You're Not One of Those Fags Who Dwell in the Past...

...although your blog definitely does. However, you've been doing your very best to catch up to real time lately, but now you need to slow down for a bit so you don't gloss over some of the more ridiculous things that have recently happened. Like when you met Rice Queen and Rice Queen #2 at Star Lounge, for Josh Wood's Friday Night party at the Chelsea Hotel . Since lately you've been hemorrhaging money over ridiculous and frivolous things like furniture, your budget doesn't have much left over for the more important necessities, like booze and dates. So you guzzle down a bottle of Two Buck Chuck over a lovely, yet lonely dinner of left-overs before racing to Chelsea in order to compete heavily in the Bar Rush event during the coveted free vodka hour.

You, of course, are very competitive in this particular event and during the last few, precious minutes of the open bar, you make your way through the frenzy and decide to utilize the coveted, yet time-tested technique of double-fisting vodkas in order to ease you into the cool-down period. After that, however, everything gets a bit hazy. You remember having fun with your friends and the swarm of Gaysian boys who surround them like some impenetrable Gay Wall of China. You remember running into the Indian Guy that you may or may not have made out with on Fire Guyland, however you really have no idea if you may or may not have also made out with him at the Star Lounge.

The next thing you know, Blackout Barbie is waking up. At noon. And one thing's for damn sure, she ain't in Ken's bed. The "trick" is apparently on you, because you ain't Indian Guy's bed either. Your head is pounding as you inspect your surroundings as you attempt to piece together disparate memories of last night's events. Luckily the Naked Guy in your arms is actually even cuter than Indian Guy, and somehow it feels nice and comfortable holding him. You have a vague memory of sitting in some diner you can't remember while munching on a big-ass delicious burger with crispy fries across from the Naked Guy who's name you also cannot remember. You suddenly remember talking to him about his Berlin t-shirt, and about how he just returned from a trip there. But when Naked Guy starts yapping about that hysterical thing you allegedly said while you were ordering drinks in Barracuda, you find yourself laughing along cautiously, almost as if you're not hearing this humorous joke for the very first time. Meanwhile, when the hell did you go to Barracuda?

Even though you feel like shit, the two of you lie around in bed, making out and yapping about nothing for hours. This is mostly because you are terrified to get out of bed and face the day, but partly because you love feeling Naked Guy's naked body. It's beautiful. Yet much, much too young for you. Although you're super turned on, every time it gets a little bit hot and heavy, Naked Guy starts to talk. And talk. And talk. Mostly about himself. Which would actually be interesting if your heads (both above and below your shoulders) weren't pounding for different kinds of attention. Once your downstairs head realizes that there ain't no head gonna happen, you reluctantly get out of bed in order to take care of the head above your shoulders.

You're putting on your pants when Naked Guy points out a picture of his mother who is literally wearing a broach that says, "Jesus Loves You." That's when you notice the cross dangling around Naked Guy's neck and you immediately point to it while shaking your index finger all about while you ask in your best Karen Walker imitation, "What's up with that necklace thingie dangling around your neck, honey?" Naked Guy laughs and explains that he is rather religious and asks if you have a problem with it. You joke, "I have a bigger problem with jewelry on my men than I do with religion. And I haven't had any problems with religion ever since I gave up going to church for Lent."

Before you leave, Naked Jesus Guy gets up to write down his number on an envelope for you. Only before he writes it down, he decides to read the letter inside. It's from his best friend, and for some unknown reason, Naked Jesus Guy decides to recite it to you and your hangover. Although you're in too much pain to pay much attention, you are certainly struck by one sentence in particular that says, "I thank the Lord for bringing us together." All of this is just a bit too much for your hungover heathen ass to process, and suddenly, now that you are standing, you feel more than a bit woozy. You finger some toothpaste around your morning mouth before saying goodbye and escaping to the insanely bright, unbelievably unsympathetic, blinding afternoon sunlight.

It takes you a moment before you realize where you are. Let's face it, it really wouldn't surprise you if you were in Hackensack. But you're not. Although right about now you find yourself wishing that you had woken up in New Jersey, because you literally feel ill when you notice that you're smack in the middle of Blonde Beard's block. Looking over at his apartment building. Actually, you've been thinking about him a lot lately. Like a crazy amount. Like when you wake up alone in your bed (most) every morning. Like when you pass by one of the many restaurants you had some romantic meal in. Like so much that you've even been considering getting in touch with him lately. Just to see what the hell happened. Just to see if perhaps he's got regrets, too. After all, it's not like you fall in love everyday. But unfortunately, it's not like you've fallen out of love so quickly either. And here you are. In the West Village. Feeling like shit. Suddenly feeling pathetic and lonely as you begin your walk of shame over to the West 4th Street subway station. It's hot. And muggy. And extremely humid. And the weather is the least oppressive thing bombarding you while you stand on the same platform where your relationship with Blonde Beard ended. Will you ever get over him? And more importantly, why on earth are you more into him now than you have been for months? Why is the memory of Blonde Beard getting stronger instead of fading away? You are flooded with fond memories from the past that do nothing but make you want to cry while you wait for the F train. Anyway...

FAG FORWARD! You're Not One of Those Dirty Fags...

...but your apartment has become one giant mess of boxes filled with old crap you need to get rid of and new boxes filled with Ikea crap that you need to put together. But after finishing your work, you decide to blow off all the boxes and wander around your new 'hood to check out the dirty gay bars in Jackson Heights.

Being a very organized and very thirsty boy, you, of course, create a list of all the local gay watering holes. Although you've always heard that Jackson Heights was very gay, you're kind of shocked at how many bars are within stumbling distance. Although a far cry from Chelsea or Hellsea, you're rather pleased to realize that you now live in the fabuloso Latin Gay Ghetto of Jacksea. Your first stop is at a place called The Music Box, which is literally less than a block away from your new home. The drag show is a bit tragic and since you took français you only understand the 'lish half of the Spanglish performance. As usual, the bartender is cute (luckily there are some things in this gay world that you can count on regardless of language barriers) and is nice enough to go over your list. He crosses out a few of the bars and sends you directly to Friends Tavern, assuring you that it'll be busy on a Thursday night.

Friends is packed and the boys are Latin and the music is Latin and the language is Latin and you are not. Honestly you feel like you are very, very far away from home, like somewhere in South America, even though you live just a few blocks away. In fact you feel so out of place that you decide to go home after you finish your beer. But that's when some hot, shirtless, Latin guy in his early thirties introduces himself. Although nobody else seems very interested in hable inglés to your cracker ass, this Latin Potato Queen is a different story. He's actually extremely sexy, and the next thing you know you are kissing him. Hey, it happens. Unfortunately he's an extremely bad kisser (talk about the kiss of death), so after two or three hours of terrible kisses you decide you must go home. But the Latin Potato Queen doesn't want you to go yet. He obviously wants more kissing lessons. And he obviously needs them. But you are tired and when you look at your watch you want to die because somehow it is now 3am. He makes you give him your number and when you go home you make yourself a frozen burrito (wonder where you got that craving...) and the Latin Potato Queen calls you make sure you got home safe. Which is kind of sweet. Anyway.

