You're Not One of Those Fags Who Has Professional Headshots Taken for his Online Dating Profile...

...as if! Facebook-Schmacebook! When it comes to your blog, you don't even have a Face! But when Half-Share sends you a cute group photo from last weekend on Fire Guyland, you quickly crop out the entire group and post it on Connexion. You've found, for some unknown reason, that posting new photos seems to renew interest in your profile and attract new boys. And now that you've said, "Buh-Bye, Swedie Pi!" you could definitely use a new Milkshake to Bring All the Boys to the Yard. Even though you've got your fingers crossed for a New York Super Fudge Hunk, in the warming weather your Mojo definitely seems to be melting to the point where you'd happily take the Rocky Road and settle for something Half Baked. Moments after you post the cropped photo there's a knock on your bedroom door and you are surprised when your Hobosexual Roommate is standing there with an unidentified perky young girl who you've never even seen before. "I'm sorry," he lies. "I didn't know you'd be home so I scheduled a few potential roommates to come see your room." Although you want to say, If you wanted to know my schedule then maybe you could have... Oh I don't know? Asked? But you are moving out of the Home Sweet Hovel next month and the Hobosexual's next victim is smiling perkily and, although you know you should be screaming for her to, "Run Forrest! Ruuuuuuuuuun!!" you are also ruuuuuning late for an Out Magazine party to preview the Marc Ecko Summer Collection (yawn) but, more importantly, you are late for some free Three Olives Vodka!

While you're in the bathroom doing some vitally important last minute nose hair trimming, you can't help yourself from listening to the inane conversation going on in the living room of your Home Sweet Hovel. The trimmer buzzes away while buzz words like Fung Shui and Generational Discourse grab your attention to the point where you burst out laughing. Shouldn't the Perky Girl be asking more probing questions like, "Do you ever do your dishes?" or "What do you wipe yourself with during the weeks when you run out of toilet paper?" or possibly even a simple, "Do you ever use soap when you bathe?" But no! Instead these twentysomethings are yapping about the Fung Shui of a lumpy futon that was recently plagued by the Hobosexual's imaginary Bedbugs.

You escape and head over to Eighth Avenue & 17th Street in Chelsea to meet a bunch of your friends who have absolutely no idea why you told them to meet you at Marc Ecko, yet instantly dropped their interrogation when you said, "Free Vodka." Actually, you don't even know what this party is for! One of your Blah-Blah-Blog friends, the Non-Party-Boy Party-Boy (aka NPBPB) was nice enough to forward you the invitation because he knows how partial you are to anything free and gay. You walk in off the avenue and when you find your friend Half-Share and you instantly know that something must be gravely wrong when you notice the grimace on his face. When he notices your deep concern, Half-Share shakes his head as he gives you the terrible news, "The vodka is either grape or cherry flavored." That's when Jet Blew takes a big gulp, finishing his glass before informing you expressionlessly, "It's absolutely vile."

Your friends, of course, ask you to pick them up some refills as race to the back of the store to get in the bar line so you can do your own taste test. That's when you recognize someone you know from the Ski Fags, and you quickly realize, now that it's warm and sunny outside, the two of you have absolutely nothing in common. So you wind up in one of those deep, "You look great! -- No, you look great!" Chelsea conversations until you feel an ominous tap on your shoulder. All the Ghosts of Your Dating Past start flashing through your head as you take a big breath of the grape and cherry scented air. However, when you turn around and see the Shoulder Tapper, you have absolutely no idea who the hell he is. Now, although you are terrible with names, you are pretty damn good with faces (unless of course you meet the Faces when you are drunk, which is mostly when you meet the Faces. Okay, okay. So you're terrible with names and faces.) But the Shoulder Tapper just stares at you for a loooooong moment with a big, shit eating grin on his Face. You, of course, don't say anything. You're pretty sure that you've never slept with him. Well, okay, possibly there's a slim fifty-fifty chance. So you smile, just in case. And that's when the Shoulder Tapper tells you his name (which does sound vaguely familiar, yet doesn't quite ring your Tinkerbell) and that's when he says, "You told me to say hi if I figured out who you were. So I'm saying hi this time." All you can do is gulp when he says, "I love your Blah-Blah-Blog."

You are absolutely stunned! You've been so diligent about remaining anonymous and are completely floored that the Non-Party-Boy Party-Boy has somehow easily identified you from at least a hundred Chelsea Boys in what now feels like a Gay Police Line-Up (for the vodka bar, of course). Arrested doesn't even begin to describe the way you feel. Frozen is more like it. You are like a Deer caught in NPBPB's extremely natural-looking Highlights. And that's when he says, "Well, I've got to go now." And this twist in the conversation actually helps you untie the one in your tongue, "That's it? You're not even going to talk to me or ask me anything?" This is when NPBPB informs you exactly where you fall in his gay pecking order, "I've got tickets to see Patti Lupone in Gypsy tonight. Sorry." And with that, the Non-Party-Boy Party-Boy disappears into the crowd, just as quickly as he appeared, and races off to his next Non-Party. Luckily, you have finally reached the bar and it is now your turn to order. And since you are a bit shaken from the Tap-and-Run outing, you tell the bartender (who you somehow recognize from G even though he has his shirt on) that you'd like one Cherry Soda and one Grape Soda, and you complete your own impartial taste test on your way back to your friends.

Half-Share and Jet Blew instantly see the look of horror on your face and they shake their heads in agreement while continuously sipping their flavored vodkas, "Isn't it absolutely vile?" But you explain that you've just been Outed! Half-Share quickly quips back, "Honey, did you really think people would think you were straight in that outfit?" "What?" you ask, "Is my T-shirt too tight?" To which Half-Share responds with a silent, yet dramatic eye-roll. You say, "Oh come on! It's more Straight-Tight than Gay-Tight." And then Half-Share says, "What do you expect when you shop from the Baby Gap clearance rack? But don't worry," he says. "It looks good on you." You laugh as Half-Share rolls his eyes again.

