You're Not One of Those Fags Who Says Things He Doesn't Mean...

...but sometimes you definitely mean things that you don't actually say. Like when you go out for brunch with The Ex. You've known each other so long that you don't even need to say things. In fact you can have entire fights without even saying a word. On the other hand, you can still have moments where you wonder why you ever broke up. Anyway. He's finished production on the movie he's directing in Texas and has a week off before moving to LA to begin editing. Since his idea of rest entails nodding off in a Broadway theater, you two meet at Eatery for a nice brunch before his matinee begins. You, of course, are late without any valid excuse, but The Ex, for some unusual reason, doesn't give you a hard time. You get seated right away and order something light because you feel like a big fat pig. And the two of you begin to yap while you wait for you food.

You start talking to The Ex about his imminent trip to Los Angeles and somehow you get on the subject of flying with the Kitty Cunt. The Ex got the cat in the divorce, and that was fine because he should have. That Kitty Cunt meant more to him than you ever did, and besides, you hated cleaning the damn litter box. Anyway. The Ex tells you a story about when he was traveling to LA with the Kitty Cunt who was, surprisingly, on her best behavior. However, during their Limo ride to The Four Seasons (yes, The Ex is fancy in that way), the Kitty Cunt couldn't hold it in anymore, so she turned her Kitty Cunt toward The Ex, raised her tail up inside the traveling cage, and pee'd a stream of smelly cat piss onto The Ex's white button-down shirt! The Ex freaked out and immediately opened the limo's window and hung the traveling cage out the window over the 405 (as if he were Michael Jackson dangling Blanket over that Berlin Balcony), and let the Kitty Cunt spray her scent over the gridlock they call West LA.

The two of you laugh and laugh over this ridiculous scenario until you begin to cry. Only you're not crying in that good way that The Ex thinks you are. You're actually wondering why Blonde Beard has never make you laugh like this? You wonder why your conversations with Blonde Beard aren't as easy-breezy as talking with The Ex. After brunch you are screwed because you know you must spend the day shopping for a present for Blonde Beard's 40th birthday and you have no idea what to buy. Although you had planned to take him to Vermont for a romantic birthday weekend, Blonde Beard's school schedule has recently changed and that trip will have to be postponed for weeks. And now you must come up with some sort of offering before his birthday dinner this evening.

During the train ride downtown, you put your thinking cap on to figure out a nice, romantic present that won't break the bank. You are, after all, still taking him out for an expensive dinner tonight, not to mention taking him to Vermont in three weeks. But you know you need to show up to dinner with something thoughtful. Luckily on the subway you have a brainstorm and you decide to make a Photo Book that documents all of the dates that you've been on since you two met. So you race home and quickly charge your digital camera while consulting your Blah-Blah-Blog for all of the wonderful places you've been. You make a list of bars and restaurants and then race down the six flights of stairs with the week-old surgical scars from your Hurtful Hernia. And you begin to document your relationship. You start at Urge where you had your first kiss and then you make your way West to all the romantic places you two have ever been. As you are taking photos of Quartino Bottega Organica, someone rudely asks you what the hell you are doing and you look up to see an old friend giving you shit. You are a bit embarrassed, but you explain to your Project Runway wannabe friend that you are photographing date locations for a Birthday Gift. Project Wannabe instantly starts to gush and he is sooooooo happy for you that, man-wise, things have finally turned around for you. You chit-chat for a bit, but you have tons of places to document, so you double-kiss him goodbye and then limp your way from East to West Village, taking photos and business cards from all the super cute places that you've shared experiences with Blonde Beard.

Sometimes people eating at these restaurants look at you a bit funny, but you don't really care. Sometimes you have to wait for a long time for the restaurant manager to find you a business card from beneath the cash register, but it's all worth it because everybody gushes about how romantic your gift is, and they all go out of their way to help you, which only makes you more and more excited to give it to Blonde Beard. At Shag, you even have to chat with the Bartender (who you made out with once in the corner of the bar which the surveillance system doesn't survey) while you explain that you are making a scrapbook for Blonde Beard. And funnily enough, the card the Shag Bartender gives you includes his phone number, prominently written on the back. But you digress. You wind up photographing twenty-three places and by the time you finish you can barely walk. You've spent the entire day documenting your relationship with Blonde Beard, and you wind up racing back home to quickly shower before meeting him at Supper for his birthday dinner. Of course you don't have enough time to actually make the book on Shutterfly, but Blonde Beard's birthday is a day away and you feel confident that your tardy present will be well worth it.

You're only a few minutes late, but Blonde Beard is, of course, waiting for you outside of Supper. You are soooooo excited to see him, however when you arrive it is obvious that he's in a bad mood. He informs you that he is feeling sick (again) and he begins to complain about it. However, you have spent the last five hours schlepping around Manhattan reminiscing about your relationship, and you are on such a natural high that you aren't about to engage his complaints. You just ignore anything negative, even when he seems to be taking it out on you for simply suggesting that he might want to finally go see a doctor. Although you let it all go, you can't help but wonder if Blonde Beard is trying to pick a fight? Perhaps he's just anxious about his big birthday? Whatever it is, it doesn't matter because you are here to make everything better tonight.

Your table isn't ready so you head over to the bar and buy a pair of overpriced $12 margaritas. You're even more bummed when you have to tip $2 per lousy (ridiculously expensive) drink, but you are happy when the tequila seems to help Blonde Beard lighten up. Eventually the host seats you at a not-so-private table for two, and you order more drinks as you begin your not-so-romantic dinner, during which Blonde Beard answers a phone call from his Jealous Roommate. Blonde Beard is told that he shouldn't come home because his Jealous Roommate is installing a new kitchen faucet this evening. You, of course, laugh heartily at this information, because his Jealous Roommate is the same man who hates you for joking about the fact that he's never going to finish his endless renovation... Meanwhile, you're thrilled because the faucet situation insures that Blonde Beard will be spending the night at your place (for the first time), which means you won't have to deal with the Jealous Renovating Roommate. During dinner you attempt (at least three times) to caress Blonde Beard's knee with your hand, but unlike previous dates, his hand never meets yours beneath the table. Perhaps his affectionate-less distance has something to do with him feeling sick? Anyway.

