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

...but you do find yourself green with envy when your Straight Boyfriend starts doing the "we" thing. Sometime during the last few months he progressed from being a sad and lonely "I" to being a happily-ever-after "We." You haven't seen much of your Straight Boyfriend since he moved over to the Darkside and became a "We," but tonight you both left work early in order to catch up over some cheap drinks and free happy hour food at Spain. Although you want to smack him each time he talks about himself plurally, you end up being the one who needs to be smacked out of your state of shock when your Straight Boyfriend informs you, "We're actually moving in together." Although you're happy for your Straight Boyfriend (after all, it's Mrs. Oui who you're jealous of!), you find yourself wondering if you'll ever meet someone who you can have a relationship that actually lasts longer than your monthly Metrocard? Is this really too much to ask for out of life? Time seems to be tick-tick-ticking away and somehow you're still kick-kick-kicking yourself because you seem to be just about as far away from your "We" goal as ever.

Luckily your jealous moment of silence is interrupted by an older gent sitting next to your Straight Boyfriend as he literally falls from his bar stool and does a Long Island Iced-Tea plunge onto the bar floor. Although your chivalrous Straight Boyfriend hops to the gent's rescue, you can't help but break into hysterics because you had been watching the drunk gent talk to an imaginary pink elephant for the past twenty minutes before reaching his tipping point. The Gin & Tonic Gent dusts himself off and goes right back to his G & T, which, somehow, never spilt a drop.

That's when Mrs. Oui shows up with a friend of hers, and you force a grimaced smile as you say, "Congratulations, I just heard the big news." Mrs. Oui thanks you and then begins doing the "We" thing while you begin to wonder how your Boys Night Out suddenly turned into a We Night Out? Had you known you probably would have stayed at home alone and played your Hobosexual Roommate's Nintendo Wii instead. Things get worse when, out of nowhere, Mrs. Oui's annoying friend starts to fondle your chest. She's drunk as a skunk and starts saying things like, "It's such a shame that you have to be gay. What a waste." Even though you know that nothing good will come from any response at all, you can't help but say, "Actually, it's not a shame at all. In fact, I'm pretty fucking ecstatic about it." And then, for some unknown, yet completely irritating reason, Drunk Girl begins to hurl bar peanuts at you. One by one they irritatingly hit your chest and you just stare at Hurl Girl with disgust as she continues to toss free salty bar snacks at you. When you realize that Hurl Girl is never going to stop you decide to go to the one place where you can escape her Chick Fit and you announce, "I'm going to the men's room," even though you don't even have to pee.

In the bathroom you, of course, send out an email blast to all your Blackberry Boys in search of a rescue ring! Then you kill some more time by checking your email. Luckily there's actually a Connexion message so you log on to see if perhaps your future "We" has just contacted you. You are in absolute shock when you realize that the boy who has just written you is the same boy who dissed you last weekend on Fire Guyland! The Massssculine Man says, "how's it going? nice meeting you over the weekend, hope you had a good one. i'm back to civilization and i think my liver is happy about it. hit me up sometime if you feel like grabbing a bite to eat in the neighborhood (before you move). in the meantime, i'm prepping a list of hard-hitting questions. hope all is well and that you enjoyed the rest of you weekend." You're in shock because you were sure that the Massssculine Man had absolutely no interest in you! It's definitely another big gay conundrum, but you and your A.D.D. are quickly sidetracked when you receive a text from Rice Queen telling you to meet him and the San Francisco Treat at Beige. When you return to the bar, you tell the "We's" that you've got to go but not before you tell Hurl Girl, "You know, I've been thinking and I don't think it's at all a shame that you're straight." And then you throw a few peanuts that quickly disappear into her heaving cleavage before you race out the door and hail a cab.