After a couple more trips to the bar, even though you have actually grown partial to the Welch's Wodka, your friends, who obviously have more mature palates (combined with more mature wallets), decide to go around the corner and head over to XES to pay for the privilege of not having to drink Cherry and Grape flavored Vodka. XES is absolutely packed to the gills with Sauced Sardines because they are apparently having a Genre Magazine party. You look around aimlessly for the Genre Gent you met over the winter (yet lost touch with), hoping you can, once again, hit him up for some freelance work. But the bar is way too crowded and you quickly give up your search when you run into your BFF and his co-worker, Pussy Galore, as they're ordering drinks at the bar.

At 8:30 Half-Share and Jet Blew decide to go grab a bite to eat at a restaurant you can't afford, so you all kiss goodbye and the next thing you know you are dancing on a platform, singing passionately along to the new Madonna vs. Justin Timberlake song as if you were the one who only had Four Minutes to save the world. That's when a Columbia Photographer from Colombia starts snapping his flash all around you. You, of course, camp it up for him as if he's your personal strobe light, and you are the Last Model Standing. Afterwards the Columbia Colombian actually says with a completely straight face, "I want to do a session with you." You instinctively roll your eyes and he says, "No, seriously! I need new shots for my website and I think you'd be perfect." You stare at him for a long time, waiting for Alan Funt to emerge from behind the wall and say, "You're on Candid Camera!" but he doesn't. After a beat or two you realize that the Columbia Colombian is being serious and not just feeding you a, for lack of a better word, line. You actually believe him when he says, "I just like your energy." And that's when you are immediately embarrassed by the situation which is simultaneously flattering yet equally objectifying to the point where you have no choice but to giggle and cover your mouth like a Japanese school girl wearing too much Hello Kitty. Although the Columbia Colombian is not typically your type, you find yourself drawn to his unexpected compliments in the form of a kiss. And it's absolutely amazing.

After what feels like a half hour, you look at your watch and feel like someone is playing a practical joke on you when you realize that it is now midnight and you have that awful realization that you still haven't had dinner. Although the Columbia Colombian asks you to come back to Astoria with him, you are feeling unsure. You tell him (and you actually believe yourself in the moment) that one night stands are no longer your thing. That's when the Columbia Colombian gives you his business card and says, with all seriousness, "I'm really serious about doing a photo shoot." You kiss him good night and put his card in your pocket. And when you wake up the next morning and find yourself thinking about the Columbia Colombian in some of your earliest hungover thoughts, you end up Facebooking him a message which says, "All right Mr. De Mille. Facebook is ready for my new close-up." Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Valley of The Dolls Fags...

..."but you have to get up at five o'clock in the morning and sparkle, Neely, sparkle!" Well, maybe not 5am, but definitely 5pm. Usually. Regardless, you've been absolutely loving your Oxycodone that Dr. Mary-Ann-Not-Ginger prescribed you after your Laparascopic Surgery to repair your Hurtful Hernia. Usually you're way too Anal Retentive (literally) to be a fan of pain killers and their constant constipating side effects, but, since your balls have become so insanely large and excruciatingly painful (your scrotum feels like it's doing double duty as a Bowling Bag), you've been popping the painkillers as if they were Wint-O-Green flavored Tic-Tacs. Even though your Generic Percocet Dolls make you a little loopy sometimes (mostly since you take them on an empty stomach for some extra medicated umph, not to mention the fact that you are so beyond Gay Fat mere weeks before Fire Island Season begins...), but luckily, even though you feel a bit wonky, you still have your priorities set (for lack of a better word) straight, so you cram into your loosest pair of Fat Jeans and head uptown to Therapy for Gay Cocktails with the Ski Fags for their end of the season party.

When you get off the E train at 50th Street you receive a text and wonder, perhaps, if Hell Hath Frozen Over, because somehow your BFF has beaten you to the party. And he's on Gay Standard Time. In the Los Angeles time zone no less. So you pick up your limping pace and when you walk into the bar you instantly focus on the grim look on your BFF's face which is confusing, until you notice that he is chatting with two non-Ski Fags. With two of your friends actually. Half-Share (who recently upgraded to a Full-Share in the Pines, only in a less glamorous house) and also Jet Blew. More specifically, these are two of your friends that your BFF has already slept with. You chuckle about the awkward situation to yourself, but since you are feeling no pain (killer) you are also feeling no sympathy (buzz killer). Time for a Gay Cocktail! Or four.

You joke with Jet Blew that he absolutely has to move into your new building (assuming the mortgage gods smile upon you and overlook your bad credit) so you both can have some Melrose Place drama. Of course, you will play Heather Locklear's character, Amanda, and quickly sleep your way to the top of the Co-Op Board, where, once you become President, you will amend the no-pet policy to include a ban on children. And you will redecorate. Everything. And you'll replace the muzak in the elevator with a constant loop of Rihanna, Kelly Clarkson and Madonna. Okay, maybe Britney, too. Her Blackout album is growing on you. Meanwhile, after a few cocktails you realize that your Blackout is growing on you, too. Whereas four Stoli O's would barley cause your kidneys to hiccup, tonight you are feeling like a Hot Tranny Mess. Sort of like Judy Garland's and Liza Minelli's incestuous love child. So, of course, you make the executive decision to order another cocktail. However, since Happy Hour is over, your cheap ass orders the generic house Vodka.