Somehow dinner, plus tip, turns out to be $130 (not counting the $28 margaritas you bought at the bar), and it wasn't even that good. But Blonde Beard seems to have drunken himself beyond his bad mood so it was worth it. When you walk outside you somehow remember that you have brought your camera and you attempt to coax Blonde Beard into allowing a stranger to take a photograph. You, of course, want this photo to be the very last photo in your Photo Album of Dates, but Blonde Beard whines about being sick and not looking good and you just let it go because, after all, it is his birthday even though you imagined the last page in the photo book to include a picture of the two of you.

For some reason Blonde Beard wants to go to Hell's Kitchen and you agree (even though you know your Internet Crush is less than three blocks away at Eastern Bloc), and you wind up going to The Ritz. You start a tab there and drink lots of poorly poured beers by the cute but lousy bartender from Syracuse who slept with your BFF. Would it actually kill him to fill the damn glass? Eventually you are able to coax your shy Blonde Beard onto the dance floor, and even though you are suffering from post surgical swollen testicles, you somehow find the energy to dance. Blonde Beard just stands there. Watching. Disapprovingly. Even though coming to The Ritz was his choice. He keeps looking around at other people, but not in that skeevy way where he's checking them out because he wants to chat them up. Somehow it seems like he's just not that interested in chatting you up. Like his Attention Deficit Disorder is pulling him away from you. Even though it doesn't seem personal, it still doesn't feel good. Eventually the dance floor is packed and Blonde Beard starts making fun of the music (even though it's really rather good, which is easily illustrated by all the cute young boys grinding around you). Since you're feeling a bit unsure of the increasingly awkward situation, you decide that flirting is the best policy and inform your hairy faced man that your friend Bunny recently told you that once Blonde Beard saw you dance that he would fall head over heels in love with you. However, when Blonde Beard doesn't even react to either your dance moves nor Bunny's ridiculous claim, you definitely don't feel like dancing anymore.

So you go to Barrage for their Hour of Power and you position yourselves at the far end of the bar where nobody seems to be bothering you. Somehow you finally begin to talk. For real. And even though you've had way too much to drink, you are somehow still emotionally parched for something that has seemed elusive all night long. Honestly, you're not even sure how the conversation begins (although you definitely bring it up), and you (not so suddenly) find yourself on such uneven footing that you can't help but begin to ask probing questions. You don't even remember what you ask exactly. But it doesn't really matter. Nothing he says is reassuring. You begin to panic. How did you go from birthday cocktails to this fucking conversation? Although everything Blonde Beard says is bad, the only thing you actually remember him saying is the only thing actually worth remembering, "Between work and school and you, I feel like I'm spreading myself too thin..." And that's it. When you hear that you know it's over. People don't say things like that when they really like someone. People say things like that when they want to break up. Or when they want you to break up with them. The ironic thing is that you didn't even feel like Blonde Beard was neglecting you! Lately, of course, things have been odd, but he's always offered you all of his free time! Which he has next to none of! That's not such a thin spread! But these are things that aren't worth arguing about. You have no interest in someone who spreads himself too thinly for you. You know you deserve more than that. And Blonde Beard knows that, too. And that's exactly why he's saying what he's saying. You, of course, pay the tab and tell him you want to go home.

On your way back to the subway Blonde Beard informs you that he thinks he should go home alone (even though there is no running water) instead of spending the night with you; that he will call you tomorrow. None of this surprises you any longer. The C train comes and you both hop on and sit in absolute silence from 42nd Street to West 4th. You both get off there, since you need to transfer to the F and Blonde Beard needs to race home to his faucet-less apartment. So you find yourselves standing on the A-C-E platform at West 4th and you are unable to move. You know that there is nothing more to say, of course, but you can't seem to break away. You physically cannot leave him. You feel terrible because you're worried that you have both ruined his birthday and are now breaking up. You just stand there, silently, waiting for something to end the awkwardness, when the A train pulls up. It seems like Blonde Beard is trying to get rid of you when he asks if you can take that train home since it's on a fucked up Weekend Schedule. You can't, but the fact that he wants you to hop on the train makes you feel unwanted and really sad. You tell him, "It is really, really hard to walk away from you right now." And then you look deep into Blonde Beard's blue eyes as your brown ones begin to well up with tears, so you instantly avert your gaze and lean in toward him so you can whisper into his ear, "Because I love you." And you mean it.

Then you walk away. You don't look back as you head down the stairwell to the F train because you are scared to. That's when you really begin to ball because you know it will be the last time you will ever see Blonde Beard. All you want is for him to run after you and grab you into a hug and make everything better. But somehow you make it to the downstairs platform and walk the entire length to the front of the train, passing by drunks who stare at you and your girly tears,without hide nor hair of Blonde Beard. You sit down and cry for an eternity before the F train arrives. And even though he said he would, you know in your heart that Blonde Beard won't call the next day. That he was just saying something he didn't really mean because he felt uncomfortable. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Carb-Free Fags Who Won't Eat Bread...

...but after your laparoscopic surgery to repair your Hurtful Hernia, you are absolutely shocked at the havoc it has caused on your abs. Hell, during the brief period you were lying on the operating table you somehow went from Gay Fat to Circus Fat (apparently skipping Straight Fat altogether). What the hell did Dr. Mary-Ann-Not-Ginger do while she was mucking around inside the crevices of your belly button? Did she accidentally misplace her Pocketbook in your abdomen? Regardless, you can absolutely forget about ever wearing your Skinny Jeans again since your Fat Jeans are actually, get this, too fucking tight! Not to mention the fact that you haven't eaten in days! Meanwhile, it's not only your belly that's expanded into Straight Fat territory; but sometimes bigger is better. The Silver Lining of this whole humiliating experience turns out to be that your balls have actually doubled in size. And honey, they weren't that small to begin with. However, between your Second Trimester-Sized Belly and the Square Patch of hair that was mysteriously shaved away from your Treasure Trail, it really ain't so pretty down there anymore. But you desperately want to look pretty tonight because you have a date with Blonde Beard at a restaurant in your neighborhood with the unfortunate name of, get this, Bread.