That weekend while you're hanging pictures on your bare walls, you get a text from Rice Queen telling you to meet him at Pieces which sounds a little tragic since it's usually full of Bridge & Tunnel types, but let's face it, you are now officially a Bridge & Tunnel type! So you go to Pieces (pun intended) and the place is absolutely packed! The music is great and since your inner-Elaine needs a lot of space to dance, you quickly gravitate toward the empty stage. Soon after that the GoGo boys start to encourage you to join them on the pool table, but little do they know that how much dancing space Elaine needs... It's not long before those GoGo boys are GoneGone boys and some straight girl is trying to put money down your pants. Of course you are happy for the cash, but this girl makes you work for it by taking off your shirt before she agrees to pay up. You're a bit shy, but it's hot and you are having a blast so what the hell. When you wake up in the morning you have enough money shoved down your tightie-whities to pay for brunch . Anyway.

During your third or possibly seventh trip to the Gayest Place on Earth (Brooklyn Ikea), you realize that you are definitely being checked out by an Asian guy. You're a bit surprised when he actually walks up to you and says, "Excuse me," but you are in absolute shock when he asks, "I'm sorry to bug you but I just wanted to tell you that I love your blog." You are floored to a state of muteness, kind of like Cindy Brady when she was on that TV quiz show: "Baton Rouge, Cindy! Baton Rouge!" And then the guy asks, "You are Andy Towle from Towleroad, right?" You just smile with relief and inform him that, no, you are not Andy Towle. But this is the second time that some stranger has thought you were him. Weird.

Later that night, while you're putting together Ikea crap, you get a call from a Private Caller, and even though those unknown calls terrify you, you end up answering it because you are expecting a call from an old high school friend. Unfortunately you are wrong, and you are more than a little freaked out when the man identifies himself as an L.A.P.D. narcotics detective. The nice D.E.A. agent asks if you might happen know a guy who just happens to have the same exact name as The Ex. Your jaw drops as you curiously inform him, "Yes," while images of The Ex being arrested in a South Central crack den dance through your head. But the officer informs you that he has located The Ex's stolen computer during a recent drug bust and he's trying to get in touch with him. Then he asks if The Ex works in the entertainment industry? You tell him, "Yes, he does. Why?" The Detective says, "I was just wondering because there are lots of famous people in his address book. Like Lisa Kudrow and Danny Devito..." So you say, "And you decided to call me?" Obviously not a gay cop! Anyway.

A few nights later you and your BFF end up at The Eagle where they make you take off your Polo shirt before letting your preppy ass up to the roof deck, which is packed like leather sardines. Since it's not your typical crowd of boys, you are a bit surprised to hear your name called from across the thick crowd. You look up and see an old buddy who used to be one of your straight supportive friends in college, but is now a big ol' fag DJ whose daily whereabouts actually get written up in HX and Next. He's standing on a platform as he motions you over to join him, so, of course, you do. It's not until you get up on the platform that you can actually see what exactly is riveting the crowd of Bears. Basically there's one guy with a whip and another guy getting whipped. Only the guy getting whipped is bleeding profusely and although you really want to call 911, you just stand there and watch until you start to throw up in your mouth a little. Anyway.

Somehow you get your new apartment all put together well enough to throw your BFF a goodbye party before he moves to Rome. So you spend the day running around buying liquor and party cheese and cheap munchies at Trader Joes. The first guest to your early cocktail party arrives over two hours late and by midnight your little, early-ish party is far from over. The Karaoke Nazi takes over DJ duties and every time you turn down the stereo so your 87 year old neighbor won't call the police (please God let her be hard of hearing), someone else turns it up. Louder. The party is fun and at some drunken point during the night you decide to make a toast to your BFF. You tell the story about how you met three years ago volunteering at the Gay & Lesbian Center and how knowing him has changed your life for the better. You wrap up your drunken diatribe by blah-blah-blahing about how you love him very much and you don't know what you are going to do in NYC without your partner in crime. That's when your BFF comes over and gives you a hug and the two of you begin to sob, holding each other while you blubber uncontrollably in the middle of your drunken party.

Around 2:30am when everybody finally leaves, you decide to leave your messy apartment too, and race over to Club Atlantis to meet the Latin Potato Queen who has been texting you all night long. You're kind of hoping for a hook up, but when you get there he's really drunk and immediately attacks you with his bad kisses. And he's wearing this tragic pair of shorts which you which can only describe as lederhosen. However, when the Latin Potato Queen asks if you'd like a drink, you, of course, say, "Yes," and the two of you head up to the bar. But when the bartender comes over the Latin Potato Queen looks at you and says, "I only have ten dollars," and proceeds to put his money back into his pocket as if you are now somehow supposed to pay for the round of drinks that he offered. So you look at the bartender and say, "I'll have one Bud Lite," and pay for it with a ten.

You gulp down the beer and somehow escape but not before a few more tragic kisses are jackhammered into your mouth. When you get home your feet literally get stuck on the sticky floor just as you pass the red wine stain on your brand new white rug. You abandon the shoes and ignore the filth and all the uneaten food and half-empty cups as you climb into your bed and dream about being dirty in bed rather than sleeping in it. Anyway...

FAG FORWARD! You're Not One of Those Fags Who Disappears Without a Trace...

...but the idea of making Change of Address cards is way too daunting, so you decide to just blow it off. You don't even bother to send an email because there's just too much other crap to do! Your move is actually rather uneventful and happens much quicker than the estimate, yet somehow it costs more. That night, you meet up with the Boy Luck Club for a celebratory dinner in Chelsea, and although you are exhausted, the Boys are in a playful mood and the next thing you know Fat Albert is burning plastic straws with a candle and Half Share is dousing it with water. This, of course, turns into a full-fledged water fight and the four of you are soaked beyond recognition when you ask for the check. Rice Queen generously pays for everybody, which is a blessing because you couldn't afford it. Hell you can't afford anything since you bought furniture. For years you've depended on the kindness of roommates to furnish you, but now you have to go out and buy your own. And unfortunately for you, your taste is much fancier than it deserves to be.

Afterwards you head over to Therapy to meet your BFF for a very therapeutic beer bong which you take on your knees, mostly just to show off amongst all the gay boys who can't seem to funnel a beer without spewing Bud Lite. The applause helps you rise from your now wobbly knees, but even though you're light-headed you certainly notice the cute boy with the amazing body, leaning against the wall and smiling at you. Of course you start chatting him up, but unfortunately his body is more interesting than any of the conversation it produces. But that doesn't stop you from going home with him. Even though you just moved and should be dying to sleep in your own bed which has been in storage for a month, you're definitely in one of those moods where you'd rather wake up in someone else's.