At the bar you run into your Irish friend, Guinness, who seems to be competing for the world's record of Most Overly Educated While Intoxicated (you still don't understand why he wants to be friends with your illiterate ass...) That's when Guinness suddenly introduces you to the most shockingly handsome foreign boy that you've seen at least since you got off the subway, and the two of you immediately start slurring about something extremely gay and fashion-ating. The Portugese Brazilian is amazingly well built and you try to imagine him in a Speedo on Ipanema Beach until he starts talking about how he's about to relocate to London where, somehow, he'll be closer to his family? Now geography is definitely not your thing, but even after all the pills and booze you are pretty sure that London is not closer to Rio de Janeiro than New York? But you just shrug and sip on your Gay Cocktail while attempting to look pretty. The Brazilian from Portugal (?) fills in your lacking end of the conversation with some non-sequitur how it is impossible for men to have a monogamous relationship, and then, in the same sentence, he informs you about his boyfriend. You vehemently disagree that monogamy is impossible for anyone but him, until he changes the subject and starts telling you about how he really, really wants to have a kid. He even hired a surrogate who ultimately ended up being barren (which strikes you as a very interesting and lucrative career choice). You're about to offer your womb for hire when the Portuguese Brazilian from London hands you his business card and then excuses himself for the bathroom. You attempt to focus on his complicated job title, but it must be too dark in the bar (or something) because it's much too difficult to read. Anyway.

That's when you become aware of a hand *gasp* grasping your Gay Fat mid-section! Which happens to be dreadfully close to your bandaged surgical incision! You instinctively recoil (without, thank God, spilling your precious, Full-Priced, Non-Happy Hour Gay Cocktail). The hand turns out to belong to one of the more Advanced Ski Fags (who you made advances on at the last Ski Fag Party). You skied together in France, and you know he was confused about why your advances stopped, but you thought it was too complicated to explain the whole Blonde Beard situation. He never asked, and you never offered. Advanced Ski Fag smiles a quick hello and then quickly disappears into the crowd of drunken moguls. Other than your BFF, Advanced Ski Fag was really the only boy who you enjoyed on the trip and you are truly excited to see him. Suddenly you have the drunken need to explain the Blonde Beard situation and tell the Advanced Ski Fag about why your sexual advances made such a hasty retreat. So you chase him through the powdered noses sprinkled throughout the crowded bar and luckily catch up to him before he makes his way down the Black Diamond trail which the Bravest Ski Fags refer to as, "The Therapy Stairway."

Anyway. You catch up to Advanced Ski Fag and stop him before he begins his treacherous descent, and you say, "Hey!" while flashing him your dimples in a rather revealing, slightly inappropriate way. He smiles back and it instantly becomes clear that if you weren't seeing Blonde Beard, then you would definitely be making more Advances on Advanced Ski Fag. That's when you reveal, "I was hoping I'd get to see you tonight! I can't believe it's already been two months since we were skiing in France." The Advanced Ski Fag looks at you, puzzled, and says, "What are you talking about?" which is, needless to say, weird. Although it is obvious that some sort of social avalanche has begun, for some reason you continue your Mary Ol' way down the slippery slope. You say, "Yeah, you were the one guy that I really enjoyed hanging out with on the trip." And that's when the Advanced Ski Fag says, "I never went on that trip. Who do you think I am?" You look long and hard as the boy in front of you explains that he is actually Bar Boy who you actually dated a few times last December. The last time you saw him he was so drunk that you ended up walking him home and left him half naked on his bed because, let's face it, he was too drunk to care and it was just much too much work to get his jeans off. My how the tables have turned...

You stare at Bar Boy for a long time before he asks, "Are you okay?" And then you explain that you've just had surgery and probably shouldn't be mixing your Generic Pain Dolls with Generic House Vodka. But you keep looking at him because, even though you know he is actually Bar Boy, he still looks like the Advanced Ski Fag to you. You excuse yourself and look around to find your BFF so you can make him take you home, only when you turn around you see another Ski Fag who you met on your trip to France. Somehow you muster up a "Hello" through your immense embarrassment, and then you say, "How's your dog?" And that's when this particular Ski Fag hits you. In the stomach. On your belly button. Exactly where you just had surgery. You instantly double over in pain as this Ski Fag reminds you that you have mistaken him for his Chamonix roommate.

You decide that you have obviously long ago turned into a pumpkin, and now, Cinderfella, you have actually begun to ferment. So you ease your way down the Black Diamond rated Stairwell and you glance around the downstairs bar for a nanosecond, mostly so you can claim that you looked all over the bar to say goodbye to your BFF, but that's when the Portuguese Brazilian from London walks over to you with a fresh cocktail. "Leaving already?" You are terrified that you might actually be mistaking his identity too, so You explain that you had much too much to drink and that it doesn't seem to be agreeing with that handful of pain killers you took earlier today. That's when the Portuguese Brazilian from London actually starts to quote Valley of the Dolls, "Broadway doesn't go for booze and dope. Now get out of my way, I've got a man waiting for me." And then he reaches over and gives you a kiss which you find yourself readily accepting, yet ultimately wishing that you hadn't. Because, even though things have been getting a bit odd, you are seeing Blonde Beard. On your way back to the subway you find yourself feeling so immensely guilty about the kiss that you are so immensely happy that you're going to black out this entire evening. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Strung Out Fags Who Hasn't Slept For Days...

...but after last night's Magnum-less P.I. (Penetration Incident), let's just say that you didn't sleep very soundly. You even tried counting sheep, but for some reason you kept imagining a Perv-y Sheppard fucking his livestock raw. Meanwhile, today your feet are definitely dragging (almost as if you were in drag, complete with painful 9" Stilettos). You're so tired that you almost fall asleep during your schlep of shame back to your Home Sweet Hovel. However, after sleepwalking up six flights of stairs (while dreaming wistfully about moving into your new building with one of those fantastic new inventions they're calling an elevator), you walk into a Katrina-esque disaster area that used to resemble a sub-poverty-level kitchen. It seems as if your Hobosexual roommate threw some sort of dinner party (even though the Home Sweet Hovel lacks any sort of table surface to eat off of) and then just threw all of the dishes into the sink, obviously for Alice to clean. However, although you keep reminding the Hobosexual that he can "Kiss your Grits!" he somehow keeps forgetting that he's not one of The Brady Bunch kids and that Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore (and that includes both Alices: Ann B. Davis and Linda Lavin). You practice your Lamaze breathing as you tip-toe through spaghetti stains while dreaming about that dishwasher in your new apartment!