Beige is packed with boys who don't think it's a shame that you're gay, and you grab a cocktail and start chatting with your Gay Posse and their friends. Everything is going swimmingly (mostly because nobody is throwing anything) until one of the Rice Queen's friends suddenly flings a completely shocking, "I love your blog" at you. You stammer before finally saying a simple, "Thanks," and then you sneak Rice Queen a dirty look but he just shrugs in a confused manner which makes you wonder who told this boy about your Blah-Blah-Blog?

Your paranoia takes you on a Fruit Loop of the busy boy bar and you wind up chatting with some awesome-looking Aussies. It quickly becomes apparent that they are much younger than you, but you stumble through the conversation with a few key phrases that you've learned in order to make you presentable to the Flip-Flop generation. For a while it actually seems like the Awesome Aussie is interested in you. You're completely flabbergasted and flattered, until he asks the dreaded question, "How old are you?" You can't help but notice his shock at the number you dole out, and his surprise is quickly replaced with disinterest. Suddenly you're insanely jealous of the Awesome Aussie and his youth. Obviously he has no interest in being your "We." So you cut your losses and end up running into a Ski Fag from your Chamonix trip and his long, beautiful blonde hair. Sampson gives you a big hug and the two of you start yapping about the ski trip last February. You're actually a bit surprised when Sampson tells you that it was the best trip that he had ever taken. You prompt him to qualify his statement by asking, "You mean because of the amazing skiing?" To which he responds, "What skiing? I was having too much fun getting to know everybody!" Now you're not usually someone who holds his cards close to his chest, but you find yourself feeling a bit cautious as you admit, "I dunno. I kind of thought some boys were a bit cold or something." And Sampson informs you, "That's because you won the trip and isolated yourselves." Isolated yourself? Is Sampson kidding? It's kind of hard to isolate yourself when everybody's busy doing it for you! But you continue to probe, "What does winning the trip have to do with anything?" And everything clicks when Sampson says, "Everybody who paid thought that they were subsidizing your free trip." Although you know that the trip was paid for by corporate sponsors, suddenly you realize why everybody was so cold. They were just jealous!

You say your goodbyes and continue along your Fruit Loop until you finally complete a full lap and return to your Gay Posse. Rice Queen quickly pulls you over to him and informs you that your blog fan actually had no idea who you were because he mistook you for Andy Towle, who, of course, you are insanely jealous of both him and his wildly successful blog. Anyway...

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 the Type of Fag Who Skis on a Ski Vacation...

...as usual, you'd prefer to pass out and wake up hungover after too many Gay Cocktails then to never have slept after a long night of powdering your nose. So, as usual, you wake up hungover and drag your lazy ass to the slopes so you can meet your International Friend from Buenos Aires for a day of skiing at Le Tour. You met Ricky Ricardo last October in Rio de Janeiro one day on the gay beach when your bladder was so full that you had to ask him to watch your full beer so nobody would steal it while you excused yourself into the ocean to relieve yourself of the previous five. You weren't sure if Ricky Ricardo was gay since he was sunning with a girl, but after a few more beach beers you realized that Lucy was definitely Ricky's Fag Hag. You all hit it off and since you were traveling alone, they took you in as if you were their Little Ricky. Ironically you all ended up on the same flight to Buenos Aires, where Ricky ended up taking you to the gay equivalent of his Tropicana Night Club, South of the Equator.

So when you found out that Ricky Ricardo was going to be in Geneva at the same time you were in Chamonix you decided to get together for a day of skiing so you could add another country stamp onto your International Friendship Passport. The only tricky part is that you signed a silly waiver promising that you wouldn't bring any non Ski Fags onto the Ski Fag trip. Oops. Your bad.

Ricky Ricardo turns out to be an excellent skier and you and your BFF can barely keep up. The three of you have a fantastic day, except, of course, when you run into the Ski Fag Trip Leader at the Lodge and have to pretend that you just met Ricky Ricardo so you don't have any 'splaining to do to. Afterwards, Ricky offers to drive you back to your hotel, the only problem being that he has borrowed his brother's two seater Mercedes SL convertible, and there are three of you and three pairs of skis. But it sounds much more glamorous than schlepping back on the free l'autobus so you put the top down and pile into the backspace after your BFF immediately calls shotgun.