One thing leads to another and the next thing you know, even though you're far from sleeping, you are definitely in his bed. Although you don't have a problem with your slutty self as you grab at the sexy boy's wiener through his jeans, his wiener dog certainly does. Although your trick locked his demented dachshund outside of the bedroom, the jealous dog is having a tantrum, barking, scratching, ramming his little body against the door with the hope of getting inside and ripping you to shreds as if you were an old Blondie song. Although Wiener Boy tells you to ignore his pup, you're having trouble following his orders. You're also kind of turned off by the way Wiener Boy can't seem to look at you. It almost seems as if he's not just ignoring his diabolical dachshund, but he's trying to tune you out as well! Wiener Boy's eyes are closed as if he's trying to imagine himself somewhere else, which has the immediate effect of making you imagine yourself somewhere else, too. Specifically in your own bed without some insanely jealous yappy dog whose mission in life is to cock-block you! So you get up and tell him you have to go.

The next day you begin another lost weekend on Fire Guyland with the Kinsey 8. Your first evening consists of cocktails at Low Tea, cocktails at High Tea, followed by cocks and tails at Daniel Nardicio's Panty Revolution in Cherry Grove. You wear a cute pair of green Diesel's and end up hitting it off with DJ Aaron Elvis who calls you his muse and plays Rihanna's "Don't Stop the Music" before stopping the music and clearing the stage for Lady Gaga and The Dazzle Dancers. You "Just Dance" until the Dazzle Dancers eventually ejaculate glitter which instantly attaches to your sweaty body as if you are made of Velcro.

After the Glitter grenade detonates, you run into the Endohottie who you had an odd coffee date with months ago. Although it never blossomed into anything, you kind of thought it might, and tonight seems like the perfect time to find out for sure. You're having a super nice chat, but eventually your bladder gets the best of you and you excuse yourself for the little boys room. But when you return, surprise-surprise, Endohottie is nowhere to be found. And trust yourself, you're drunk enough to conduct a thorough, yet pathetic search even though the little sobering voice inside of you says you should call it a night because the Endohottie is long gone. When you don't recognize anybody, you decide it's time to walk home. You walk along the beach because it would take another keg or two before you were drunk enough to brave the Meat Rack at 2:30am wearing nothing but a cute pair of Diesel undies.

You wake up surprisingly un-hung, and since it's a lovely day you decide to take an outdoor shower. Unfortunately the boys next door (who are all a far cry from being The Boy Next Door), race up to their roof and start giggling while gawking at your birthday suit while you desperately try to not drop the soap. After an afternoon split perfectly between the beach and the pool, you end up running into the Endohottie at Low Tea who gives you a big fake, "Hello!" You cut to the chase and say, "You disappeared last night," to which he responds with an even bigger and faker, "Oh, I'm sorry." But you're over it so you ask him with a snarky tone, "Are you really?" and then you walk over to the bar because you're much better at drinking games than mind games.

After that, it's all a blur. You may or may not make out with an Indian guy whose name you can't seem to remember, although you do have distinct memories of touching his delicious body and dancing a bit too close for comfort. The next day someone confirms this by saying, "Who was that Indian guy you were making out with?" only you have no idea so you just shrug. Later on you receive a text message from some unrecognizable number which says, "Was a pleasure. Even if you stormed off." Your first thought is that it was from Indian Guy, but now you're wondering if it might be from the Endohottie? Regardless, you don't respond.

The next day you are definitely Hung, but somehow make it to the beach with Rice Queen. Nothing much interesting happens beside some rubbernecking when a really hot guy in a beard walks by and the two of you keep making googlie eyes at one another. Beard Boy stops and turns around twice, yet ultimately keeps on walking. And when the clouds blow in, you quickly vote yourself off the island.

That night, you decide to place a Missed Connections posting on Craigslist to see if you can find Beard Boy. And the next morning you actually get a response! You ask the guy to send a photo so you can make sure it's the same person, but when he ignores your request you are convinced you are being taken for a ride by a crazy person. But since you have his email address, you quickly look him up on Facebook and unfortunately the Crazy Craigslist Boy is neither Beard Boy, nor your type. So, in lieu of sending a photo, when he asks you if the guy you saw was wearing Silver Converse, although you have absolutely no idea, you simply reply, "No," and disappear without a trace. However, the next time you check your inbox there's an email from the Daytripping Freeloader asking, "What happened to you? Why did you disappear? Did I do something to offend you?"

Oy. You're a bit surprised because it's not like you've heard from him since your impromptu trip to Boston, but you also haven't been sweating it either. So you respond, assuring the Daytripping Freeloader that he did absolutely nothing wrong, but you just decided that the long distance thing coupled with his recent break-up (you're nice enough not to use the word "rebound") have made you take two steps back. When he replies and says, "That's fine. I just wish you had been more upfront," you initially wonder how much more upfront you could have been? But ultimately you decide to let it go and just disappear into the endless task of unpacking moving boxes. Anyway...

FAG FORWARD! You're Not One of Those Fags Who Glosses Over Everything...

...but you are ridiculously behind in your Blah-Blah-Blog and it's just completely unacceptable. So buckle your seat belt boys, 'cause the next few entries are gonna be a little bit bumpy. Anyway...

You had a few therapeutic beers at Therapy with Rice Queen before schlepping over to the Yaz reunion concert! It was packed but you were not about to watch Ms. Moyet from the back of the boat. So you dragged Rice Queen through the crowd saying lies like, "I don't see them. Where did they say they'd be standing?" And you work your way to the front center of the stage. The show is phenomenal although the people around you (who you'll never see again) are annoyed.

Afterwards you and Rice Queen head to G and run into a few of the Daytripping Freeloader's housemates who are actually very nice even though you previously felt like they were born in a barn. You tell them that you've been chatting with the DF almost every day and that you're planning a visit to Boston soon. You also run into the San Francisco Treat who offers your homeless ass free range of his Greenwich Village apartment as he's leaving for California in the morning. You are ecstatic! But you are also drunk, because when you finally get back to Fat Albert's apartment (your current homo home) you spend over five minutes trying to unlock his door. Anyway...

A few days later you're about to fall asleep in front of your laptop late in the afternoon when suddenly you get a text that Wakes You Up Before You Go Go! Your new blog buddy, the Non-Party-Boy Party-Boy actually invites you last minute to the George Michael concert! You race home to shower and change and then meet NPBPB at his gorgeous Chelsea apartment where you all drink copious amounts of vodka before walking over to Madison Square Garden. Since NPBPB is verrrrry connected, you actually get to watch the show from a VIP Booth (courtesy of Rupert Murdoch) which is stocked with free liquor and delicious food! Afterwards your little group returns to the riff-raff reality and as you are exiting NPBPB's boyfriend spots a chubby George Michael look-a-like and NPBPB is so enamored that he actually races over and asks George Munch-All if he can touch his touched-up hair! Anyway...