You limp down the six flights of your Home-Sweet-Hovel a bit early so you can go swing by The Bowery Ballroom to buy tickets for the Calvin Harris show, and then you slowly hobble your way over to Bread on Spring Street. You'd really like to pick up the pace in order to burn some extra calories, but, thanks to your gargantuan balls, it's a bit hard to move at a reasonable pace on a Manhattan sidewalk. Somehow you actually get to the restaurant on time even though Old Ladies with Walkers are actually lapping you. Ever prompt, Blonde Beard is there waiting for you outside of the restaurant and he hands you a cute little Get Well present which instantly warms your heart, until you realize that it is actually a Get Fat present full of *gasp* cookies. You attempt to smile and thank him for his thoughtlessness (oops, you meant to say thoughtfulness), but it's difficult for any actual expressions to squeeze past the fleshy folds of skin that used to resemble your face. You are really happy to finally see your boy for the first time in three days since your belly-button went under the laparoscopic robotic knife. You were kind of wishing that he'd swing by on his lunch hour, or pop in after his night class, just to say hi. Perhaps to check up on you. But you realize he's been super busy.

You end up ordering a Green Salad Appetizer and a Salmon with Root Vegetables Entrée even though you really should be ordering Liposuction with a Side of Anorexia-Nervosa. Since you're still not feeling quite like your normal self, you decide to order a glass of red wine, because, let's face it, your normal self is rarely this sober! The wine hits the spot and the salmon is nice until Blonde Beard offers you a ravioli from his plate. After the carb-tastic pasta goodness, your salmon simply sucks ass. And not in that OMG, rimming kind of way. But the conversation is nice. Nothing earth shattering, just a Post-Op Catch-Up. You talk a lot about Blonde Beard's upcoming Grad School projects which you try to seem interested in, even though you're feeling a bit uncomfortable and crabby. You're slightly surprised that Blonde Beard doesn't ask you much about the operation, nor about your recovery, but, between his surgical squeamishness and the fact that you've chatted on the phone the last two evenings, you wind up letting it go.

After three glasses of wine you are feeling so much better that cheap old you actually picks up the check! However, when you stand up and gravity pulls your expansive belly downward, you instantly feel extremely full. You assume that since everything is so swollen down there, that there's not much room left over for a tiny little salmon to swim downstream in your previously-herniated digestive system. Anyway. When you hit the street, Blonde Beard wants to wander around SoHo and look for a new Spring Jacket since it's still relatively early. Even though you're feeling much too Circus Fat to be shopping for anything that doesn't involve orthopedic flip-flops, for some reason you agree to tag along as long as Blonde Beard doesn't mind walking at your snail's pace. You hit Bloomingdale's, H&M and Uniqlo, but after those three pit-stops you find yourself as winded as a One-Lunged John Goodman on a Stairmaster. After that, Blonde Beard walks you home.

As you unlock the vestibule door to your Home-Sweet-Hovel, Blonde Beard makes a lame crack about not believing that your apartment actually existed. "What are you talking about?" you ask, and he explains that you've never invited him over before. You're annoyed because you have definitely invited him over several times. In fact, you've thought it was rather odd that the boy you've been seeing over the past (almost) three months has shown zero interest in seeing the poverty stricken conditions that you live under. You just assumed that Blonde Beard preferred hanging out in his neighborhood and sleeping in his own uncomfortable bed, but now that his Jealous Roommate has banished you from ever visiting their apartment again, he's decided to slum it over at your place. Although you actually find his wise crack to be a big deal, you decide to not make a big deal about it and instead concentrate on your endless ascension up the six flights of stairs.

You introduce Blonde Beard to your Hobosexual Roommate and they both grunt an unintelligible greeting to each other, which seems kind of strange to you. Even though Blonde Beard's Jealous Roommate hates your guts (which was inevitable since he's obviously in love with Blonde Beard), you definitely went out of your way to be polite and friendly to him since, after all, you were a guest in his overly renovated home. Obviously Blonde Beard doesn't seem to care to give The Hobosexual the same kind of investment. Anyway. Eventually you excuse yourself into your bedroom and ease yourself into the least painful Post-Op position where you can still enjoy making out with your hairy-faced boy. As usual you get lost in his eyes, and then, yadda-yadda-yadda, you are amazed at how far your spunk can shoot even though you feel like you've practically been neutered. Thank God for Laparoscopic Silver Linings!

And that's when Blonde Beard gets out of bed and starts getting dressed. Although sleeping is still extremely difficult, and you were wondering about how exactly you were going to share a bed with him, you are kind of shocked when spending the night together isn't even going to be an uncomfortable option. "It's after midnight," you inform him. "Are you really going home now?" Blonde Beard explains that he has tons of work to do on a school project which is due next week, and he wants to be done before his Birthday on Sunday so he can actually have a few cocktails and enjoy his big day. All of this is, of course, true, but you begin to wonder where his head is really. All along you've felt like you were on the same page, but something seems to have shifted recently. Perhaps it was the ridiculous fight you had with his Jealous Roommate? Or maybe he's just disgusted by the way you look in your Circus Fat Jeans? But he's got to realize that all of that is just temporary, right? But as his hairy face pops up through his V-Neck sweater, you begin to wonder about what isn't temporary? Suddenly almost everything seems to feel a bit ephemeral. Is it possible to be in a successful relationship with someone who is so fundamentally different than you? Are you getting too old to compromise? Or even worse, is Blonde Beard? You walk him to the front door and kiss him goodbye before you instinctively dive head first into the bag of carbolicious Get Well cookies that Blonde Beard gave you earlier. Except, after eating absolutely all of them, you don't feel any better. At all. Anyway...

