention with the perky, yet repetitive Voicemail Lady? Even though the whole situation is completely preposterous, it has really gotten you bummed out. Are all gay guys fucked up? Will you ever fall for someone who's just a nice, run-of-the-mill alcoholic like you? Or will you forever be surrounded by Crack Pipes and Eight Balls and Random Letters of the Alphabet like E, K and don't forget G, H & B, whilst being accosted by That Imaginary Black Guy In The Bathroom?

So you kind of do nothing all day beyond actively avoiding contact with the outside world while you nap and eat and eat and eat. Back off, Richard Simmons! You're depressed. The last thing you want to do is write a damn blog entry about how damn sorry you are for yourself (boo-hoo, everybody feels sorry for you!), but eventually you check your email and you find some of the nicest, most wonderful words from some nice gay boys who, for some unknown reason, like to read the narcissistic crap you write. A comment from a talented blogger named Jesse (Jesse On The Brink) makes you feel like your selfish pass-time is perhaps not as egotistical as you think, "Your stories make me feel less alone. And as far as I know, that's the only thing worth doing. Thank you!" And one email in particular from a Hot Latin boy named Jose really pulls at your heart-strings. And it actually gets your jaded gay ass a little bit veklempt, "I was feeling blue... In fact, I have been somewhat in a depressed mood the past several days; but then again, who doesn't? Upon stumbling on your blog, my curiosity lead me to reading it. I laughed most of the time, usually by the usage of nicknames and employment of smart wit used to convey your stories. Afterwards, I feel much better, and may even go out tonight and have dinner with a few friends. Thank you for writing, and I'll be looking forward to future postings." OMG someone quick, go get you a Softique before your mascara begins to run!

And that's when you realize that you need to stop feeling sorry for yourself! Your ridiculous shenanigans are actually amusing other people (god knows why, but they are...) and somehow the knowledge that your stories can help pull someone out of his funk, actually helps you pull yourself out of yours. Sometimes, even though you're so jaded and bitter from all of the ridiculous dates you go on, sometimes, when you least expect it, a gay boy will stop obsessing over Britney's Breakdown or whether or not to pay full price for those cute New Religion Jeans, and sometimes that gay boy will make you realize that all of us fags are basically just trying to make it through our live-long days, because in one way or another, we're all You. Even that delusional fuck, Hairy Potter. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Coke Fiend Fags...

...but you will drink a Diet Coke as an absolute last resort when there are absolutely no Pepsi products to be found within a three-bodega radius. Diet Pepsi is just one of those things that helps make your life that much more enjoyable. Not to mention peppy.

When your parents drive you back to the West Palm Airport, you are happy as a clam while you suck down the two 24 ounce bottles that your mother packed for you. Oh back off with the judgments, it's a long drive with two bickering parents! You only make them stop once during the seventy-five minute drive at a lovely rest area where you notice your first signs of gay life since arriving in the Sunshine State. Scrawled above the urinal by homophobic, latent homosexuals who were obviously suffering from a heat stroke, "Fags Suck Cock!" Duh. And, FYI, we suck them way better and much more efficiently than your girlfriends ever will.

You're feeling a bit guilty (and just about as mature as the eighth grader who wrote the brilliant epitaph above the rest stop urinal), but even though you're in your thirties, you still feel uncomfortable around your Church-Going Catholic parents when it comes to being gay. So instead of saying, "After three days of visiting you in Straighty-Straightsville, I will begin to go into detox and get the Gay Shakes." So you decide to just lie about your departure time and have them drop you off at the airport a day early. A bit sneaky, but this way everybody's happy and your gay ass gets to escape and spend a night in Fort Lauderdale with a boy you met last winter.

You say your goodbyes to your aging parents through the gate of their SUV while they're still arguing over the air conditioning temperature. You grab your luggage and wave goodbye as they argue their way back to Vero. However, moments after they drive away, your cell rings and your friend, Hairy Potter, informs you that he's pulling into the airport. You met Hairy Potter last winter at a bar when you wanted to check out the Fort Lauderdale scene, since then, somehow, the two of you have kept in touch and you decided to short change your elderly parents and spend your last night in Florida with Hairy Potter doing dirty gay things. You're a bit worried about spending a night with a boy you barely remember, but as you hop into Hairy Potter's Acura you are pleasantly surprised at your impeccably good taste in men.