You've had plans for months for a mini-High School Reunion with The Bolters in Providence, RI, but you amend your plan and take the internet-enabled Bolt Bus up to Boston the night before so you can see the Daytripping Freeloader. When you get there it's pouring rain and the Daytripping Freeloader greets you with a pop of his trunk which doesn't seem like the most chivalrous of acts.

He drives you back to his house which is huge and new and on the outskirts of the city. It feels like one of those model homes that nobody lives in and everything you say is echoed throughout his overly air-conditioned abode. You talk about getting dinner but the Daytripping Freeloader practically rapes you, which is fine, but when the poppers make their inevitable appearance, this time you pass on them as well as the inevitable migraine that will quickly follow. But after a few sniffs, the DF wants to have sex in the mirror, and honestly, you're feeling a bit Gay Fat. You agree, and end up making a big boy mess all over the bathroom floor (the DF never makes a mess. Actually, to this day he has never made a mess even though he claims that he loves to have sex. Apparently he just doesn't like to finish.) When you go to clean up after yourself he just throws a wash cloth over the dirty DNA as if it's a dead body and then pulls you into the shower. With his glasses on.

You get sushi take-out but he never takes it out of the Styrofoam containers, and then he starts telling you about how he has slept with 35 guys in the past six months in an attempt to fuck his way to happiness. He also tells you that he hasn't checked his ex's Manhunt emails in 53 days. What he doesn't tell you (but is glaringly "where-did-I-leave-my-sunglasses" obvious) is that he is rebounding like a super ball dipped in Flubber.

Eventually you go to bed and you're surprised when Mr. Twice-A-Day doesn't want to have sex, especially since he never got off. However, after hours of trying to fall asleep in the strange bed with your strange bedfellow, the Daytripping Freeloader wakes you up in the middle of the night with a serious of irritating gropes which you ignore for at least a half-hour before you finally have to whine, "I'm sooooooo tired." Luckily he gets up early to go to work and you get to bounce without having to have some drawn out, glossy goodbye with the rebounder. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Fags Who's Good With Numbers...

...but you definitely have faith in the Law of Averages. With all these silly boys you date, eventually one of them's got to be boyfriend material. Right? Anyway. You wake up on Fire Guyland feeling pretty fantastic after receiving a sweet text from the Day Tripping Freeloader, "Good morning handsome. Hope you slept well. send me a text and let me know when you are free." After last night's extremely romantic evening, you really can't wait to see him later! However, you're happy to have something to look forward to while enjoying a gorgeous beach day with the Boy Luck Club. But today is actually the Boy Luck Club plus one, as Fat Albert's Parisian boyfriend has flown in for the weekend. Ooh la la!

Although he's older than you, somehow you feel like you've become his unpaid babysitter because Le Boy gets off on teasing you and pushing you to the brink. For example, Le Boy begs you to go swimming with him, and when you politely decline he eventually comes back and shakes the water off his body in such a way that it sprays all over you. You ignore it even though this happens several times, but the last time Le Boy returns from a salt water swim he actually spits a mouth full of the Atlantic all over you. You jump up off your beach chair and Le Boy races down the beach like a seven year old straight boy. You let Le Boy get a nice lead before you grab his book of light summer reading, "Risk Management," and head toward l'atlantique to see if it can swim. Your friends cheer you on while you decide exactly what to do. You wind up propping the dry book in by the edge of the wet sand, letting Le Boy decide what's more important: saving his book from an approaching wave, or dragging your dry ass into the ocean. Of course Le Boy takes the risk and leaves his Risk Management book while chasing you down the beach. But eventually Fat Albert screams out to his Le Boyfriend and points out a giant approaching wave. Le Boy races back to save his beach book, and somehow he actually beats the wave by a split second. Only when he reaches down to whisk it away, he accidentally kicks the book with his big ol' adolescent pied, and Risk Management goes flying through the muggy air, landing smack in the middle of a wave. You feel a bit bad. But not too much. Anyway.

Although your cell signal seems to come and go like the tide, you and the Daytripping Freeloader text back and forth trying to make a plan for later. Somehow the day gets away from you, but you decide to invite your Boston Boy over for some pretoxication cocktails before Low Tea. Although you imagine your little Long Island Iced Tea Party to be a civilized sunset thing around the pool, it actually ends up being a lame Q&A around the dining room table as all your housemates are more interested in manhunting on their laptops than in the extremely flattering light outside. Everybody has loads of questions for the Daytripping Freeloader. Rice Queen is especially interested in his work, but you are horrified when you get a glimpse of his laptop while going to refill your empty glass. Rice Queen is actually googling the Daytripping Freeloader's keywords in the form of an unbelievably rude internet background check! But when the dialog turns back to the numbers conversation from last night, you are simultaneously curious and horrified when your housemates ask your guest about how many people he has slept with? And without a beat, the Daytripping Freeloader joins the highest ranks as he nonchalantly offers, "Over two hundred fifty," which, honestly, is not what you ever needed to hear.

You get one drink at Low Tea and can't help but notice the Daytripping Freeloader's roving eye, which is irritating, but easily remedied by a romantic walk down the pier to watch the sunset. He lays down on the boardwalk and you rub his hairy belly while yapping about nothing in particular. You do, however, learn that he is six months out of a seven year relationship and suddenly his roving eyes make complete sense. Can you say, "Rebound"? Regardless, time seems to slip away into the sunset, and since the Daytripping Freeloader has to go back to his place to cook dinner, he invites you back with him and you happily RSVP with an emphatic, "Yes!"

He ends up being an incredibly confident cook, and you, being a good sous chef, enjoy taking his explicit directions. The shrimp scampi turns out to be delicious, however the Daytripping Freeloader's roommates don't seem to be the least bit appreciative. Not only do the two of you end up cooking the entire meal, but you also end up setting the table, serving the dinner, clearing the table and doing the dishes! Were these gay boys born in a barn? Half of them seem to have cleaned their plates before you even take your first bite! Even though you helped cook, you are the only one who compliments the Daytripping Freeloader's delicious dinner, mostly because you are horrified by his vagabond housemates' behavior.

Afterwards, the Daytripping Freeloader asks if you want to get stoned and since you're pretty happy with your cocktail you politely decline. But then he adds, "Would you mind if I did?" To which you say, "Not at all," even though you think it's a bit odd that he'd want to get stoned alone on what is technically your first date. Does he find you to be so unbearable that simply being drunk is just not enough? Or is he just a big ol' pot head? Anyway.