You're so tired that your only accomplishment is futzing around on the internet trying to decide whether or not to change your Connexion profile from "Single" to "Exclusively Dating." Although you haven't had that particular conversation with Blonde Beard (yet), you kind of feel compelled to change your status not only because you want to be exclusively dating, but also because it helps you to imagine that you would only do the Magnum-less P.I. with a boy that you were in an exclusive relationship with. Ugh. You were so fucking stupid last night, but you try not to beat yourself up because, after all, you are only human.

Later that afternoon, you end up dragging your BFF out to Jackson Heights because you have to drop off a $100 check to the Real Estate Agent who reminds you of Benning's famous character from American Beauty, only a bit more Jewish and lot more whiny: Annette Weining. Only when you get to the office, it's an absolute mad house. Or more specifically a mad Open House. Everybody and their unemployed Uncle wants in on the cheapest real estate east of the Mississippi. While you're filling out your check you over hear one of the agents talking about your friend Jet Blew who has apparently gotten lost in the Bermuda Triangle of the Receptionist's inept attempt to transfer his call to Annette Weining and you wonder if he'll be moving into Melrose Place too? You, of course, will be playing the Heather Locklear role.

The whole ordeal takes way longer than you expected so you end up racing back home to change into something cute because you have a plethora of evening plans that begin with a 5:45pm dinner (yes, you realize that it is absolutely ridiculous to schedule anything smack in the middle of Happy Hour, but The Ex wanted to get a Blue Plate Special and since he's paying, you do your best not to complain even though you are failing miserably). However, The Ex is pissed (rightly so) when you arrive at DB Bistro on Gay Standard Time, which today happens to be thirty minutes late. But The Ex used to live with you so he probably assumed you'd be late and subsequently lied to you about the ridiculously early reservation time. But when you arrive, the fancy restaurant is packed with Pre-Theater Diners munching on $32 Hamburgers. When you place your order, you briefly consider asking the waiter how much extra it would cost to add a slice of cheese, but decide to stick with what's on le menu. You and The Ex have a really nice time catching up, and you listen sadly while he tells you about his father, Jerry the Hugger's funeral, which happened while you were hemorrhaging euros and gallivanting around Europe. He also tells you all the gossip about the movie he's currently directing in Texas with half the cast of High School Musical (which sounds dreadful, but ultimately much less painful than the train wreck of a musical that you end up seeing in Previews: Cry Baby).

You certainly want to Cry, Baby, but that has as much to do with the Mid-Western Giant Breeder that's kicking your seat in time to the horrendous score, than it does with the horrendous show. Somehow you make it through the ghastly Broadway remake of the dreadful John Waters film (trust me, this one feels more like Jeri Curl than Hairspray). Meanwhile, you're busy mentally decorating your new apartment while the ridiculous show drones on, and you count down the moments till your post-theater escape. Afterwards, just like trained seals, the Broadway audience jumps to their feet and gives the poor actors a standing ovation (which is fine, because it's not exactly their fault that they were cast in this dreck. Unlike the audience, at least the actors are being paid for their nightly humiliation).

You pummel over Blue Haired Old Ladies With Walkers and even stomp on a Toddler's Tootsie because you can't get out of the theater fast enough since you are definitely Jones-ing for a Gay Cocktail. Outside, you air-kiss The Ex and shudder as you wish him a safe trip back to Bush Country. Then you race over to The Ritz to meet your anorexic friend, Fat Albert, and a crazy Russian boy (who, of course, you used to date). The Soviet Dicktator (who recently moved to London) is back for a visit and has arranged a Boys Night Out. The Dicktator notices you as you walk into the shockingly empty bar and his expression immediately elevates into one of the warmest stoic frowns you've ever seen. You congratulate The Dicktator about some new Comrade you've heard he's dating back in London to which he immediately begins an interrogation, "Who told you that?" A bit embarrassed, you begin to backpedal, "I'm sorry. Are you not seeing him anymore?" But The Dicktator quickly begins to use his old Soviet-era interrogation tactics as he backs you into a corner beneath a dimly lit "Exit" sign that somehow suddenly floods your retinas with a blinding surge of wattage that seemingly doubles as a truth serum. Eventually you submit to The Dicktator's probing question, "Fat Albert told me!" And with that, The Dicktator relinquishes you to hunt down your anorectic friend to further his investigation.

Luckily, you find Fat Albert before The Dicktator does, and you immediately apologize for passing along his benign non-gossip to the KGB. But while the two of you are talking, some random boy makes a bee-line for you and interrupts your apology as he extends his hand,"I don't think we've met." You are a bit taken back by the formal introduction that feels much more Ritz-Carlton than Ritz Gay Bar, but you introduce yourself because, after all, he's cute. And although you thought he was just some random patron, The Cute Interrupter turns out to be part of The Dicktator's little group of Comrades who have gathered to toast his triumphant return to Amerika with generous shots of Stolichnaya.

A few Stoli O's later, the tears you shed during Cry Baby have long since dried up and you quickly find yourself yapping about The Cute Interrupter's boyfriend (all the good ones are always taken...) as well as the various places that you've both lived. You even attempt to play the Lame Name Game, but he doesn't seem to know any of the same Left Coast Fags that you do. But then he asks the inevitable question, "What do you do?" Ugh. This question always makes you squirm because you hate talking to anyone who receives a weekly paycheck about how you are a Starving Writer (on a diet of course) who's living off his savings in order to write the Great American Govel (Gay Novel). However, not only do The Cute Interrupter's eyes not glaze over, but they actually seem to light up as he tells you that he works for Genre Magazine. "What a coincidence," you laugh lamely, "I read Genre Magazine! Now if only I could write for it..." And then The Genre Gent reaches into his wallet and produces his business card and hands it over, to you. Your eyes almost pop out of your cartoon head when you see his high powered position, and then you instinctively bow toward this Gay Rupert Murdoch Publishing Czar, much like a Japanese Geisha would, and you accept his gracious business card as if it were your most coveted possession. And then you do something you've never done before. You tell The Genre Gent all about your anonymous Blah-Blah-Blog which has really started to take off (oh come on, if you don't sell yourself nobody else will!) And the Gay Cocktails really start to kick in as you begin embellishing the truth with heaps of relentless networking about how your Blah-Blah-Blog was recently written up as one of the Best Gay Blogs, yadda, yadda, yadda.