Hairy Potter takes you back to his condo to drop off your luggage, and then you head to a late brunch at Rosie's Bar & Grill. You sit outside amongst lots of muscled gay boys with tank-tops and February tans while you breathe a sigh of relief because after four days of free-flowing Man Boobs and retired straight couples wearing matching outfits purchased at Wal-Mart, you are finally someplace that feels familiar. At least these boys shop at Target... Hairy Potter keeps sneaking looks at you and smiling while you pick at your gay salad. You are actually starving, but since your doting mother has been filling your dinner plates with second and third helpings, you are now officially gay-fat again. Not straight-fat, god no. But definitely gay-fat. You decide you'd rather use up your calorie intake drinking alcohol so you order a few beers.

After brunch, Hairy Potter starts yapping about some Fort Lauderdale Sunday Tea Thing that you kind of roll your "been-there-done-that" New York Eyes at, but when you arrive at VooDoo Lounge you are duly impressed! The space is a-fucking-mazing. Being a Manhattanite you tend to forget what it's like to have space. Space to move around. Space to dance. Space to gossip. VooDoo Lounge is like the final spacious frontier! And you are the gay Neil Armstrong, making one giant step where you don't have to accidentally step on any bitchy Drag Queen toes!

You're almost out of cash so you opt to start a tab rather than be raped by the ATM, so you grab yourself another beer and order Hairy Potter a Grey Goose and Soda even though he didn't ask for one. Hairy gulps it down as he introduces you to his sudden group of friends. You've barely sipped your Amstel when Hairy Potter has finished his drink and asks you if you'd like another. You say, "What the hell," as he asks if he can put the next round for his friends on your tab. The George Costanza in you wants to scream, "Are you insane!" but the gay Martha Stewart in you says, "Of course."

You're dancing to something by Kylie, or possibly even Danni Minogue when Hairy Potter informs you that it's time to go. You're surprised because it seems early, but since Hairy's your host you head over to the bar to close out your tab. The bartender hands you the bill and you are absolutely shocked when you see that your three beers and one Grey Goose and Soda have somehow added up to $96. But you're a bit drunk so you don't make a scene. You begin to wonder how many people Hairy Potter bought drinks for? And then you wonder what vintage of Dom Perignon his freeloading friends were drinking? But you just smile and add a nice 20% tip because, after all, none of this is the cute bartender's problem.

You follow Hairy Potter and his friend to the parking lot and are a bit confused when they get into the friend's BMW instead of Hairy's Acura. Hairy informs you that they're headed to Miami and suddenly it all sounds very exciting. You put on your backseat seatbelt just in case, but before you know it you're pulling into some weird parking lot that doesn't seem so Glamorous even though Fergie's aptly named song is now playing. Hairy Potter jumps out of the passenger seat and tells you to wait there because he'll be right back. The Drunk Driver kind of sings along to "Glamorous" only he spells it without a "U" Finally you ask, "Where did he go?" and Drunk Driver informs you that, "He went to buy coke," even though you're a bit confused because you could really use a Diet Pepsi right about now.

After Hairy Potter scores, you end up going to the lamest gay club in Miami with absolutely no patrons (yet somehow there's still a fifteen dollar cover) and you kind of dance alone waiting for your Floridian hosts while they powder their noses in the Men's Room stall. You order a strong drink or three while chatting with the yawning shirtless bartender until you are eventually dragged outside to the car. They swerve their way back to Fort Lauderdale and end up taking you to several bars where you continue to drink your way out of the mess you've found yourself in. Eventually, BMW Boy drops you off at Hairy Potter's condo around 3am. You're bleary eyed when you get out of the car, but Hairy is still Chatty Cathy. He glares at you as his BMW Boy drives away before he accuses you, "I saw what you did in that bathroom."

