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 Meth-Mouth Fags...

...however you do grind your teeth and clean your apartment incessantly, but these behaviors have more to do with your particular combination of TMJ and OCD (Temporomandibular Joint Disorder and Obsessive Compulsive Disorder) than with your Crystal habit (which has absolutely everything to do with Waterford and absolutely nothing to do with Tina). Unfortunately today you have a massive headache which definitely has something to do with the combination of clenching your jaw while inhaling that glorious smell of ammonia as you cleaned your bathroom after a bit of Manscaping. Okay, more than a bit. You had let that chore go a bit too long. But according to your friend Half-Share, Hairy is the new Smooth. But, as usual, you digress.

You overdose on generic ibuprofen that you buy on your biannual trip to the Brooklyn Target because you want to be in a good mood for tonight, mostly because there is drinking to be done! You have plans to get together with the Kinsey 8; your extremely gay Pines Posse which consists of you and your seven Fire Island Housemates (four of whom you have yet to meet), and you worry that you and your tension headache might send off a bad first impression to these unknown boys who make up your Quarter Cher in The Pines. But luckily that's when you receive a text from your Gal Pal who tells you to pack up your laptop and head over to Flatiron for a Book Launch Party for one of your fancier, published buddies in your Literary Lot of writer friends. The idea of taking your bad mood out on your straight friends while simultaneously replenishing your good mood with free alcohol seems like an absolutely brilliant idea! So you instantly head uptown to meet the Lit Lot.

The party is downstairs and the bar is packed with people you know but you ignore everybody and instantly make a bee-line for the bar. However, there's only one problem. There is no bar. But you look around and notice that people are drinking beer and wine and your Gal Pal quickly surmises your persnickety expression combined with your empty hands and says, "They have cocktail waitresses." And then she adds, "And they're all lousy." And if that wasn't bad enough, she amends her statement one last time, "Not to mention it's a cash bar." Doh! Since your generic Target Ibuprofen is far from working, you do your best to flag down the elusive Cocktail Waitress (who definitely puts the "Wait" in "Waitress"), until finally she dawdles over and takes orders from you, your Gal Pal, and your Gal Pal's Gal Pal. You're definitely not in a beer mood until you see the wine list, which starts at $11 a glass for bar swill, so you quickly hand the menu back to the Waitress and order a pint of Stella. Your Gal Pal orders a beer too, and her Gal Pal orders a glass of wine (but she's in Real Estate so she can afford to be fancy like that). And that's when the Cocktail Waitress asks for your Credit Card to start a tab. Only she doesn't ask for each of your cards, she asks you for your card. Now if there's one thing you have no interest in, it's starting a tab at a bar for anyone other than yourself. After all, you are your own favorite charity. So you kind of hesitate for a moment before you actually hear the completely foreign words coming out of your mouth that somehow string together into a bizarre sentence that you've never uttered before, "But I'm only going to have one drink." The Cunttail Waitress is noticeably irked as she rolls her eyes and informs you that, "It's just easier for me to put everything on one bill." Now, you and your throbbing headache are literally about to have an aneurysm as you prepare to say, Easier for who? It's not my job to make your job easier! Especially since it took you a half hour to come over and take our damn drink order! But luckily your Gal Pal's Gal Pal beats you to the punch and informs the Cunttail Waitress, calmly and collectively, that she will put this round on her card and we can pay her back in cash. But the Cunttail Waitress can't seem to be satisfied and leave it at that. She would prefer that you leave the tab open. And she actually argues about it to the point where you almost find yourself asking, Don't you work for tips?

And then you wait. And wait. And wait. In fact you wait sooooooo long that you actually find yourself in the precarious position of having to depend on the kindness of bitchy Cocktail Waitresses. Eventually you pull a Marlon Brando and scream, "Stelllllllllllllllaaaaaaaaa!" through the crowd of Straight Writers who luckily chuckle at your Tennessee Williams reference. In fact, you are practically Jones-ing by the time the Cunttail Waitress returns with your order and she offers your detoxing, shaky hands the Stella Artois that you ordered yesterday. You literally haven't been this sober since you were nine years old. But you are happy to have a nice frothy glass of your headache elixir (okay, okay, perhaps it is a hangover after all). But the Hair of the Dog instantly improves your foul mood and you start to do some Network-y Chit Chat with whoever will listen to your yappy crap. And wouldn't you know it, just like that you find yourself empty handed. Again. Your Gal Pal begs you to order from one of the other elusive Cocktail Waitresses, but you don't have time to be choosy. After all, there is drinking to be done! You tell your Gal Pal that you'll place an order with the next Cocktail Waitress who passes. And, of course, that's when the Cunttail Waitress pops out of nowhere, almost as if she's some damn Groundhog re-emerging from a winter of hibernation. Meanwhile, she's just as grumpy as the damn shadowless Groundhog when you ask her for another Stella. This time she actually scolds you, "This is why I wanted you to open a tab!" However, even though you want to say, Listen honey, I'm sure you can get away with pulling your crap on the straight boys, but, trust me, I have absolutely no interest in fucking you, but you actually end up saying something much more diplomatic, "If it's too much trouble then I can happily go somewhere else." And then the Cunttail Waitress disappears in a huff, leaving you confused as to whether or not she will actually return with another beer.

