You're not the type of fag who falls in love on an Internet Date…

...but you've been especially looking forward to your follow up date with Blonde Beard. You tend to think of Internet Meet n' Greets as sub-dates; they're usually so terrible and awkward that, even if you like the boy (which you never do), you don't really count them as first dates. But the two of you have been emailing back and forth since you met, and Blonde Beard definitely gives good email. He makes you laugh. Almost every time. And it's really hard to make you laugh. Actually, it's not that hard, but it's important to point out that nothing but nervous, uncomfortable, "I-want-to-kill-myself" kind of laughter has ever emanated from a stupid match.com date. (See fagnote #1, below.)

You've definitely been thinking about Blonde Beard. A lot. But that probably has more to do with the fact that you just spent a nice ski weekend in Vermont with lots of your irritating, lovey-dovey Couple Friends. They all got to share big beds while you and your right hand got to snuggle up in a twin bed. But you digress. Tonight's date is at a place called Rice. Of course you made Blonde Beard suggest the restaurant as a test, mostly because you find that boys choices tend to say a lot about who they are, and, more importantly, how they see you. As usual, your only request was Cheap and Cheerful.

Instead of daydreaming all day about your impending date with Blonde Beard, your day turns out to be extremely annoying since it is mostly spent holding on the phone for Yahoo! Tech Support (see fagnote #2, below). Somehow your narcissistic blog site had simply vanished from the Internet without a trace. Poof! After one hour and fifty minutes of hold music you scream at the poor straight guy who answers because you know that that Fags across America are in dire need to read all about your recent Hemorrhoid Procedure. You know this to be true because you received several nice emails and a concerned IM from gay boys who were worried about what the hell happened to 2ndPerson.net! (Props to QuickTechnoSilver!)

Anyway. You get a bit nervous before meeting Blonde Beard, but you shower with your expensive yummy smelling soap and take way too much time picking out a flattering outfit. Luckily the restaurant isn't too far from home so you arrive uncharacteristically early instead of your usual 5-10 minutes late (typically you conduct your life in the GST timezone: Gay Standard Time.) But somehow Blonde Beard is already there, waiting on a stoop, and when you look up at him your heart kind of skips a beat because you've forgotten how damn attractive he is. He smiles and you jump up on the stoop to meet his whiskered lips with a kiss (see fagnote #3, below), making it crystal clear that from this point on, handshakes have become obsolete.

The restaurant is super cute and delicious and extremely affordable, but none of that really matters because the two of you are so lost in your own boring conversation. All of the diners around you seem to fade away from consciousness, and at three separate vomit-inducing points during the date, you both completely forget what you're actually saying because you just sort of get lost in each other's lengthy stare. You know it's gross, but it was totally just like that! You did get lost in his eyes! And at exactly the same time that he got lost in yours! And it felt fucking fantastic! Like a well-timed mutual orgasm. Only visual. And, unfortunately, with your clothes on.

You definitely overstay your welcome at Rice, but neither of you seem to want the date to end. You even order an extra glass of wine after the check comes just to prolong the date. Even though you'd really prefer desert, this is, after all, a gay date and you don't want to come off like a "Feed Me, Seymour!" Fatty Fag (see fagnote #4, below). Eventually you split the bill and find yourself out on the cold street. Blonde Beard asks, "Are you up for doing something else?" to which you answer immediately, "I'm up for making out with you. But it's too cold outside." You both decide to take it slow, which is relatively easy since you are both saddled with homebody roommates. Eventually you decide to go to Urge since it's right around the corner.

You sit at the bar and order beers as your knees begin to touch. Slightly at first; then hard and deliberate. Soon after that the kissing begins and then there's no holding you back. You were a bit worried about how it would feel to kiss a beard, but you're pleasantly surprised at how soft and simultaneously masculine it feels. You definitely get lost in his kisses and don't care who's watching, even though you're typically against P.D.A.'s. Everything's nice and dandy until the damn Drag Queen show begins and everybody in the bar seems to be more interested in watching her show than listening to the two lustful bearded boys blah-blah-blah about what good kissers they are. So you grab Blonde Beard's hand and yank him toward the front of the bar where it's completely empty. That's where you guys let loose and really go at it. After some heavy hand-over-the-Diesel-Jeans action, you are as happy as Christopher Columbus with your recent discovery of Blonde Beard's substantial new land mass. (See fagnote #5, below)

After both of your lips are way too chapped to do anymore kissing, you walk him to the Second Avenue F train and, get this, you go down to wait with him even though you're within walking distance from home. Your cheap ass is completely shocked as you find yourself swiping your Metrocard just to wait on a subway platform with the simple ulterior motive of not wanting the date to end. You must really like this guy. Unfortunately your two dollar entrance fee isn't really worth the price of admission since the train comes almost instantly. You kiss Blonde Beard goodbye, but not before making plans to see each other again on Sunday. Only now that he's gone, Sunday seems sooooooo far away. Could you be falling for Blonde Beard? You almost want to smack some sense into yourself so you don't let your emotions play tricks on you. But then you realize that anything can happen between now and Sunday. And it usually does ;-) Anyway...

You're not one of those fags who likes Foreign Objects Shoved Up Your Ass...