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

...but lately you have been living in complete fear of being "outed" for writing your Blah-Blah-Blog. In fact, last night at your Gal Pal's Pot Luck was the closest call you've had yet. Since your Gal Pal had generously offered to collect what's left of you after your Hurtful Hernia surgery, you decided to return the favor so you offered to come early and help her set up before her Pot Luck. The fact that your Gal Pal would actually accept your disingenuous offer never actually crossed your mind, but you made the best of it and dragged Blonde Beard along with you. Since you were the first two boys there, you made yourself useful by gaying up the place, keeping her Four Legged Vacuum away from the food, and answering the door when an irritatingly early guest buzzed. There were only a handful of your Literary Lot of friends at the party when the your friend Shaggy arrived. As usual, his Mystery Machine was hidden deep within his baggy pants (rumor has it that the Mystery Machine is so big that Shaggy needs to order his latex Scooby Snacks online). Meanwhile, a big smile took over your face when you saw your allegedly endowed friend through the glass door. Although it took you a while to let him in, somehow you unlocked it one handed without spilling a drop of wine. God forbid you should put down the glass! Only when you open the door the first thing Shaggy says is (actually it's more of an ear piercing shriek), "So I finally read your blog!"

Your face turns ghostly white (as if you're a Guest Ghost Star on Scooby Doo) and your index finger raises to cross your lips violently in order to immediately silence this Meddling Kid! Then you whisper indignantly using the Royal "we" as if you are Queen Fucking Elizabeth, "We don't talk about that in public." And then you fearfully turn back toward the party, wondering nervously whether Blonde Beard overheard or not. Meanwhile, although you may once have off-handedly mentioned that you write a secret Blah-Blah-Blog to Shaggy, you definitely never mentioned it's Na-Na-Name. Somehow the damn thing has gotten on the radar and your friends are starting to talk about it. Even your straight friends. What's up with that? Why the hell is Straight Shaggy reading your Gay Blah-Blah-Blog? Do Breeders really lead such boring lives that they need to live vicariously through your gay shenanigans? Ugh. Although you have been very careful about who you've divulged your secret URL to, your friends have obviously been less discerning. It's like that fucking Faberge Shampoo commercial, "If you tell two friends about 2nd Person with wheat germ oil and honey, they'll tell two friends. And so on... And so on... And so on..." You, of course, always preferred Body On Tap shampoo which was, for some unknown reason, made with real beer, "But don't drink it!"

Meanwhile, the only good part about Blonde Beard's hasty, 9:30pm retreat is that you don't have to worry about one drunken Lit Lot writer spilling the beans about your secret Blah-Blah-Blog. However, after Blonde Beard is gone you are so miserable that even this silver lining doesn't make you feel any better. Neither does the text he sends you soon after he gets home, "Sorry things are so weird right now. Thanks for taking me to your Gal Pal's. Have fun the rest of the night." The message leaves you uneasy. Why are things so weird right now? You decide not to respond, mostly because you have no idea how to respond. But ten minutes later you receive another guilt-ridden text, "PS-You looked very cute tonight," which you also choose not to respond to, mostly because you are depressed. Who knew that it was actually possible for you to make a wise decision under the influence of an entire gaggle of Grey Geese?

The next morning you wake up and feel awful. And for once this is not (solely) due to your hangover. You tossed and turned sleeplessly all night while analyzing Blonde Beard's hasty departure. All you can really come up with is that he is just the most shy person you have ever encountered. Actually, he reminds you of your lame Oh Brother, who is completely socially retarded and only communicates with monosyllabic grunts, yet somehow received his Doctorate from Harvard. Could your intense attraction to Blonde Beard somehow be tied to some bizarre need to work out your troubled relationship with your Oh Brother? And more importantly, is it even possible for someone as socially (look at you-you-you!) extroverted as you to be in a relationship with someone who can't seem to handle the harried social pressure of a Brooklyn Pot-Luck? Meanwhile, you decide that it's time to answer Blonde Beard's text, but you let your fingers do the talking since you're still wrapped up tightly in your warm winter comforter and don't feel like talking. You tap out the message, "I'm confused and don't understand why things are weird. I was really sad last night after you left. Still sad now, actually. Or maybe just hungover." Even though you're not (really) hungover, you add that last part mostly to lighten up the mood of your depressing text so you don't seem like such a clingy sad-sack. Blonde Beard responds immediately: "Sorry you are feeling bad, whatever the source. Sounds like you had some fun if you're hungover." Whatever the source? Is he kidding? Does he really not realize that he's the fucking source? Not to mention the fact that the only reason you over-indulged last night was because you were so fucking depressed that the boy you are falling in love with couldn't stick around the party long enough to meet a few of your friends?

You don't respond to the last text because you really don't have anything to say. Well, nothing that's not snarky. Anyway. You mope around all morning feeling sorry for yourself until your friends begin to badger you about coming to a mutual friend's brunch that you decided to blow off for your extremely unsatisfying pity party. Eventually you concede to the barrage of texts and voicemails and you drag yourself out of bed and head over to the Brunch which happens to be pretty much the same guest list from the Pot Luck. The Lit Lot seems to berate you with questions about why you look so Mopey Fish Face, so you re-hash the story about your Socially Inept Non-Boyfriend over and over while plying yourself with some Hair-of-the-Dog Mimosas. Each time you repeat the story you find yourself saying that you are not willing to have a relationship where you must walk on eggshells everytime you are in a social situation with Blonde Beard, nor are you willing to give up your friendships for a reclusive relationship. And everytime you finish the sad story you always come to the dramatic conclusion, "I think we're just too different to be in a relationship."

However during your fifth re-telling or perhaps your fifth mimosa, Blonde Beard actually calls your cell. You excuse yourself to the Apartment's cinder-block Stairwell as you echo your concerns to your hairy-lipped boy about the so-called "weirdness" in your "relationship." Only you quickly realize that the two of you are not on the same page about what is actually "weird." Blonde Beard explains that he has been on edge lately because he has been worried that his Jealous Roommate was going to kick him out of their apartment. Apparently the psychopath was so up-in-arms about your recent innocuous "renovation" comment that the Jealous Roommate has not only banned you from visiting, but he has also gotten Blonde Beard worried that he will have to choose between his Rent Controlled Apartment and his new Non-Boyfriend. This scenario obviously never crossed your mind, mostly because it is insane, but it does help make sense of why Blonde Beard has seemed so distant lately. So you decide to meet and grab some Thai food at Sea so you can talk in person.