After your shameless self-promotion you are absolutely famished so you grab another celebratory Gay Cocktail and head downstairs to dance. The KickAss DJ has got the whole floor up on their feet, but when he plays MIKA you find your big Gay Fat ass ascending to the top the banquette so you can really let loose. You sing along to your court of young adorable boys as you inform them, "Big Girls, You Are Beautiful!" and you, of course, are The Biggest Big Girl as your arms flail around in time to the music... And that's when it suddenly hits you, or more like scrapes against you like a recently groomed Blonde Beard. None of these delectable drunk boys, no matter how young, hung, hairy or smooth, absolutely none of them are even remotely on your Gaydar. Even though you are Out and About, grinding amongst a sea of P.Y.T.'s on the dance floor, the only place you really want to be is lying in Blonde Beard's arms on his overly soft mattress (which definitely needs to be upgraded; sooner than later) as you tell him all about the amazing new contact you made at Genre.

So just like that that you decide to say your goodbyes to Fat Albert, The Dicktator and, of course, Genre Gent before you hop on the subway to go back to your Home Sweet Hovel. Although you'd rather go to Blonde Beard's, it's late and your boy is definitely making Z's. Luckily the subway arrives almost as if on cue which makes you feel like you've just picked up a Monopoly Chance card which says "MTA Error in your favor! This weekend the A Train is Running on the F Line! Advance immediately to Second Avenue without transferring!" However, your luck instantly runs dry when you get back to your Home Sweet Hovel and you find your Hobosexual Roommate sleeping on the little couch. Again. Unfortunately he wakes up as you tip-toe through your Lifeless Living Room, but he doesn't just wake up. He's so strung out that he actually jumps up and shrieks. You apologize for waking him, but you take the opportunity to ask him why he's sleeping in the Living Room. Again. To which he responds, "The bedbugs are everywhere. They're on the futon couch now, so I have to sleep on the little couch." You want to ask him why he doesn't just sleep in his own damn bed in order to keep the infestation in his bedroom, but he offers you an explanation without you having to ask, "I haven't slept through the night in months. I even threw my mattress away last week."

And that's when the light bulb above your head starts to flash uncontrollably because you realize that your Hobosexual Roommate has officially gone insane. Either that or you are the only fag on earth who is immune to Bedbug bites. Even though you've never once been bitten, you've definitely scoured the apartment for signs of the alleged infestation and found absolutely zero evidence. You begin to wonder if the Hobosexual has caught a bad case of crabs and is in denial? But you begin to lose both your patience as well as your Stoli O' Buzz as he tells you, complete with big saucer-sized pupils, that you will have to have all of your clothes drycleaned and then put away in storage. The Hobosexual's Imaginary Bedbug situation was all fine and dandy, but if he thinks you're actually going to spend a dime on his delusion, then your sleep deprived roommate better prepare himself for a rude awakening. So you inform him, in the nicest possible way, that you'll be happy to do whatever it takes to get rid of the Bedbugs, but you will definitely need to see a Bedbug before you start paying for their extermination. And that's when the Hobosexual begins to groom his sweater as if it were his baby Gorilla, and you are in shock when he actually produces several pieces of, get this, lint, and attempts to convince you, in all honesty, that the wool he pulled from his pilling sweater is, indeed, a Bedbug. You begin to wonder if he might actually be sleepwalking and having a simultaneous dream, or if this bizarre dialog is actually coming out of your nightmare? But you just politely say, "Goodnight," and tell him that you will discuss it in the morning. And then you go straight (for lack of a better word) to bed and spoon your pillow while delusionally imagining that it is Blonde Beard instead of a Bedbug. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Fags Who Fucks Over His Friends Without a Condom...

...but when you wake up on Friday morning and begin receiving overly inquisitive IM's from Jet Blew about your interest in the Jackson Heights Co-Op, you begin to wonder if, at the very least, he's going to supply you with some lube as he fucks you over:

JetBlew: what are you thinking about the apts?
You: morning! i really liked it! how about you?

Then there's this really long pregnant pause which is weird since he's the one who IM'd you first. Eventually he writes:

JetBlew: yeah... are u seriously considereing?

It was bizarre that you ran into JetBlew at the Wednesday Open House, but suddenly you realize that he's not just doing a friendly follow up after your coincidental meeting because suddenly you have a sinking feeling that your friend is fishing for information in order to beat you to the punch of buying the apartment. You decide to play it cool and make him work to get the information out of you.

You: yeah, i think i'm gonna head back over today to take some pics

There's another really long, very pregnant pause before Jet Blew gives birth to his ulterior motives...

JewBlew: which apt are u leaning towards
You: i dunno. probably A
JetBlew: K
You: ok? or you like K? is that the big one?
JetBlew: thats H
You: this conversation is worse than "who's on first." are you serious about the apt, too?
JetBlew: yeah
You: about H?
JetBlew: about H and A. getting mortgage rates now.

With that you realize that you better get your gay ass in gear because you want this apartment, whereas Jet Blew was just dragged along to the Open House by one of his Flight Attendant Friends during an extended Lay Over! And now he wants the same exact two apartments that you are interested in! So you immediately get on the horn and call Daddy Warbucks to discuss the possibility of him sharing his good credit to help his Number One Gay Son get a good Thirty Year Fixed Rate smack in the middle of a fucking mortgage crisis. Since you've tip-toed around this conversation before, you don't expect it to go very well, but either Daddy Warbucks has recently been diagnosed with Alzheimer's or your Mommie Dearest has started brow beating him into submission with Wire Hangers down in Florida, because, get this, your retired father agrees to sharing his good credit, his good name and his illegible signature on your mortgage deed. You are in such shock that you'd probably start to cry if you weren't already too busy racing to Queens on the F train in order to forge Daddy Warbucks signature on the dotted line so you can get enough Honey Roasted Peanuts (at a fixed 5.75% rate) before Jet Blew even finishes his Beverage Service and returns his seatback to the upright position. Although Jet Blew definitley picked the wrong fag to fuck with, may the best fag win!