Your drunken mind beings to rewind as you wonder if you forgot to wash your hands? But Hairy Potter storms off down his front path while you ask him sincerely, "What did I do in the bathroom?" He sighs dramatically before answering, "Don't pull that bullshit with me. I was there. I saw you kissing that guy!" Now, as usual, it is a given that you are drunk, but you're not that drunk. You ask, "What are you talking about? Who was I kissing?" because you're definitely not the type of fag that forgets a kiss. Ever. Hairy Potter unlocks his door as he informs your sunburned ass, "I saw you making out with that black guy in the bathroom!"

Now, you are certainly drunk, but you're not that drunk. You would definitely remember kissing someone. Anyone. In fact, until moments ago, you were actually looking forward to kissing Hairy Potter, until you realized that he is so coked up that he is imagining things. You follow him inside mostly because you are dying to hear about what else you might have done this evening. But he's pissed. And you end up getting scared because Hairy Potter actually believes all the ridiculous things that he's accusing you of. You want to talk about it, mostly because it's so super upsetting to you, but Hairy wants to go to bed. He tells you to just go to sleep and then he'll drive you to the airport tomorrow morning. You no longer have any interest in spending the night with an insane person who is accusing you of cheating on him even though you aren't dating. That's about the time when you realize that Hairy Potter left his Acura in the VooDoo parking lot so there's absolutely no way he'll be driving you to the airport. So you ask him for the phone number for a Taxi service as he's climbing into bed. He happily recites the number from memory and you call it right away.

You wait in the driveway until the taxi comes to take you to the airport (which doesn't even open until 5am). You pass out at the Delta Counter, waiting to check in and get the hell out of Florida so you can go back home to hang out with the Crackhead you're dating. At least you got a nice tan. Anyway...

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

...but you are terrified of being mistaken for shark chum along the east coast of Florida. Meanwhile it's been almost 48 hours since you've seen another gay boy. Or anyone under the age of 70 for that matter. The good news is that, just like Yahoo's share price after Microsoft's hostile bid yesterday, your gay stock has gone through the roof! However your sudden upgrade has more to do with your monopolistic lack of Chelsea Boy competition in the Retired Floridian marketplace than anything else. Especially since you are the only boy without Man Boobs within a fifty mile radius. Anyway...

You're Not the Type of Manhattan Fag Who Gets Antsy Crossing Bridges or Tunnels...

...but your parents live half the year in Florida and you do get a bit uneasy around blondes who are too lazy to push a chad out of an election ballot. However, it is February, and your face is as pasty as Woody Allen's ass, so you agree to visit for a long weekend.

Everyone on the plane is not only straight, but ancient, and that, my gay friend, is a bad combination. Although you got home late from your date with Blonde Beard and wanted to Blackout everything between JFK and West Palm, you unfortunately find yourself sitting amongst a gaggle of Retired Orthodontists from The Bronx who can't seem to stop yapping about George Washington's wooden teeth and various other prehistoric orthodontia fables.

When you land, you immediately find your aging parents waiting for you in a very choice and visible spot, most likely because they left to pick you up last Tuesday just so they wouldn't be late. They're a bit slower and grayer than you seem to remember, even though you just spent Christmas with them three minutes ago in Vermont, but Florida has a way of sapping the life force out of the best of us. You listen to the 'rents bicker about which lane not to be in and which car not to hit as they make their way home to the Island of Mis-tanned WASP's: Vero Beach. Luckily for you, your internet enabled cell phone actually has service so get to focus on your email instead of the toothless Good Ol' Boy in the F-150 who's giving your father the finger, most likely because dear old Dad drives a bit like Mister Magoo. After a few cocktails.