Only your meal in constantly interrupted by all the members of the Boy Luck Club. Nonstop. Apparently your friend, Fat Albert (whose photographs always seem to add 150 pounds to his skeletal frame as if he's some anorexic vampire) has some bizarre need for you to get your ass over to his apartment, right now. Probably so you can watch him not eat the Chinese food that he has apparently just ordered. And then, as if free food wasn't enough of a lure, Fat Albert informs you that he has a present that he wants to give you before he leaves for Europe tomorrow. You are completely torn because you'd love to go over for food and presents, but you really don't want to have another repeat of last night where Blonde Beard goes all Ted Kaczynski and runs away to live off the grid where he can send preemptive Unabomber packages to anybody who dares to invite you to a party.

But the texts are relentless, so eventually you timidly ask Blonde Beard if he'd mind stopping by Fat Albert's apartment for a little while since it's only a few blocks away. Blonde Beard agrees and you get more and more anxious with each footstep that brings you closer to your impending doom. When the doorman announces your arrival to Fat Albert, you hear your photographically challenged friend shout over the intercom, "Send him away!" Although the Doorman knows to ignore Fat Albert's fictitious orders, Blonde Beard takes them at face value and looks around nervously, almost backing out to the street before you can coax him into the elevator. However, to your elation, when you arrive to the Lions' Den Blonde Beard is given a very warm welcome. The Boy Luck Club is definitely on their best behavior and not only are they extremely nice and inviting, but they definitely include Blonde Beard in the various conversations that are typically "Boy Luck Club Only" topics. Although you almost cringe every time a question is directed toward Blonde Beard, you quickly realize that he seems to be holding his own. Quite impressively, actually. Not only does he get the jokes, but he actually tries to crack a few of his own. You begin to wonder why he's so much more comfortable and confident amongst your tighter, bitchier group of friends? Until you realize that this time he's surrounded by a group of four compared to last night's group of forty.

Eventually you are lulled into a false sense of security after receiving an extremely generous pre-birthday gift of a free Frequent Flyer ticket to L.A. (for an upcoming Atlantis Cruise that you can't afford), the Boy Luck Club starts to tease you by discussing very specific details that you only write about in your Blah-Blah-Blog. They use terms that you'd only ever used online, for instance, your face turns bright red when the Rice Queen asks with a wink, "How are the Hobosexual's Bedbugs?" This is quickly followed up with knowing laughter and further interrogation from Half-Share, "Meanwhile when are you moving out of your Home-Sweet-Hovel?" Of course all of this flies right over Blonde Beard's head, but you are left feeling more than a bit uneasy. In fact, this time it is you that flees the impromptu party uncomfortably early. You grab Blonde Beard and inform the Boy Luck Club that you must get going because you have to wake up unreasonably early for your hernia surgery in the morning. As you walk down Fourth Avenue you begin to wonder how much longer you will be able to keep up the closeted blog charade? The one thing you have become certain of, however, is that when Blonde Beard does find out about your Blah-Blah-Blog, that this intensely shy and private boy will probably never be able to forgive you for the hole that you have unknowingly dug yourself into. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Extreme Makeover Home Improvement Fags...

...although your body could certainly use a few nips and tucks from Ty Pennington. Not to mention a good screw. However, you are a bit shocked when the wholesome, practically pigtailed Surgeon that your Primary Physician recommended turns out to be named Mary-Ann. Couldn't you at least be discussing your crotch related issues with a Ginger? Anyway. You find yourself standing in her office answering questions about your Hurtful Hernia when Mary-Ann-Not-Ginger reaches down into your cutest, tightest pair of Diesel underwear (which incidentally you got on sale for 50% off), and becomes the first woman *ever* to touch your Junk (which, of course, instantly shrivels into insignificant nothingness). After Mary-Ann-Not-Ginger asks you to cough, she says, "Oh my! You definitely have a hernia!" and then she retrieves her hand from your Never-Netherlands and removes her glove with a snap while you are totally freaking out about going to Third Base with a Girl. However, the fact that you she was wearing latex gives you some sort of safe-sex comfort.

Mary-Ann-Not-Ginger schedules you for Laparoscopic Surgery next week and explains all about how she's going to take your Straight Virginity by entering you through your belly button, yadda-yadda-yadda. She keeps yapping but somehow you're too busy shuddering from her girl cooties to pay much attention. For some reason Mary-Ann-Not-Ginger laughs when you ask her about killing two birds with one stone and giving you a Tummy Tuck while she's fumbling around down there, even though you are definitely not joking. You are well beyond Gay Fat at this point and Swimsuit Season is right around the corner! Meanwhile, since you've gotten this damn hernia, you haven't been able to go to the gym (which, ironically, is where you got the damn hernia in the first place).

You are completely shell-shocked after your doctor's appointment so you get on the Bat iPhone to call an Emergency Meeting with the Boy Luck Club. You definitely need a Gay Cocktail to help you black out those skinny manicured girl fingers going down on your Junk but, unfortunately, G is already packed and, thanks to your Hurtful Hernia, you can't stand for more than two minutes at a time. Luckily the Boy Luck Club accommodates you and you all end up sitting on the banquette in the back corner which is, unfortunately, located directly next to the doorless bathroom. Your waiter quickly fills your shaky, detoxing hands with a few Stoli O' and Sodas, and the next thing you know you have agreed to go on an Atlantis Cruise to Mexico next October, which, of course, you can't afford. But, after all, isn't that why they invented Credit Cards? However, somehow G Lounge hasn't yet heard of this new-fangled invention they call Visa, so when your wallet runs out of Williams (which apparently some people refer to as Bills, but only by those who are much more familiar with them than you are), you decide that it's time to stumble home.

Only when you hit the street you realize that you have a text from Blonde Beard who is apparently skipping his class because he isn't feeling well. Somehow your index finger texts back something sickening like, "Do you need some healing kisses?" without somehow jamming itself down your throat in order to make you gag. Have you really become that sappy guy? Hopefully it's just the liquor talking... Meanwhile, Blonde Beard writes you right back and tells you that he's just ordered way too much Chinese so you should to come over to his place. You stumble your way toward the West Village and Blonde Beard buzzes you up to his place which he has all to himself because his Jealous Roommate is apparently out for the evening. After a simple peck on his hairy lips, Blonde Beard says, "Someone had a cocktail," to which you immediately lie, "Only one..." but you smirk so he knows you're lying. Then you immediately make a bathroom run and attempt to push your bulging intestines back into your body with your free hand while you pee. You cringe when you hear Blonde Beard's Jealous Roommate come back home while you're busy spiking the New York City Sewage System with your Vodka infused waste, but you put on your big fake happy smile when you and your over-worked liver come out to join the sober people.