Later on, you wind up back at your place in an empty bedroom with twin beds and walls that are tragically mirrored, but you quickly get over yourself and give into the tacky design as the two of you become extremely tactile. It gets pretty hot and everything goes swimmingly until the Daytripping Freeloader suddenly stops everything and asks you if you'd like to do poppers? Although you could take it or leave it, you accept his popper offer mostly because he's inhaling them like an smog ridden Angeleno at his first oxygen bar. Initially you're into the rush, but it quickly ends up being a grave mistake as you find yourself jumping from the bed and racing your naked ass to the veranda to get some fresh air for your spinning head. Luckily, you pull through and you and your headache head back to watch yourself contort into positions you've never even dreamed of in the mirrors which thankfully happen to be slimming.

The next morning your Kinsey 8 housemates are having breakfast around the table when you emerge down the stairs. You happily report that your "How many people you've slept with " number has increased by one, but Rice Queen needs you to be a bit more specific. "Which category? Fooling around or penetration?" You smile and simply say, "Both," as your dimples blush their way to the surface. Anyway...

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

...but when the DJ at Low Tea plays "What I Like About You" by The Romantics you can't help but race your way to the dance floor. Although you're a bit wary about running into Aussie Bum, you're actually more worried about cooking Sunday supper for the Kinsey 8 tonight, even though it's just hamburgers. Plus an Ahi Tuna steak for Fat Albert who is perpetually on a diet even though he weighs the same in pounds as you do in kilograms. Half-Share has vowed to help out so you figure you can enjoy a few cocktails at the Low Tea Meat Market before heading home to burn some much less delectable meat. However, when Low Tea comes to an end, Half-Share gives you a hard time and practically twists your arm to get you to go High Tea when he says nonchalantly, "Wanna grab another drink at High Tea?" to which you respond with an extremely reluctant, "Sure!"

You order the best value on the Island, a Planters Punch, and you've just begun to sip it when you notice a really sexy, scruffy guy across the bar who is so attractive that you forget to swallow. Almost. He looks over at you and it's one of those moments where you lock eyes and don't feel uncomfortable. At all. You give him a big toothy smile because you are suddenly very happy. Mostly because he's smiling back. And his look lingers, which gives you butterflies as well as confidence. This boy's got skinny little glasses and looks like a Jewish Doctor in desperate need of a WASPy dimpled Shiksa from Connecticut. Suddenly you don't want to leave to go home and cook. In fact, screw the food! This boy is so cute that you may have just started a new starvation diet. You tell your housemates that you refuse to leave before meeting this blue-eyed boy and when you turn around to look for him, he's standing right in front of you. He actually came over to meet you!

You introduce yourself and chit-chat about simple things that seem to take on a much deeper level, mostly due to your intense attraction that seems extremely mutual. Your blue-eyed Jewish doctor turns out to be an Italian salesman visiting from the South Side of Boston. He’s staying with friends who are renting a house for the week. Although you don’t want to leave High Tea, you explain to the Daytripping Freeloader that it is, unfortunately, your turn to cook tonight, and you must race back to prep for dinner. But that’s exactly when the DJ puts on an obscure mix of "Just Can’t Get Enough" which seems extremely appropriate since you Just Can’t Get Enough of the Daytripping Freeloader. When the extended remix unfortunately comes to an end, the Daytripping Freeloader asks for your number so you, of course, give it to him along with a kiss, which, just like Depeche Mode, you Just Can’t Get Enough. However, you’re a bit surprised when you are saying goodbye and the Daytripping Freeloader whispers, “What do you like to do in bed?” Although you’re never one to kiss n’ tell (kiss n’ blog, perhaps) you smile at the Sexy South Sider and say, “I'm sure you’ll find out later.”

Thank God you didn’t skip High Tea is all you can think as you race home to cook! Dinner, however, turns out to be a debacle. You practically asphyxiate yourself trying to start the grill, until Half-Share comes home and realizes that the starter is broken and you need a match. Then, considering how flammable of a flamer you are after a day’s worth of cocktails, you practically singe away any future need for manscaping. You’re husking corn when your cell flutters on the counter top as you receive a vibrating text from the husky-voiced Daytripping Freeloader. But it’s your heart that flutters when you finally read his message, “Those eyes are captivating I hope I get to see them again. Good luck with dinner.” Thanks to a few of your Kinsey 8 housemates who are much more skilled in the kitchen department than you are, dinner actually turns out to be almost edible and surprisingly nobody gets poisoned by your food. The frozen margaritas you make, however, should probably be served with a skull and cross bones on the glass.

During dessert the Kinsey 8 collectively decides to play a little “Get to know you better” game called, “How many people have you had sex with?” Luckily, you get to go last as this is not a game that you’re dying to play. You pour yourself a glass of wine but almost end up spitting it out when Rice Queen announces that his number is somewhere between 250 and 500! Although he’s older than you, he’s not that much older! You had no idea there were even that many gay Asian twinks in New York City! But you digress. As the game continues it’s way around the table, everybody’s numbers are very big (except for the San Francisco Treat who ended up marrying the first boy who put some Rice in his Roni), but when it comes to your turn you really think about it and come up with the number 50+. But then you make an amendment to the game and make everybody go another round. This time you want to know the penetration number. Enough of this Bill Clinton Blow-Job Bullshit. This time around the numbers drop considerably, and basically everybody's initial number is cut in half (except for the San Francisco Treat, of course) and you offer up a respectable 25, which seems rather reasonable considering fourteen of your thirtysomething years were spent in a relationship. And with that, you quickly change your t-shirt and race over to Slip N' Hurl hoping to increase your recently divulged player stats by one--specifically with the Daytripping Freeloader.

Only when you arrive at the bar it has somehow become 12:45 and after two complete loops your Boston Boy is nowhere to be found. Even though you know it's a bit ridiculous, you find yourself extremely disappointed until you remember that you have his phone number from when he texted you earlier. You quickly tap off a short note: "Are you out? I'm @ sip n' twirl but can't find you." Almost instantaneously you get a response that informs you to "Stay put. I'll be there in five." And luckily for you, the Daytripping Freeloader is a man of his word. When he arrives he looks just as good as you remember as smiles take over both of your faces and the rest of the boys in the bar quickly fade away from your concerns.

It doesn't take long before the two of you decide to take off and get away from the crowd. It also doesn't take long before you both realize that, due to unfortunate roommate situations, neither of you have a private place to go. You wind up back at the Freeloader's house (which is gorgeous) and start to make out on an uncomfortable concrete bench in his lush garden. His kisses are like buttah, and after the crappy dinner you made, you could use some nourishment! Honestly, even though it's buggy and you're being eaten alive by mosquitoes (and most likely, deer ticks), you really can't get enough of the Daytripping Freeloader's kisses and you continue to devour him until his housemates come home and turn on the outside lights. Embarrassed, you quickly jump off the bench and re-button your blouse and fix your lipstick in order to be introduced to his posse.

Moments later, you've already forgotten all their names as the two of you head down the boardwalk to go to the beach. You sit down at the edge of the beach and listen to the waves crash into the moonlit darkness as you get to know each other better. It's one of the most romantic evenings you've ever had on Fire Guyland, and you are perfectly elated, hours later, when you eventually find yourself walking home, alone, with your 50:25 ratio perfectly in tact, as well as plans to meet up with the Daytripping Freeloader tomorrow. Anyway...