Your head is spinning when the painfully slow-talking, extremely Whiny Real Estate Agent (who is one Co-Op Board Approval away from the Annette Benning character in American Beauty) puts you on the phone with the Monopoly Banker in order to get Pre-Approved by someone who has absolutely no interest in how cute you look in your form fitting G-Star T and your new Se7en Jeans (which you seriously consider returning to Loehmann's since you obviously can't afford them any longer). However, when the Monopoly Banker informs you that you have passed Go! and are pre-approved to collect $200, you almost faint.

You begin to hyperventilate over going into thirty years of debt in order to live in Queens (thank God it's the Queeny Gay Latino Barrio), but when Annette Weining's Assistant interrupts your panic attack to inform her slow-talking boss that Jet Blew is on the phone, your hand immediately starts writing down a number so big that your head can't even count that high. Annette Weining looks at the number and a smile takes over her face as she winks at you and informs her assistant, "Take a message. I'll have to call him back after we've finished this deal."

On the subway ride back to your Home Sweet Hovel your inner-Martha can't think of anything but plush fabric swatches, crown molding accent colors and whether or not your big ideas for your tiny apartment are following the basic principles Feng Shui? Or perhaps they're just plain old Faag Gai? Meanwhile, you are running late for your date with Blonde Beard, but you are excited to tell him all about the Co-Op that you just *gasp* bought. Only when you get to his place, Blonde Beard immediately pops open a bottle of Cabernet and hands you a Solid Dark Chocolate Easter Bunny that he spent a small fortune on at Li-Lac. And even though you are slightly pissed because you know your fat ass is going to eat the damn thing in one fell swoop (probably without bothering to swallow) you are touched by his adorable gesture which is almost as sweet as the Bunny's deliciously pointy ears. Then Blonde Beard tells you his good news about getting a pay raise at his brand new job, so the two of you decide to go out and celebrate on an expensive dinner which he can now afford even though you no longer can.

But it's early and your BFF is out having Happy Hour Cocktails with a few of your *gasp* Straight Friends, so you butch it up and navigate your way through the Fratty NYU neighborhood to The Dove Parlor where you order a nice big glass of wine that even comes with it's own little extra carafe because, get this, the glass isn't big enough! Even though the place is straight, they definitely know how to put the Happy in Happy Hour. As you toast Blonde Beard you realize that you have stumbled upon a momentous occasion as this is the first time that he is meeting your BFF. You, of course, are chatting it up about your new Co-Op with whoever is sucker enough to listen to you. Out of the corner of your eye you notice your BFF as he goes in for the kill and begins to interrogate Blonde Beard, who, you are noticing for the first time, is painfully shy. Even though you just asked the Straight Couple who recently relocated from L.A. a million probing questions, you begin to ignore them because you are dying to eavesdrop on the first round of BFF vs. Blonde Beard. Since you have to pretend that you're interested in what The La's have to say about La La Land, you only get to hear a few highlights of the amusing dialog: like when Blonde Beard tells your BFF that you guys are celebrating tonight because you've both had great days and your BFF (who texted you incessantly about his shitty day) literally says, "I'm so happy for you," while he puts his index finger into his mouth and feigns an impressively realistic gagging reflex as if he were a seasoned, seventeen year old Bulimic cheerleader.

After you leave and begin to wander aimlessly and equally reservation-lessly through the West Village in search of a nice restaurant without a long wait *ha!*, you kind of laugh when Blonde Beard tells you that he thought your BFF was a little mean. "He's a lot mean!" you chuckle, "That's why we get along so well!" And then you tell Blonde Beard about your BFF's shitty day and that he was just teasing and most likely a bit jealous. Eventually after circling the neighborhood, twice, and giving your name on the wait-list of every restaurant you pass, you both decide to go back to your first choice, Market Table, because your hour wait is already practically half over. You wind up killing the remaining thirty minutes having another delicious glass of celebratory wine next door at BarFry. Perhaps it's all the wine, or maybe it's your good fortune, or even your extremely attractive dinner date, but the Braised Lamb Shank with Gouda Gratin is honestly the most delicious meal you've had in over two years. Afterwards, as if you were wondering whether Blonde Beard was indeed the man for you, all your questions are answered when he decides to forgo dessert and order, get this, a delicious side of delectable French Fries. And as if that wasn't good enough, Blonde Beard ends up paying for the entire meal and poo-poos you was you try to hand over your ailing Visa card. Your day is now officially perfect. And you haven't even had sex yet.

Your Literary Lot of friends calls while you're waiting for the waiter to return with change asking if you guys want to hook up. But after a quick conversation you realize that, ultimately, you boys are not willing to travel East of Sixth Avenue and since the Lit Lot isn't offering to travel West of The Bowery, the four long blocks dividing your improbable rendezvous seem even more impassable than Fifth Avenue during the Gay Pride Parade. Meanwhile, you're not losing any sleep over it because you've got a nice little buzz going and there is lots of dirty gay sex to be had with Blonde Beard!