Now, at this particular point in the story, it is important to point out that this little two bedroom, rent-controlled apartment has been completely renovated by the Jealous Roommate. Several times over. Although there are certain original details that have been left in place (like the Clawfoot Tub and the Black & White Hex Tiled Floor), practically everything else has been replaced or re-engineered to the point where the place feels more like an Ikea Showroom than some Slum Lord's neglected Cash Cow. Not an inch of space is wasted and the thought that has gone into this Pre-War Walk-Up is mind boggling. It definitely feels like the After version of an episode of Queer Eye. The Jealous Roommate is like Martha on Meth, and every time you come over for a visit you always notice something that has been rearranged or redecorated or renovated in some extremely practical, yet (usually) tasteful way. Several times during your over-nighters you have lulled yourself to sleep over the hum of Power Tools which never seem to get a rest. Capiche?

Now where were we? Oh yes. So you press your small intestines back into the bulging hole emanating from your groin and rejoin the sober people. You sit down and try to follow the conversation while munching on some Chicken Chow Fun. But you all look around in surprise when the most awful screech comes through the recently re-plastered walls which sounds vaguely like a number from A Chorus Line, even though the talent behind the wall sounds much more more like he should stick to his day job of hanging wet garments on A Clothes Line. This is when you open your big mouth and tell the boys that if they want to put a stop to their Karaogay Singing Neighbor, then they should just go bang on his door. That's when the Jealous Roommate informs you, "We can't do that! At least not until I'm finished renovating the apartment. Because if he starts a war and tells the landlord that I've been doing work in a rental apartment then I'm the one who will get kicked out."

This makes you laugh. Not because it's particularly funny, but the idea of the Jealous Roommate ever being satisfied with These New Cabinets or with Those New Towel Racks to the point where he puts down his Power Tools seems highly unlikely. So you laugh. Out loud. Perhaps some would even describe it as a guffaw. And that's when your drunken lips end up slurring, "Oh come on! That'll never happen because you'll be renovating this place forever!" And then, as if on cue, the Karao-gay singing comes to a grinding halt and the crickets begin to chirp. It is dead silent long enough for Barbra Streisand to make a complete costume change which includes a Mani-Pedi and a facial. And then the Jealous Roommate gives you the Evil Eye while he gathers together his Take-Out and says, "Excuse me, I'm going to go into my room now because I really can't take you anymore tonight..."

You are shocked and dumbfounded. Although you know you were being a bit snarky it's not like you said something like, "I know you're really in love with your roommate but he's too busy having phenomenal sex with me to give a shit about you and your new cabinets." The Jealous Roommate gets up and stomps into his bedroom like a big Nelly Olsen having a tantrum over being nothing but a recurring character in Blonde Beard's life when all he really wants is to be re-cast as Laura Ingalls so he can have Almonzo all to himself. But you digress. Even though this was not your intention, you have obviously touched upon something deeper than the Grand Canyon and since you're not The Brady Bunch you don't have the time to make your way all the way down to the Colorado River traveling on the back of a stubborn Mule. So you actually find yourself trying to Stop The Insanity by, get this, apologizing. However, instead of forgiveness, your kind words are actually met with a slamming door by a man who's acting like he's pushing fifteen instead of fifty.

You stand there in absolute shock. You haven't been treated so inappropriately since you were in Junior High School. And that was obviously a long time ago since they abandoned the term "Junior High" sometime during the first Evil George Bush's Presidency and began to call it Middle School. Your jaw is still ajar when Blonde Beard begins to explain that you just touched upon all of his Jealous Roommate's Emotional Tissues. Apparently the idea of living above the Olsen's Mercantile in a Two Bedroom Rent Controlled Apartment on one of the best blocks in the West Village is somehow irksome to Nelly Oldsen since she obviously feels like she deserves better than everybody else in living in Walnut Grove.

At first you think the whole situation is just plain silly, but after it actually sinks in you realize how awful it really was. You haven't been treated this insanely badly by anybody since long before you had pubic hair and it really begins to shake you up. So you and Blonde Beard retire into his bedroom to lie down. You keep waiting for your Non-Boyfriend to comfort you in some way. To touch you in a reassuring way while he informs you that his Jealous Roommate is insane. But he doesn't. He just lies there and isn't helpful in any way shape or form. You really don't know what to do, but the one thing that you are pretty confident about is, even though the last thing you want to do is spend the night, that you should not leave. Leaving the apartment now will somehow justify that this crazy person has a valid reason to be mad. And leaving would also somehow enable the Jealous Roommate's ridiculously childish behavior and allow it to blossom into an even bigger drama. So you stay. And you don't have sex. And you don't talk about it. And you do have trouble falling to sleep. And Blonde Beard barely touches you the entire night. Anyway...

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

...although you have been known to cry during Massengil commercials, but that probably has more to do with your general fear of female genitalia than anything else. Anyway. You are so happy to be back in New York even though you actually just landed in New Jersey. After seventeen days of $5 Coke Lights, the first thing you do when you land at Newark Airport is buy yourself a delectable Diet Pepsi and your savor it during your train ride to Penn Station courtesy of New Jersey Transit. Once you reach the station, you and your BFF can't say goodbye fast enough. After seventeen nights of sharing a room with twin beds, both of you seem to be in a huge hurry to go home and masturbate in the privacy of your own bedrooms.