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

...who thinks his pants are too fancy for Cherry Grove. However, you are definitely one of those lazy fags who rarely schleps his way through the Meat Rack in fear of losing his cheap pants on the way there. Actually you're kind of terrified of the Meat Rack, mostly because you know that if you found yourself in some dark, unsavory, sticky situation, you'd just wind up giggling like some nervous nelly and run out with your tail between your legs. You also prefer to actually see the people that you have sex with. Perhaps you're just a bit old fashioned in that way. But it's lunchtime and Rice Queen feels like a walk, so you, Rice Queen #3 and The San Francisco Treat decide to grab a bite in Cherry Grove. Luckily everybody's pants (all of which are much fancier than yours) stay completely buttoned as you pass through the mysterious Meat Rack.

When you woke up this morning at the ungodly hour of noon you instantly began to piece together the events of the previous evening before pulling your tired old ass out of bed . Although your memory is just as hazy and humid as today's weather, you unfortunately remember drunkenly agreeing to go to Aussie Bum's 29th birthday party at 2pm. Only you don't want to go. Although he was kind of cute, he really wasn't you're type. He was more than a bit too intense, more than a bit too young, and way more than a bit of an awful kisser. Even though you really don't want to send the wrong signals by going to Aussie Bum's party, you also hate going back on your word.

You poll your friends over lunch about how you should handle this Aussie Bum situation, and the general consensus is, "If you don't want to go to his party, then just blow it off." Although you know that this tact will send a very clear signal to Aussie Bum, you still feel lame about it. But that's when you receive a text from Aussie Bum that says, "Let me know if you are swinging by, if not, no stress. Cheers." The worst part comes when you notice that the timestamp reads 2:05pm. With all your lollygagging about whether or not you should go to his damn party, you are now officially five minutes late, not to mention more than a half-hour away. But during your past thirtysomething years in the YOUniverse, the one thing you've actually learned is to trust your actions more than your feelings. When it comes to your emotions, you're just a big ol' gurrrl who doesn't want to hurt Aussie Bum's feelings. But if you look closely at your actions, you obviously have no desire to go to his party. Hell, you've been hemming and hawwing all day, you've lost track of time, and now you are about as far away as you could physically be from Aussie Bum. As C + C Music Factory would say, "Things That Make You Go Hmmmmmmm." Obviously you just ain't that into Aussie Bum. So you text him back and say, "Hey. Im in cherry grove for lunch and not feeling so hot. If im feeling better maybe I'll see you @ tea. Happy Birthday!" To which Aussie Bum replies, "Yes, I imagine a lot of people on the. island feel not so hot today.Thanks for letting me know, enjoy the Grove..."

After a delicious lunch you all decide to take a peek in town before you head back, and of course you end up running into Baby Daddy who is, ironically, wearing nothing but an Aussie Bum bathing suit. Albeit last years '07 model, Baby Daddy is filling it out very nicely. His friends are also scantily clad and seem to be irritated as you stop them to say a simple hi and give Baby Daddy a kiss hello. You chit chat for approximately 2.2 sentences before Baby Daddy's friends say, "We have to go now," and drag him away rather rudely. Although it's weird, it's totally fine. The last time you saw him he was busy describing the romantic date he was going to take you on, and now he's too busy to say hello? It's not like he's wearing a Tuxedo and late for a wedding. He's in a skimpy Speedo! Even if he's late for the beach, it's totally overcast! Baby Daddy is an enigma wrapped in a riddle shoved into a fortune cookie sealed in cellophane that you have no desire to unwrap, let alone eat. Next!

The day progresses like any other on Fire Guyland. Beach Cocktails, Pool Cocktails, Low Tea Cocktails, High Tea Cocktails, Dinner with an overpriced bottle of cheap wine, a bit of after-dinner dancing on the dining room table in your underwear, and then, of course, it's off to Slip N' Hurl. Luckily at High Tea you ended up swiping an entire sleeve of Fire Island Pines cups from the bar when the bartender was busy ignoring you. With these special cups, not only do you have a wonderful To-Go cup for cocktailing along the boardwalk without being hassled by the police, but with these particular magical cups you can actually walk right into the overpriced bars because they assume you ordered the drinks from them! Not that you condone stealing, but come on! Would you convict a starving child who stole an apple from a bodega? Of course not. And this is the same exact principle.

As usual, upon arriving at Slip N' Hurl, it's everyman for himself and the Kinsey 8 quickly divides to conquer. You, of course, get sidetracked on the dance floor, but before you can even complete an entire Fruit Loop, your inner Elaine finds yourself flailing, or rather dancing, smack in front of Aussie Bum. You quickly ask, "How was your birthday party this afternoon?" and when he replies, "It didn't happen," you are equally confused and yet completely relieved. You can't imagine showing up to a party for someone you just weren't that into, where you were not only the sole guest, but his only present to boot! But Aussie Bum doesn't seem to care that his only guest was a no-show. Your attempt at a simple, trite conversation quickly segues into how Aussie Bum seems to think you are just the greatest thing since the invention of the Gay Bar. And come on, nobody's that great. Especially you. This boy barely knows you. You chatted yesterday. For a bit. Your signals of disinterest were pretty clear (except for the kissing part, of course). Hell, he doesn't have any clue about who you really are! The fact that he is so interested when he knows nothing about you is kind of a turn off. Perhaps he likes you because he thinks you're playing "Hard to Get," when in reality you are really playing "Impossible to Get"? Actually you're not playing at all. But then again, on the other hand, his enthusiasm for you makes you wonder if you might be turning into one of those boys who is only interested in boys who have no interest in you? Ugh.

Regardless, the conversation begins a downward spiral. Aussie Bum's intensity, coupled with his bad breath begin to singe your eyebrows. Even though you are practically mute, he begins bombard you with requests for dates when he returns from an upcoming business trip. But when you politely decline he becomes relentless. He begins explaining how you two got off to a rough start and that he wants to make it up to you. Suddenly you are aware that this boy, for some unknown reason, has completely romanticized you into someone who doesn't exist. Which is more than a bit disconcerting. Although you do believe in love at first sight (okay, lust), you also believe that it has to be a two-way street! And right now Aussie Bum is on a lovely, yet very private cul de sac. So before the conversation gets even more awkward, you decide to be as clear as possible in response to what seems to be escalating into an unsolicited marriage proposal. You say, "I don't think it's a good idea if we go out."