As usual, being naked with your Bearded Boy is amazing and you get lost in his kisses as he holds you tightly and whispers things into your ear that you can't comprehend because he's got you in one of your frenzies. And you want more. You want to be closer. To kiss more intensely. To feel his heartbeat through the salty perspiration of his soft chest hair. You want to be much closer than is physically possible. The intensity of the moment takes you away. The perfectness of this amazing day has your guard down. Your desperate need to be closer to this man who bought you a Dark Chocolate Easter Bunny takes you to a place that you haven't been in a very long time. A place that is so insanely intimate, yet equally terrifying. And when you find yourself in the eye of your sensual storm, it is the undeniable calm that ultimately produces your panic. Because that is when you realize that Blonde Beard is inside of you without a condom. It is a sensation you haven't experienced since your Endless Relationship ended over three and a half years ago. You both attempt to enjoy the awkward moment, for it lasts no longer than it takes Blonde Beard to reach across the bed for an easily accessible condom, only once you are separated by a layer of latex as well as both a physical as well as an emotional layer of fear, you attempt, unsuccessfully, to deny it. Even though it only lasted a moment, you weren't ready for this to happen yet. And now you have been fucked, however briefly, literally and figuratively, without a condom. Needless to say, you are freaked. You feel like an idiot because you're not even really drunk. And you're not exactly sixteen. You know better and yet it still happened. How did that happen? Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Emotionally Unavailable Fags...

...but you are beginning to worry that you might be dating one. Ever since you dropped the old "I'm falling in love with you" L-Bomb on Blonde Beard, something seemingly imperceptible, yet practically platectonic, has changed. For starters, your mood has turned to shit. And not just your run of the mill shit. We're talking diarrhea shit. And unfortunately for you, your Hobosexual Roommate has used up all the toilet paper. But, as usual, you're getting ahead of yourself.

You were feeling okay on Tuesday before your date with Blonde Beard, although your friends were taunting you over your use of the word "date." And to your dismay, they even started teasing you with the "BF" word to describe your budding relationship, which was absolutely ridiculous so you started to refer to Blonde Beard as your non-Boyfriend, because really, if this is one of those unrequited love things then you're not interested in getting anymore emotionally involved than you already are. Hell, over the past thirtysomething years, you've only told two other boys in the entire world that you loved them. Let's just say that when you use the L-Bomb, you mean it. But unlike the age old adage about the Chicken and the Egg, in your world the L-Bomb definitely comes first, with the "BF" term coming in second, albeit a near photo-finish. Meanwhile right now you're more like a gay Chicken Little who's still smack in the middle of the damn race, even though your sky has already begun falling (in love).

So you and Blonde Beard decide to go to his place (he still hasn't even been to your Home Sweet Hovel, which seems a bit weird, but whatever) and order some Burritoville Burritos (the cannibal in you chooses chicken) while watching something embarrassing on Pay-Per-View (Nancy Drew). The delicious burrito makes up for the lousy movie, but you're getting caught up in the unimportant (yet extremely embarrassing) details. During the movie you notice that you're not playing footsie as much as you did when you watched V for Vendetta last week. And after the movie, although you have (thank God) great sex, for some reason it seems a bit more rushed than before. And when you go to bed you feel like there's less cuddling than you've become accustomed to. And in the morning, Blonde Beard pushes the snooze button one less time before he hops out of bed. And on the M8 crosstown bus, he never once rubs his knee against yours. But the real kicker is that when you get off the bus at Sixth Avenue, you find yourself standing out in the rain with neither an umbrella (literally and symbolically) nor any sort of future plan to see each other again. And Blonde Beard always asks you about your schedule in order to make your next date.

Instead of working, you end up feeling sorry for yourself and moping around your apartment all morning. Everything annoys you, especially the dirty dishes that your Hobosexual Roommate left in the sink. Equally irritating is his week's worth of unopened mail that is overtaking the minuscule chopping block cart that doubles as your kitchen table. And when you hop in the shower you get really peeved that your recently purchased bar of soap has somehow disappeared into a shaving of nothingness even though you've been showering at either the gym or over at Blonde Beard's. In fact, you notice that the Hobosexual doesn't even own his own bar of soap! But the real kicker comes when you make your way over to the little teaspoon-sized basin that your landlord considers to be a sink, and you actually start to seethe from all the disgusting hair clippings that the Hobosexual has trimmed from his body and left blanketing everything. You are too old to be living like this. You need stability in your life. You need to live in an apartment where the hair clippings in the sink are yours. Or, at the very least, are Blonde.

Instead of writing you start flipping through Time Out New York to look for distractions. Only what distracts you is an advertisement for a new co-op in Jackson Heights where the studios start at $160k. For a second you worry that your Lasik might need a touch-up, but instead of dialing your eye surgeon, instead you find yourself dialing the Real Estate Agent about her obvious typo. The next thing you know you are headed out to the Gay Latino Barrio in Queens to look at real estate you can't afford even though it's Midwesternly cheap. Funnily enough, when you turn around from ringing the Real Estate Agents buzzer you are shocked to find your flight attendant friend, Jet Blew, who's standing behind you in the vestibule. You haven't seen him since the XXX-mas party last December when you hooked up with The Cellist; a period you now refer to as B.B.B. (Before Blonde Beard). Apparently Jet Blew is on a layover and saw the same ad you did. So you go upstairs and practically cry on his shoulder as you tell him all about your non-Boyfriend and your unrequited L-Bomb.

The Real Estate is a nice distraction, and actually could make a really nice Home Sweet Home if your Daddy Warbucks would help get you out of your Home Sweet Hovel by co-signing the mortgage. You're pretty sure that no bank in their right mind would ever approve a loan for starving writer who's living off his Blah-Blah-Blog Income. Which, thanks to an advertisement you're running on Facebook, is actually Outgo. Especially during a national mortgage crisis. But you're too busy dwelling on your whole Blonde Beard situation to be thinking about anything that might affect someone else. Especially anything national. But when the hairy man in question sends you a text message informing you that he's on his way home from work and absolutely starving because he didn't have time for lunch, you take the opportunity to ask if he'd like to meet for an early dinner, even though you have no appetite.