When you check your blog mail, you're thrilled to find an email from a young boy who's going to school in that Southwestern state where they refused to recognize Martin Luther King Day until 1992 (did the racist bastards really not want an extra day off work?), and this boy asks you, "I'm not really sure if I'm gay yet, when did you know?" Suddenly you are a seventeen year old High School Senior with parents that are much less gray, yet, unfortunately, no less (for lack of an actual word) bickerful. It's a Tuesday night in February and you are watching Bruce Willis flirt with Cybil Sheppard on Moonlighting. After your parents say goodnight, you get so horny watching Bruce Willis (shut up, he used to be cute) that your heart starts to heat your body as if it's being microwaved from the inside out. For the first time in your life you are experiencing horniness like never before. One hand, of course, is reaching down beneath the fag-tag of your Girbauds, while the other is primping your recently coiffed George Michael-esque haircut. Your new 'do immediately makes you think of the swishy Scottish Hairdresser who cut your hair. Your Best Friend's Father owns a Hair Salon (and he's not gay) and they recently imported the red-headed lad from the U.K. You, of course, recently happened to memorize the Scot's phone number when you accidentally shuffled through papers while visiting your Best Friend's house to play Nintendo and watch videos on the Betamax. And now, you suddenly find yourself dialing those memorized digits after, gasp, 10pm.

The Scot answers and is very confused. You try to explain who you are while he tries to convince you that he remembers you, although you're both pretty sure that he's lying. But you are so beyond horny that none of this really matters. You cut to the chase and lay your gay card down on the table, "I thought maybe we could get together..." And needless to say, the Scot is very surprised, "You mean like go to a movie sometime?" But, alas, your horniness keeps you extremely focused, "No, I was thinking more like tonight." Then there's this really uncomfortable awkwardness that is compounded when the Scot repeats, "Tonight?!" And you instantly back off because you are beginning to wonder if the Swishy Scottish Hairdresser could somehow possibly be straight? You start to backpedal as you hem and haw, "Uh, I'm sorry. Maybe I misunderstood the situation. I think I should probably hang up now." But that's when the Scot finally steps up to the plate and says defiantly, "No. Don't go," in a tone that lets you know for sure that you are about to lose your gay virginity.

The Scot gives you his address and, since it's late, you actually put your parents Honda Accord into neutral and push it down the entire length of the driveway before ever starting the ignition. You race your way over to the Scot's house and are a bit shocked to find out that the newly relocated Ex-Pat is living on a sofa bed in someone else's Den. Someone who works for your Best Friend's Dad. Someone you've actually met. But you are more shocked to learn that the Scot is twenty-seven, and suddenly you feel like you're about to embark on a New England Antiquing trip. Yet when the Scot asks how old you are you lie and say eighteen even though you've barely just turned seventeen. The Scot seems so old to you, but you don't care because: a) it's past 10 o'clock, b) you've already snuck out of the house, and c) you've stolen your parents' car. At this point there is nothing that is going to stop you from having sex with this old relic. Nothing, except for your own endless stream of consciousness.

Suddenly you can't shut up. It's diarrhea of the mouth and you are talking about anything and everything in that way that only a seventeen year old can. You talk the Scot's ear off with your nervous chatter for hours. At midnight the Scot finally cuts you off with a highly offensive yawn and informs you that he's going to bed. This shocking news is the only thing that silences you. You stand there with your jaw agape as The Scot pulls open his sofa bed and begins to undress. He pats the corner of the pancake-like mattress and gestures for you to sit down. You obey silently, and he slips off your down jacket which is surprising to you because you realize that you've been so nervous that you actually forgot to take it off. But this all becomes moot when the Scottish Hairdresser starts to kiss you. You feel the scruff from his 5 o'clock shadow scraping against your pre-pubescent peach fuzz and it makes you feel alive in a way that you've never felt before. Funnily enough, the only aspect of losing your gay virginity that you never imagined was kissing another man.

The next thing you know you are both naked, and since you've never been naked with anybody before, you don't really know what to do. After a minute or so of foreplay, you become so terrified that the Scottish Hairdresser will realize you're a virgin, that you wind up sticking your bare ass up in the air for him to fuck. Because isn't that what gay men do? Your face smashes into the rickety, flat mattress as the Scot takes no time to move in on his underage prey. When he pushes his old bagpipe inside of you, the noise that comes out of your de-virginized mouth is, needless to say, blood-curdling.

After the deed is done, you limp your way back to your parents' Honda and drive back home in the middle of the night. The only thing that you are absolutely sure about is this: if you could somehow get through that, then, the next time you are absolutely positive that you could definitely fuck some girl. Yet the only thing that absolutely positively came true after this anally painful experience was this: the next time you'd be the one doing the fucking, but definitely with some guy. Anyway...