Your honesty, of course, backfires. Whoever said, "Honesty is the best policy," was definitely not gay. Anyway. Aussie Bum is now both slightly mad and probably more-than-slightly embarrassed. But he definitely heard you, so you decide to shut your big trap in order to let your words sink in. Aussie Bum actually begins to argue with you about why you should go out with him and you begin to get freaked out. Being a lawyer, Aussie Bum seems to think he can somehow sway your drunken jury. But his closing argument actually concludes with, "If you want me to go away and never come back, then just say so." How on earth did it suddenly get to this point? You just met this guy last night! Such drama! Unfortunately you realize that you have no other choice but to answer his question, so you say, "I think you should go." Aussie Bum stares at you for an endless, yet incredulous moment, and then he turns and disappears into the crowd at Slip N' Hurl. A sudden wave of relief takes over as you walk outside to find Rice Queen and fill him in on your latest drama.


But two seconds into your recap with Rice Queen you are tapped on the shoulder by none other than Aussie Bum! You are dumbfounded when this relative stranger asks you why you don't like him. Although you would usually say something like, "Does it matter why I don't like you?" but something about this boy is off. Very off. For some unknown reason he is a bit obsessed by yours truly, and images of boiled bunny rabbits begin to dance through your head. So you say as politely as possible, "You are really freaking me out!" Eventually Aussie Bum leaves, and this time you watch to make sure he leaves. At this point you are done. You want to leave immediately, but you ask Rice Queen to walk you home because you're actually freaked out that Aussie Bum might follow you and jump out of the bushes on your way home. On the walk back to Beach Hill Walk you receive a text from Aussie Bum: "Hey – I’m sorry. I’m terrible in siuch situations, but an eternal optimist. I may hit you up in a few weeks, hope I’m not so scary. I’m intense but do think you’re worth a touch of my dignity." Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Fags Who's Into Water Sports...

...but somehow during your quest for packing tape you wind up in the water sports section of K-mart. You immediately get sucked into all the fabulous kids toys which now seem so gay that you begin to wonder if they sell them at The Blue Store in Chelsea. Of course there's a trusty old Slip 'N Slide, but it's a very slippery slope after that. You're especially drawn to both the Disco and Rainbow Fountains. But think of the wonderful 8-some that you could have on Fire Guyland if you purchased the Octopus Fun Float for your pool? Anyway. Eventually some disgruntled employee directs you to the correct aisle where you finally find some packing tape and head over to Express check out which takes forever and seems to be making all local stops.

When you finally get back to your Home Sweet Hovel, you begin the daunting task of packing up your shit for your impending move. It's more than a bit distressing, however, because, although the movers are coming on Monday, not only is your new place not ready for you to move in, but nobody has any idea of when it will ever be ready. And the best part is that no one but you seems to care about your impending homelessness. Anyway. You choose an invigorating packing playlist on your iPhone and you sing along as you place everything you own into little Fresh Direct boxes that you've been hoarding like a hibernating Hampster ever since you decided to move. You are a packing fiend of the fudge packing variety (which means everything is packed extremely well).

Only, as you pack, you begin to wonder if you might be getting sick because your throat begins to feel swollen. Although it doesn't hurt, you can feel the glands around your neck as if you are not only a gay variety fruit, but a very ripe one at that. And when you go to the bathroom and get a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, you are absolutely shocked. Even through your newly grown beard, you kind of look like a no-neck Barney Rubble. When he had the mumps. Of course your first thought is that you're dying. Of course. You always seem to be dying on a summer Saturday when all doctors are busy spending their hard earned co-pays on the golf course. All your recent whoring around has finally caught up to you and you are seroconverting from the neck down. You and your Lovely Lady Mumps will surely die homeless on the streets of New York (or perhaps a friend's uncomfortable, yet stylish couch), and you'll never get to enjoy the truly finer things in life, like decorating your new apartment. Nor will you ever know what it feels like to rule Eighth Avenue with a six-pack of washboard abs that you've always planned to locate some day beneath all of that Gay Fat that you've always intended to lose.

You do as much packing as you can handle, given your latest, dire prognosis, even though you know that tomorrow will be a lost day since it is Gay Pride and you and your Lovely Lady Mumps intend to be very proud. So you hop in the shower, neck first as your lymph nodes seem to be making all your Gland Entrances today, and you get ready to meet the BLC for some Pretoxication before a Pre-Pride Party. And honey, if you can somehow bring yourself to swallow, you definitely need a drink.

The Ritz is buzzing with lots of healthy-necked people, and your worst fears are realized when Half-Share asks, "What's wrong with you? You look awful." You explain about your mysteriously swollen jugular and after everybody touches your Lovely Lady Mumps they all have different diagnoses. Especially Fat Albert who assures you tenderly, "Of course you aren't seroconverting. You simply have some kind of aggressive throat cancer..."

Eventually you wind up at a friend-of-a-friend's Pre-Pride Party and you are Absolut(ly) thrilled to be self-medicating with some delicious Mandarin-flavored eliquzor. In fact you're feeling no pain as you're heading back to the bar until you find yourself literally bumping into a boy you dated last summer, but broke up with before Labor Day: White Pants. Although you have no hard feelings (actually you have no feelings at all) this boy is always so irritating and dramatic when you have the misfortune of running into him. At this point you'd much rather run over him, but you give him a big, dimpled smile and say, "Hey, how are you?" But White Pants is a TV reporter and he just stares at you so melodramatically that you feel like it's 9/11 and that your symmetrical neck lumps are the Twin Towers. There's this loooooooong, ridiculous pause which is so pregnant that you suddenly feel like you're at a Straight Pride party, and that's when White Pants eventually says, "I'm goooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooood," with about seven different syllables and five different irritating nuances. Then White Pants doesn't say another word. You briefly consider giving him a big infectious kiss on the lips, but ultimately decide that after all his weirdness, you have nothing more to say. So you just roll your eyes and head over to the bar where you, surprise-surprise, find a bunch of your closest friends. You quickly pour yourself a potent drink as you say a quick little prayer, "Are you there, Vodka? It's me, You!" Luckily Judy Blitz hears your plea and the Cranberry Sea parts so White Pants can model his summer wardrobe far away from you.

Unfortunately this is yet another party where everybody is just way too cute to commit to anything more than a schmoozy, yet vapid conversation, so you end up yapping with your friends all night. The highlight is when one of Half-Share's Fire Island housemates starts to bombard you with compliments like, "I used to hate you because you didn't have to have a real job, but now I'm very impressed with your blog. You're actually a very good writer." Even though it's been swollen shut for hours, somehow your jaw slackens and you are at a loss for words as the backhanded compliments start to pour in. "I actually liked you when we first met even though my boyfriend didn't at all. He thought you were shallow." Although you know that Backhand means well, it's perhaps the first time in your life that you are completely at a loss for words, so you actually just seek comfort in your Gay Cocktail as Backhand continues his barrage of friendly fire.