Perhaps it's riding in the expensive car in the French Alps, or maybe it's the fact that you have the top down in the middle of February, or possibly it has something to do with the fact that you feel like a teenager hanging out of a two-seater sports car even though you're well into your thirties, but you feel utterly fabulous when everybody in the tiny village of Argentière looks your way as you drive down the mountain. The narcissist in you enjoys the spotlight until you find yourself getting caught off-campus by the Ski Fags' Trip Leader, a.k.a. Mrs. Garrett. Only it's like the very special episode where The Facts of Life Goes to Paris. Make that The Fags of Life. You wish you were Tootie so you could just rollerskate away, but, unfortunately for you, you are so cramped into the backspace that you can't even duck or adequately turn your head away from Mrs. Garrett's judgmental spotlight. Ugh.

After Ricky Ricardo drops you off at the hotel, you decide to unpack your laptop and try to work on a blah-blah-blog entry with the free WiFi in the lobby. Yet when you get downstairs, you find ten frustrated Ski Fags trying to get online with their fancy new MacBooks, only nobody can find a signal. So you march over to the front desk to have another fight with the Merci Beaucunt who claims it must be your American computers that are causing le problem. You're about to get all Carrie Bradshaw on her and say, "I'm not an American! I'm a New Yorker!" because suddenly you have the need to explain that just because you live in an country that elected George Bush, twice, doesn't mean you voted for him (actually, after that Florida Chad debacle you don't believe W was ever elected the first time, but the fact that he was elected for a second term? There's really no excuse for that). Anyway. Your BFF yanks you away before you get a chance to get all political and he quickly asks the Merci Beaucunt if there might be a place in town where you can go get some Freedom Frites along with some Freedom WiFi.

The Merci Beaucunt sends you to Le Rusticana and you sit at the bar amongst all the bizarre gay memorabilia in the straight restaurant as you begin to work on your blah-blah-blog entry. You order some Freedom Frites and a few Kronenbourg 1776's and and begin to write about Le Stalquer when your BFF turns to you with the biggest smile you've ever seeen him produce. "What?" you ask, completely confused. He asks if you would watch his stuff because nature has called and he wants to race back to the hotel to use la toilette. You agree even though you are insanely jealous because you still haven't sat your gay ass down to make any deposits at the European Porcelein Bank. After your BFF leaves you devour the rest of the binding Freedom Frites and wash it all down with his pint of 1776.

A few moments later you feel a hand on your back and say, "That was quick," only when you turn around, instead of finding your BFF, you almost do a spit-take when you find yourself staring at Le French Construction Worker (a.k.a. Le Stalquer). He's got a shit-eating grin on his face that somehow eclipses your BFF's recent shit-producing grin. Le Stalquer tries to tell you something in French that you can't understand, at all, and you are in absolutely no mood to parlez français so you end up navigating your way to the Babel Fish website for help with a translation. Le Stalquer types in one French sentence on your keyboard and when you hit "Enter," Babel Fish quickly informs you that, "The lady at the Hotel tell me I could fine you here!" Le Merci Beaucunt strikes again!

The two of you type boring sentences back and forth until your BFF finally returns and begins to giggle uncontrollably when he realizes your predicament. Since Le Stalquer can't speak a lick of English, you just look at your BFF and tell him that he needs to save you. The two of you yap about the best lie to type into Babel Fish until you lamely have it translate, "We need to go have dinner with the Ski Group now." Since Le Stalquer already knows where you live, you let him drive you back to the hotel while you bluntly tell your BFF that he better not leave anything in the damn Smart Car this time. At the hotel your BFF immediately jumps out of the car, allowing you to have another nice quiet au revoir with Le Stalquer. Since you don't want to lead him on, you try to give him a Euro kiss on each of his cheeks, but he isn't having it, and ends up attacking you with another unwelcomed French Kiss. You quickly pull the door open and spill out of Le Smart Car where you find yourself gathering yourself together in front of Mrs. Garrett. She's glaring at you with her patented look of disapproval as if you are some slutty Tootie holding a bong that you've mistaken for a candy dish. You realize that this is the second time today that Mrs. Garrett has caught you being driven back to the hotel (in a second car no less), and you briefly consider telling her that you decided to turn tricks in order to pay off the €120 dinner, but you just smile and race back into the WiFi-less lobby where you receive yet another grande shit-eating grin from the Merci Beaucunt. Anyway...