However, by the time you lug your giant suitcase, backpack, skis and ski boots up the six flights of stairs to your Home Sweet Hovel, you realize that there isn't enough time for you and your right hand to get reacquainted with each other since you have a Fresh Direct grocery delivery on it's way. The only cash you have on you is in Euros, and even though your tip would be much more generous in the foreign currency, you decide the Delivery Man would probably prefer US Dollars. However, when you throw your luggage down in the living room you are instantly struck by the horrible state of things in your Apartment. Filthy doesn't even begin to describe it. It basically looks like your Hobosexual Roommate decided to sublet your half of the apartment to a Homeless Crackhead who threw Rave Parties in your Home Sweet Hovel every night. But you don't have time to do your White Glove Treatment right now, so your feet attempt to make their escape toward the front door, only they're sticking to what feels like the floor of a Movie Theater. More like a Porno Theater. But just as you unlock the door you notice a card on the top of your unread mail pile. And you never get cards, unless of course it's your birthday, which, thank God, it is not.

Upon further inspection you realize that the card is from Blonde Beard. Needless to say, you are more than intrigued. And there's even a little hand-written note on the envelope which helps draw your attention to the Super Special Star Wars X-Wing Fighter Stamp that he chose for you. You quickly open up the Amy Ruppel card which has an animated Owl on the front, and when you flip it open, Blonde Beard has written in all caps, "WHOOO MISSED YOU? I DID DUMB-ASS. HOW CAN YOU EVEN ASK A QUESTION LIKE THAT? WELCOME HOME!" which instantly warms your dumb-ass, overly-sentimental heart. Of course you call him on your way to the ATM so you can gush about his thoughtfulness and firm up your plans for the evening (which you've had since before you left for Europe).

You end up meeting Blonde Beard at his place in the West Village and when you knock on his door it mysteriously opens even though nobody is there. You walk in and hear someone washing dishes behind the open door and are about to jump into a kiss until his Jealous Roommate with Dishpan Hands grunts an unwelcoming "Hello" to you. But then from behind you hear, "Hey," and you turn to see your smiling Blonde Beard, standing there and looking sexier than you remember. You greet him with a subdued kiss since the Jealous Roommate is busy ogling, but even that is probably crossing a line. Both of you want to escape his roommate's judgmental eye, so you decide to go out for drinks at Shag before grabbing an early dinner.

Yet when you get to Shag and walk up to the bar you quickly realize that, gulp, you made out with the Bartender last summer and you feel super awkward even though you didn't do anything wrong. Well, you did stay after Shaggy closed the bar and then hid in the back corner by the tiny bathroom so you could make-out without being caught in a compromising position by the nosey lens of Shag's security camera. However, in hindsight, that particular position seems much less compromising than the one you find yourself in now, so you quickly excuse yourself to let Blonde Beard order while you escape under the guise to secure a table in the empty bar. You go as far away from both the bartender and the security camera as you can possibly get without seeming too suspicious or guilty.

Next you share a romantic Stella Artois while telling Blonde Beard all about your Misadventures in the (011) as you knock knees and take lingering glances of the boy you imagined yourself cuddling with in each and every country you visited. However, when you eventually finish your beers, unfortunately it's your turn to get the next round. The Bartender you kissed is smirking at you from behind his bar (or perhaps that's just your perception of the embarrassing situation). You return the empties to him and order another round as you attempt to diffuse the situation with a friendly "Hey!" You start asking Shaggy about the touring production he was in last summer, only he tells you that you must have gotten him mixed up with another bartender at Shag? Could this be possible? How many bartenders did you actually make out with in the Security Camera-less corner anyway? When his friends at the bar start snickering at your Swiss-cheese of a memory, you decide to finish up your beer and hightail it out of Shag.

Afterwards you head down the block for a quick bite at Miracle Grill before your Jet Lag kicks in and your fall asleep in your Tortilla Soup. Unfortunately the waitress likes you boys much too much and she ends up giving you free Margaritas, and, of course, you run into a slew of boys that you almost did a Fire Island Share House with until you realized their hobbies included copious amounts of Cocaine with a splash of Fisting, both of which would have seriously infringed upon your peaceful Blackouts. Anyway.

Between the Jet Lag and the free Margaritas you are definitely a bit buzzed, so you race back to Blonde Beard's place to get reacquainted with each and every one of his hair follicles. You quickly excuse yourself from his Jealous Roommate and barricade the door closed with a shoe so his kitty won't mistake your moans of passion for a cat in heat. And, as usual, he's amazing. Both hot and simultaneously tender which is such an intense combination. After kissing his face for an extended period of jet lagged time, you end up putting your finger in his mouth and stare intently into his blue eyes as he sucks on it. It's so hot that you begin to explore his mouth with your index finger and you are getting so turned on that you have to hold yourself back from whispering in his ear that you are falling for him. However, the only part of you that actually ends up falling is your erection, because when your finger moves toward the back of Blonde Beard's mouth you end up discovering a gaping hole where one of his molars used to be. "Oh my God," you say. "You're missing a tooth..."

Blonde Beard explains a long drawn out story about his misadventures with a bad dentist, but you're not listening because you're too busy remembering that 60 Minutes special on Crystal Mouth where incarcerated addicts were losing all their teeth years after they had last touched the drug. You want to talk to him about it because you are, indeed, falling for him. But you're nervous that you might scare him away, or worse, put him on the defensive so he winds up lying to you about it. You really have to think about this one because you want to handle the situation in the best possible way so you can learn the truth. Most of all you want to trust the man that you are falling in love with. Unfortunately you're way too caught up in your own paranoid, guilty-until-proven-innocent judgmental bullshit that is based on unsubstantiated evidence, when what you should be doing is talking to Blonde Beard, non-judgmentally, about your fears. Instead, you end up feigning sleepiness and blame your Jet Lag. 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...

You're Not One of Those Fags Who Hearts Tina...

...but after hearing enough horror stories of friends whose lives have been decimated by a love affair with Crystal Meth, you definitely agree with Ms. Turner, "What's Love Got to Do With It?" (see fagnote #1, below.) Luckily for you, you're just a functioning alcoholic who's much more comfortable waking up in Brooklyn on a Queens Bound G train (when the last thing you remember is, ironically, ordering a Manhattan in Chelsea at G Bar) than you are hosting some P-N-P Bareback Orgy-in-your-Ass after 72 sleepless hours of scouring craigslist for similar social gatherings. But, as usual, you digress.