...but a gay man's gotta do what a gay man's gotta do. And your ass has been feeling a bit strange lately. You keep ignoring it, because, after all, it's your ass and it's embarrassing. Meanwhile you keep hoping that it will go away like a zit or a back ache or a Trick with bad morning breath who wants to cuddle. But it doesn't go away. And a ticklish ass is not so funny. Especially when it's your ticklish ass.

After convincing yourself that you have Anal Warts or Prostate Cancer or some new, as of yet undiagnosed Gay Leprocy, you eventually call your doctor and make an appointment. Only you make the mistake of calling from work and the receptionist asks you, "What seems to be the problem?" You cup the phone to your mouth and look around to make sure nobody is listening as you whisper, "I have a ticklish butt." There's a long silence before the irriatated receptionist eventually responds, "Is this a prank call? Because I have HBO on Demand and I've seen this episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm already." (see fagnote #1, below.) You assure her that it's not a prank and explain that your ass is only ticklish, "But kind of itchy. Only from the inside." The receptionist is nonplussed but makes an appointment for you.

You writhe and wiggle in the waiting room chair until your non-gay doctor sees you at 12:30pm for your 11:00am appointment, with nary an acknowlegement or an apology for being so tardy. He's like one of those bartenders at G who treats you as if mixing your cocktail is some massive inconvenience to their busy day of watching their reflections in the mirror. Only this doctor isn't even remotely cute. Before you know it you're bare-assed, lying on your side and facing the wall while listening to the snaps of a latex glove (see fagnote #2, below) as Tardy Doctor gets ready to Top you . Tardy Doctor informs you that, "This may feel a bit uncomfortable but if you push like you're about to have a bowel movement it should make it easier." You chuckle to yourself but his lubricated finger disappears into your itchy ass before you get to say, "Poppers help, too." However, you don't feel like joking when he informs you that, "You have two internal hemorrhoids that are very inflamed (see fagnote #3, below.) I'm going to write you a prescription and send you to a specialist for treatment."

The Hemorrhoid Specialist sees you and schedules an appointment for an IRC treatment, which he describes in depth but, luckily, most of the details are lost in translation due to his thick Indian accent. However one thing comes through crystal clear: the nice, yet indecipherable Hemmorrhoid Specialist who suffers from vitiligo is definitely going to shove a laser up your ass to burn away the hemorrhoids. You make the appointment with the indecipherable Filipino Receptionist who has a habit of yelling instead of speaking, and she gives you a Fleet Enema as she informs the entire waiting room that "NO EATING AND MUST TAKE ENEMA BEFORE APPOINTMENT! MUST TAKE ENEMA!" (See fagnote #4, below.) Since you don't have your backpack you ask the Loud Receptionist if she has a bag so you don't have to walk through the streets of Chelsea holding a Fleet Enema in your bare hands, but she just shoos you away, "SORRY NO BAG FOR YOU!" and then, just in case you or anyone else in the waiting room has forgotten, she repeats, "MUST TAKE ENEMA BEFORE APPOINTMENT!"

When you wake up the next morning, you substitute your regular breakfast of two scrambled eggs with one Fleet Enema. You are especially entertained by the instructions on the box which include drawings of seemingly irritated cartoons who are shoving the enema up their toon asses. You think about all the Enema jokes you've ever heard as you lay on your side and shove the applicator tip up your anus and squeeze the saline water bottle until it all disappears up your butt, "That'd be up the butt, Bob." The whole process is completely painless and unmemorable until, suddenly, you have the sudden need to, as the instructions on the box describe, "discharge." So you race to your bathroom with the speed and agility of Cartman when he was suffering from explosive diarrhea. (See fagnote #5, below.) Only when you get there, you are horrified to discover your Hobosexual roommate is taking a shower behind a locked door. You immediately start banging on the door and yell, "I've got to get in there It's an emergency!" He takes his time drying off while you jump up and down and consider the logistics of shitting into an empty Pepsi bottle while you wait for him to emerge. When the door finally opens, the Hobosexual is pissed but you don't have time for chit chat so you basically slam the bathroom door in his face and scream, "I'll explain later," even though you have no intention of ever discussing this humiliating experience ever again.

Later, at the Hemorrhoid Specialist's office you are asked four times by four different people if you took your enema this morning, yet one of the four actually follows up the question with an inquiry as to whether you went to the bathroom afterwards. You briefly wonder about the lethal possibility of taking an enema without using the bathroom, but you just assure them, "Yes, I did everything I was told." Soon you're undressed and your ass is hanging out of a paper gown like a pair of cheap Chaps. The anesthesiologist informs you, "This may burn a bit," as he pushes the the Smack from his syringe into the I.V. in your wrist. You feel like a junkie as the liquid crawls through the veins in your arm and it's a bit disconcerting for a moment because...

...the next thing you know some random indecipherable accented girl is helping you pull your pants up. You babble to her about wanting to "dishcush" something with the doctor. But she tells you that he's already gone to lunch and promises that he'll call you later. You kind of feel like some cheap teenaged Cheerleader who's just lost her virginity to the Football team thanks to an unexpected Roofie (see fagnote #6, below) in her Wine Cooler. But it's all good because your ass already feels less itchy. Not to mention the fact that you've never dated a football player. Or a doctor. Anyway...