Eventually, when you can't take being on the Frontline anymore, Rice Queen rallies the troops and the Boy Luck Club hops into a cab and head downtown to the Meatpacking District for some dirty, Daniel Nardicio D-List Pride Party. Although the previously gay neighborhood has been overrun by Bridge & Tunnel Breeders, you are escorted from the street directly into a time-travelling elevator which quickly whisks you back to Village as it was during the sexual revolution of the '70s. Avec Meat, sans underwear. It becomes quickly obvious that you and your Lovely Lady Humps are no longer in Kansas. You actually see things that you've never seen before; even some things that you never wished to see. There's more Grade A meat in this building than back when they used to pack it here. Half of it is hanging out. Some of it's being sampled. Most of it is constantly being inspected. But all of it is completely shocking. In a good way. It makes the Fire Guyland Underwear Party seem more like a cute little Panty Party starring Doris Day. This party, however, features an entire cast of Whorish Gays. And you, of course, begin to make a Fruit Loop under the guise of looking for the bathroom. Only you never find the bathroom. Instead you wind up in some line which you assume is for the bathroom, only when you finally get a turn it's actually a pitch dark Janitor's Closet with no light and no window. As you pee in the dark you really, really hope that you're peeing in the sink and not on some dirty boy who has been rumored to be hiding amongst all the janitorial filth. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those "Wham-Bam-Thank-You-Sam" Type of Fags

...but that's pretty much how you left it with Baby Daddy after the whole "You want to fuck that Muscle Boy, don't you?" incident. Of course you ended up fucking that Muscle Boy, but even though you'd really like to date a funny boy, you kind of assumed that you'd be laughing with him, not at him. You and Baby Daddy texted back and forth a few times afterwards, but nothing ever came of it. In fact, Baby Daddy was the one who ultimately let the ball drop. Although you're not really sure why exactly he disappeared, you're definitely not worrying about it. Hell, it's summer and there are boys in Speedos to oggle!

Speaking of which, it's an absolutely gorgeous day so you and your BFF take the train to Jones Beach to work on your tan lines. And the boys are even more gorgeous than the weather. There's this one Hispanic boy in particular that has definitely caught your eye, and although your taste in men rarely overlaps, you and your BFF are literally about to wrestle over him. Luckily it's a moot point because the Hot Papi is there with his boyfriend and, get this, their two kids! Talk about a dick deflator. The kids, however, are extremely well behaved, and, you have to admit, it's pretty damn hot watching him be a Papi. You and your BFF spend the afternoon concocting an entire back-story for the two Gay Daddies. Since one of the boys is white and the other Latino, you decide that they must have each used the same white surrogate mother so that the boys are technically half-brothers. Your back-stories, of course, quickly morph into fantasies where the Hot Papi leaves his hubby after falling helplessly and hopelessly in love with either of you. Preferably you.

Both of you are still eyeing the Hot Papi when you are packing up your stuff to head back to the city, when suddenly, almost as if your fantasy has willed it to happen, Hot Papi walks over to you and says, "Hey, isn't your name [INSERT YOUR NAME HERE]?" and you are absolutely stunned because Hot Papi is right! You say, "Yeah," but it's obvious that you are confused and can't place him, even though you honestly can't imagine ever forgetting a face as sexy and handsome as his. However, Hot Papi goes on to explain that he met you at G the night you met Baby Daddy. You remember meeting a bunch of Baby Daddy's friends, but you were pretty hyper-focused on Baby Daddy that night so you cut yourself some slack for not remembering Hot Papi. You're also pretty sure that Hot Papi looks better in a skimpy Speedo than he did fully clothed that night at G. Anyway. You and Hot Papi quickly start yapping about Baby Daddy and so you ask how he's doing. Hot Papi informs you that Baby Daddy was actually supposed to be at the beach today, too, but that his daughter refused to go. You want to ask if all the Gay Daddies belong to some secret club but instead you say, "Tell Baby Daddy I said, 'Hi'," and Hot Papi promises you that he will indeed.

On the train back to the city, your BFF can't get over the fact that you had met the Hot Papi before and forgotten him, so he informs you that you have been disqualified, and he has won the the Hot Papi game of Fantasy Boyfriend by default. You reluctantly agree, but then decide to text Baby Daddy about the bizarre beach incident, just to see what will happen. You write, "You missed a beautiful day at the beach today. The weather wasn’t too bad either ;-)" and you get a response almost immediately, "I was supposed to go today but my daughter didn’t want to go. Next time I guess. Hope u had fun." Which is a lame blow-off and you know you should just let it go, but you decide to continue to taunt Baby Daddy with, "Your Hot Papi friend already told me. Too bad. It would’ve been nice to see you in a skimpy Speedo ;-) On my way back to the city now." He returns with a vague response full of zero questions, “LOL. Maybe go in a couple of weeks. Should be fun," so you decide to finally drop it. You really don't know why, but it's obvious that Baby Daddy is as just-not-that-into-you as you are just-not-that-into-him! But then you wind up receiving another post-blow-off text which really surprises you, but when you pull out your phone you realize that it's not actually from Baby Daddy. It's from the Portuguese Brazilian From London, who has, once again, commuted back to New York and is wondering if you'd like to get together tonight. Christ! Your Saturday night is starting to look like it's suddenly about to get redeemed.

Later on, after a few drinks at Duplex with the San Francisco Treat and Rice Queens I through III, you head up to Vlada to meet the Portuguese Brazilian From London. However, he's late, which is annoying since he picked the place and the time, but you kill some time yapping with Vlada's big bull dyke bouncer, aptly named Tonka until the Portuguese Brazilian From London shows up and, although it's been months since you've seen him, you quickly remember why you liked him so much. Hell, he's smart, funny and handsome! What's not to like? Oh yeah, the fact that he lives in London and has a New York boyfriend suddenly come to mind... However, the two of you end up having such a fun time flirting and chatting that you begin to get a bit melancholy. Why does it have to be so fucking hard to meet a great guy? And when you do finally meet one, why does he have to be so fucking unavailable? Your catches always turn out to be more like Catch 22's, and you almost decide to call it a night and head back to your Home-Sweet-Hovel to huddle over some Häagen-Sweet-Daz, but then something magical happens. The Portuguese Brazilian From London makes you laugh. The fact that he can make you giddy during your Pity Party ultimately pulls you out of your funk, and before you know it, the two of you are in a cab headed to your place.

You're a bit terrified that your Hobosexual roommate will be up watching Sex and the City reruns, but luckily the coast is clear and the two of you end up making your own lost episode of Sex in the City. You, of course, are playing Carrie, and, luckily, the Portuguese Brazilian From London, winds up playing a dual role of Mr. Big combined with dirty old Samantha. However, as soon as it's over, before you can even grab a Kleenex from the tissue box, the Portuguese Brazilian From London is literally pulling up his pants and tightening his belt. You feel ridiculous wiping cum off your chest while this man is, most likely, coming up with excuses to tell his New York boyfriend about why he's getting home so late. Even though the whole thing suddenly feels ridiculous, you walk the Portuguese Brazilian From London to the door, lock it, and then hop in the shower because you suddenly feel like that dirty old Kleenex you just used up and threw away. Anyway...