You are soooooo excited for your date with Blonde Beard that you even break your steadfast rule of not working (out) on Sunday since it's your official Gay Day of Rest. But you want to be pumped up when you see him in order to give him unrealistic expectations. You do, however, take note of all the hot heathen boys that actually work out on the Sabbath, yet you're confused as to why they're not at home nursing hangovers like you usually are? Anyway. Afterward the gym you race to the movie theater to meet Blonde Beard for an early showing of Juno (which you've been dying to see), and as you're maneuvering yourself through throngs of irritating, slow-moving tourists on 42nd Street (see fagnote #2, below), you peer down the block and instantly lock eyes with your sexy date who's sooooo far away yet somehow still manages to catch your attention from half a block away. Your heart skips, and your legs would too, only there's too many people clogging the sidewalk.

The movie is amazing, but that probably has more to do with the fact that you're both holding hands and rubbing legs and sharing popcorn in that lovey-dovey way that usually makes you want to kick the chair of a similarly irritating couple in front of you. Blonde Beard's touch makes you crave more. At one point you can't seem to stop yourself from turning away from the screen just because you'd rather be looking at him. Towards the end, Juno yanks on your sentimentally prone heart strings and you start crying inappropriately like a little girl, sniffling, wiping your eyes, etc. (See fagnote #3, below.) It's definitely bad date behavior, especially since you want to get laid, but Blonde Beard rubs your arm in a way that seems to soothe rather than mock you.

After the movie, you take the subway down to the Village to grab an Early Bird dinner at Miracle Grill. The conversation continues to flow as do your lengthy, wistful stares, and before you know it you are paying the bill and heading back to his apartment. It is important, however, to note that you paid the bill. Cheap ol' you decided to pick up the tab since he bought the movie tickets. Definitely not a even exchange, especially since several rounds of Frozen Margaritas were involved. The important thing to take away from your gesture is that you obviously really like this guy. (See fagnote #4, below.)

You meet Blonde Beard's roommate back at his apartment and you are friendly even though you you just heard the whole story over dinner about how they initially met during a random Eagle hookup about a year ago. But there doesn't seem to be any overly apparent jealousy as the two of you quickly retire to the bedroom under the guise of watching 300 on DVD. His room is one of those tiny West Village bedrooms that would barely suffice for a coat closet in the suburbs. But it's cozy. And clean. And his bed is made to boot. You turn your cell off because you definitely don't want to be bothered.

The horizontal makeout session begins and it gets better and better as the winter layers begin to hit the floor. Blonde Beard's body is amazing, and the chemistry between you is even moreso. At one point Blonde Beard actually says, "You have the perfect combination of passion and tenderness," which kind of sends you into a sexual frenzy (mostly so you don't blurt out something ridiculously inappropriate like, "I want to marry you in Massachusetts!"), and then one thing leads to another, yadda, yadda, yadda, and the next thing you know Blonde Beard is wiping himself down with a conveniently located small white hand towel. Oh come on, did you really think you were the kind of fag who'd kiss and tell? (See fagnote #5, below.)

But something changes after the dirty towel gets thrown in the hamper. You both lie there, naked, not wanting to do a walk of shame past the Roommate in the Living Room and have some chit-chat on the way to the bathroom. But there's not a lot of cuddling going on. At all. You try, but it's not readily returned. After such an intense physical experience you are definitely feeling the emotional retreat. You kind of already know that you won't be invited to spend the night, but at this point you don't really want to. Eventually Blonde Beard gets dressed and makes his way to the bathroom. You get dressed while he's gone and when he comes back he asks you if you'd like something to drink. Blonde Beard gasps as you enter his tiny kitchen and it startles you. You look around, expecting to find a rodent or a cockroach, or possibly even his Jealous Roommate waving a butcher's knife around, but you see absolutely nothing beyond an extremely clean kitchen with a bunch of newly washed dishes. You ask, "What's wrong?" And Blonde Beard says, "Oh nothing. I just thought I saw a Crystal Pipe in the dish drainer."

A fucking Crystal Pipe? You look into the dish drainer mostly because you have absolutely no idea what a crystal pipe would look like. Blonde Beard points out a mini glass bowl, probably meant to hold Kosher salt or Soy Sauce, as you ask, "Is a crystal pipe really in the realm of possibility?" Blonde Beard kind of laughs it off as you inform him, "I wouldn't even know what one looks like." There's an awkward silence as Blonde Beard pours you a glass of water. Eventually you ask, "Have you ever done Crystal?" to which he answers an honest and simple, "Yes. But a long time ago." Unfortunately now you have a million more questions that you refrain from asking. You want to know what exactly constitutes a long time ago? You want to know why he's so alarmed by the thought of a Crystal Pipe? Does it act as a Pavlovian trigger for him? Or did he have a bad experience with an ex-crackhead-boyfriend? You know you're a bit of a Pollyanna when it comes to highly addictive drugs, but they scare the shit out of you. You've been a bit drug shy ever since your high school graduation when you got all coked up and ended up, get this, licking your parents' Honda Accord in search of coke dust. You knew right then and there, while eagerly blotting your tongue against the filthy floormats, that cocaine would ruin your life. So you never did it again. And now you can't even begin to imagine what you'd end up licking if you ever tried Crystal. (See fagnote #6, below.)

It gets really awkward with Blonde Beard even though you're sure that you're the one who's making it awkward. So you finish your water and give him an awkward kiss goodbye after making plans to see him again on Wednesday. You turn on your phone when you hit the street and it instantly beeps with a message. You smile because you assume it's Blonde Beard texting you with some barfable Sweet Nothing which would help alleviate any weirdness that you have obviously created entirely in your own crystal-clear head. But the text is not from Blonde Beard, however it definitely seems like it's from some cryptic crackhead as it says, "I have very important information for [You]. Contact me under screen name BLACKM**ALE (just a screen name) ASAP..."

Your first thought is that you're being blackmailed for some unfortunate photo taken of you during that drunken striptease you lost at Ass Circus last week, but then you remember your stolen laptop. So you go home, put the the Creepy Crackhead on your Buddy List and wait for the Ex-Con to sign on. Anyway...