Eventually she does return. With a heap of bad attitude and a bottle of Amstel Light. As she hands it to you, you happily remind her that you ordered a Stella Artois on draught. Although she practically gives her two-week notice over this ridiculous situation (that she created) and almost retires from a job that, although not rocket science, she is completely under-qualified to hold. Meanwhile eventually she returns with your Stella, and venomously spits out the words, "It's on the house!" (probably right after she venomously spit into your pint). You graciously accept the most ungracious gift you've ever received and quickly put your beer money back into your pocket. Your Gal Pal pleads and begs with you to give the Cunttail Waitress a tip, and eventually, against your better judgment, you concede and give the Cunttail Waitress $2 before running for the hills and getting your gay ass the hell out of this bizarre place that the Lit Lot refers to as a "Straight Bar."

Just like the Village People, you Go West and make your way over to Chelsea to meet the Kinsey 8 at, get this, View Bar. Surprisingly, there is a gay bar in Manhattan that you've never been to, and when you arrive you instantly realize that there is a reason why you've never been. Although it's conveniently located on Eighth Avenue and 22nd, somehow it feels more like you are on Twenty-Second Avenue and Eighth Street, which, if it existed, would probably be located somewhere in Weehawken, NJ. Or maybe even in the Hudson River. Something is just off about this has-been bar, which is actually, to your surprise, quite crowded. However everything becomes clear when you get to the bar and learn that they are having a $2 Frozen Drink Special all night long. Twenty Dollars later (not including your tipsy tips) your headache is finally gone! Meanwhile, the Kinsey 8 turns out to be a fun group and you are very much looking forward to spending one week of every month with them in your ridiculously over-priced Quarter Cher.

As usual, once you are completely lubricated, you decide that you'd like to have your tires rotated, as well. So when the Kinsey 8 packs up to leave View Bar, you, my friend, text your BFF to see what kind of Gay Shenanigans he's gotten himself into. You are quite confused when you receive a response that he is actually at a lesbian bar called The Cubbyhole sharing beers with a lesbian who he actually shares a cubbyhole with at work. "A lesbian bar?" is all you can muster as you quickly stumble your way toward the West Village to yet another gay bar that you've never set foot inside. You're actually a little bit nervous walking into the crowded girl bar, mostly because these girls tend to be on the large size and could probably snap you like a twig, one-handedly, while pounding a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon with the other. But you keep an open mind and are pleasantly surprised to find that these svelte Lipstick Lesbians have the good sense to order low-cal bottles of Bud Light and, in turn, are far from Lesbian Fat! In fact, they're not even Straight Fat! And some of them (well, a few) aren't even Gay Fat! Somehow you've stumbled into the TwiDyke Zone and when you find your BFF he introduces you to Pussy Galore, his lesbian Cubbyhole Mate from work who happens to the Belle of the Ball-less Ball! She's absolutely gorgeous, smart, thin, and has all the Cubby Ho's whipped up into an Estrogen Frenzy because she is recently single to boot! Your BFF quickly informs you of your new Cubby Role as you both make yourselves useful by fending off some of the less-worthy Cubby Ho's who all seem to have turned into over-zealous Zombies as they try to get past Pussy Galore's Gay Gatekeepers.

After a few hours of Fending off the Female Faggots, you all decide to call it a night and, since it's raining, you duck into the 14th Street subway instead of walking a few extra blocks to the West 4th station where you'll eventually have to transfer. Only something is very, very wrong with the MTA. You wait so long for a train that you begin to wonder if perhaps you may have ordered one from the Cunttail Waitress? And when an E train finally shows up, you take it one stop to West 4th Street Station where you end up waiting literally forever for the F. Two trains actually come, but from what you can discern from an unintelligible message on the P.A. system, both have been re-routed toward somewhere like New Jersey or maybe even Pennsylvania? So you wait and wait for a D train which never bothers to show. Eventually, you give up and decide to walk the rest of the way home. Luckily, when you emerge from your underground Purgatory, you instantly notice a 24 hour McDonald's where your cheap yet hungry ass spends it's last seven dollars on seven items from the Dollar Value Menu. You munch away during your wet walk home, but by the time you arrive at your Home Sweet Hovel it is somehow 4am! You somehow lift your Lesbian Fat Dollar-Value Ass up the six-flights of stairs so your overworked liver can recharge during its eight hour liquor-free respite. Only when you plug in your iPhone so it too can recharge, too, your iCal reminds you that you have, get this, a dentist appointment at 9:30am. Ugh. After what feels like four minutes of sleep, somehow, although you wake up feeling like you were run over by that elusive F train, you make it to your dentist appointment even though you know you must smell like a brewery. And during the most painful, bloodiest cleaning of your entire adult life, you begin to actually wish that you were a toothless Crystal Meth Addict, instead of just a lowly alcoholic. With another massive headache to boot. Anyway...