You end up meeting at a loud, crowded, cheap burger place in the West Village, cleverly named Westville. It's probably not the greatest choice for the heavy conversation that you want to have, but the prospect of being dumped in a nicer, quieter, more romantic restaurant sounds equally awful and expensive. Not to mention so fucking cliché that you'd rather be dumped in a burger joint, if for nothing more than the sympathy that it would demand during your rehashing of the event. So when Blonde Beard asks you if you're feeling better you decide to take the opportunity and jump right into the source of your recent mania. Suddenly you feel like Mr. Sheffield on The Nanny after he told Fran that he loved her and then decided to take it back. Instead of humiliating yourself and bringing up the whole embarrassing situation again, you just remind Blonde Beard of the other night when you said that thing that he didn't respond to. And when he instantly knows the thing you're referring to, even though you've just given the lamest most vague description possible of the event, you instantly realize that indeed, it was a very big thing, for both the Plaintiff as well as the Defendant.

You feel immediately desperate. It's a place that you're, unfortunately, familiar with, but, thanks to lots of very expensive therapy, you realize that this situation has just triggered all of your Abandonment Tissues. Typically you are extremely confident in most any social situation, probably too confident for your own good, but whatever, it's who you are. However, since you were adopted, this sense of confidence can be dismembered faster than Lorena Bobbit could sever a penis with a blunt carving knife. And, right now, your confidence is M.I.A. As in M.i.a. Farrow and all of her adopted children who probably wonder where they came from and why their birth mothers didn't want them either? Although you are now old enough to recognize this pattern that has repeated itself throughout your thirtysomething post-adoption years, it still takes you off guard in that same breathless way that a kick in the balls will. But here you are, once again, watching someone, whom you may or may not be in love with, (Oh please, who do you think you're kidding with the "may not" shit?) watching someone you love begin his incomprehensible retreat. Away from you. "Anxious" is what normal people might feel in this type of situation, yet you find yourself feeling desperate. As in a sort of "Mommy, please don't give your two day old baby up for adoption" desperate kind of way.

You preface this irrational fear with your adoption back-story, which may be too much information for someone who's about to dump you, but whatever, it's a long enough story to prolong the break-up for a few extra minutes. And then you explain to Blonde Beard that, after you dropped the L-Bomb, that his behavior seemed to change. That his previous level of extremely generous portions of affection seemed to have waned after you unleashed the explosive L-Bomb. And this change has made you very uneasy. You brace yourself as Blonde Beard thinks about your accusations and prepares himself to sign the relinquishment papers and sever all ties with you. But then something drastically unexpected happens; Blonde Beard apologizes. He tells you that his feelings for you have not changed. He tells you that he wants to continue seeing you. He tells you that if his affection for you seems to have waned, that it is completely unconscious on his part. But the most interesting part of his apology is that you believe him.

Suddenly you feel like a big fat idiot (your appetite has obviously returned), but luckily that's when the waiter brings the burgers, so you get to be a big Gay-Fat idiot with a Cheeseburger Deluxe to boot. Which, of course, will only make your boot even bigger than it already is. But Blonde Beard's apology seems sincere and you are struck by how quickly he changes the subject to something unimportant. You realize that he's hastily changing the subject, not because he feels uncomfortable for you, but most likely he's changing it because he feels uncomfortable. Just because he wasn't ready for the L-Bomb doesn't mean he'll never be ready. It just means that he wasn't ready yet. And he's uncomfortable talking about it now because he's still not ready. But not being ready doesn't mean he's abandoning you. Maybe it has less to do with the fact that Blonde Beard is emotionally unavailable, yet more to do with the fact that you are emotionally un-fucking-stable. Anyway...

You're not the type of fag who Cock Blocks his Friends...

...but you are certainly entitled to be amused when such sorrowful events play out. The Germans have a word for getting pleasure from other people's misfortunes: schadenfreude. You heart the Germans, well the Post-WWII Germans, anyway. Adolf Hitler? Not so much.

So you and the Boy Luck Club go to this random birthday party last night and it's super fun. One of your friends with a Half-Share apparently knows the Host because they're neighbors on Fire Island, and, ironically, by the time you arrive at the party it feels just like Low Tea. It's a beautiful apartment full of wall-to-wall boys, all age-appropriate, all double-fisted with cocktails, and Kelly Clarkson is even playing. Nice.

However, none of this really matters. Smash cut to your hangover. When you finally pull yourself out of bed your email inbox is gleaming with good news from your flight attendant friend who allegedly hooked up with some cute boy, that you allegedly met, yet don't recall, even though the three of you allegedly shared a cab home. Anyway. Jet Blew took his Trick home where the two boys Flew the Friendly Skies all night long. However, this morning the Trick overslept and raced out of Jet Blew's apartment without leaving his number. You have your doubts about the so-called facts, but Jet Blew is rather distraught because he really thought he had a real connection with this boy.

You humor your friend, even though you yourself have often pulled the harried "I'm-Late-For-Work-Brunch-Funeral" exit in order to minimize the overwhelming embarrassment of a Coyote Ugly morning. So you forward Jet Blew's email to Half-Share who forwards it to the Party Host, and thanks to the ever-irritating Reply All button, you are kept apprise of each and every gory detail as the chain letter ping-pongs its way around the five boroughs throughout the day. You're actually okay with the flurry of emails clogging your inbox because they turn out to be a huge help in filling in the gaps of Blackout Barbie's evening without having to blow your cover.

You're busy OD'ing on Advil when you receive an email from Evite with a subject that reads: "Looking for Christopher..." The Evite was sent out to all 169 guests on the party mailing list and it reads as follows:

"One of our guests would like to get in touch with a boy he met last night named Gregory-- black t-shirt, jeans, goatee, originally from Pennsylvania, works at Louis Vuitton. Anyone know this lucky fellow?"

Your cell rings before you even finish reading the email and it's Jet Blew who is screaming bloody murder before you even get a chance to say Hello. "I just got fucking Cock-Blocked by Evite!" Jet Blew is absolutely mortified. You, however, begin to giggle uncontrollably with an extreme case of schadenfreude, which, by the way, ends up being an excellent hangover remedy. Anyway.