You’re Not One of Those Anal Retentive Fags…

...but you haven’t produced anything beyond the odd rabbit pellet since you left New York, even though you’ve been eating like one of those French truffle pigs. So before you go to your très expensif dinner with the Ski Fags at a pretentious Two Star Michelin Rated restaurant you can’t afford, you and your BFF decide that you need to be lubricated for your upcoming financial rape. You decide to make a Gay Cocktail with the Duty Free liter of Absolut you bought on autopilot as you slept walked through the Geneva Airport. Unfortunately, both mixers and ice are extremely scarce commodities in France, so it’s time for some good old American ingenuity.

Luckily you’ve been storing the Duty Free Vodka outside on the patio so it’s perfectly chilled and doesn’t melt your ridiculously inadequate ration of three miniscule ice cubes per fag. These French ice cubes are so petite that they remind you of a pair of Chelsea testicles that have been juiced up on steroids since the dawn of Gay Man. Since you and your BFF are both on a budget (on your free vacation no less), you decide to share one teensy little €6 bottle of warm Perrier from the Mini-Me Bar. For some reason everything is much, much smaller in France, except for the Americans, of course. Being in France is like looking at everything through a side-view mirror, even the gay New Yorkers appear much larger than our French counterparts. Anyway. You are a terrible bartender so the cocktail is much too strong (even for your Irish liver), but you and your BFF are too cheap to open the other teensy bottle of Orangina. But that’s when your Fat American Ingenuity kicks in and you rush into the bathroom to ransack through your toiletries. Your BFF is confused when you return with a plastic spoon and a Ziploc bag of mysterious orange powder, but before he gets a chance to protest, you mix a spoonful of octogenarian goodness into each of your tumblers, et voilà! You have invented a brand new Gay Cocktail! A Doody Free Vodka Soda with a splash of Metamucil!

Some of the fancier Ski Fags have hired a car to Chamonix, but your cheap ass decides to take the free l’autobus. Since you’re still Jet Fagged and running on Gay Standard Time, you and your BFF are, bien sur, late for l’autobus and you start yelling “Vite! Vite!” to him but he refuses to do anything but stroll in his new Pradas which will surely be beat up and out of fashion long before he ever pays them off. Luckily l’autobus is also running on Gay Standard Temps and you make it to the fancy restaurant (that you can’t afford) on time. When you arrive at La Maison Carrier all the Ski Fags are busy playing runway and complimenting each other about how très fantastique everybody looks in their après ski-wear. Meanwhile, all you're concerned about is getting your €120 worth of booze. You begin to salivate when the waiter pours you a glass of champagne for your all-inclusive, prix-fixe dinner, only as he offers it to your greedy little, manicured hands, one of the Ski Fags tells you that they are charging €17 extra for the Champs! Quelle Horreur! Your face drops faster than the American Dollar and your hands begin to shake with the D.T’s as you reluctantly return the flute to the waiter’s tray.

Dinner turns out to be absolutely lovely. You and your BFF decide to split up and sit at different tables because, let’s face it; you haven’t been all that social with the Ski Fags. It’s mostly because you’ve had to decline several fabulous invitations, not because you think you’re too good for them (only some of them), yet mostly you have to decline because you can’t afford to keep up with the Triple A-Gays. However, you are beginning to sense a chilly attitude in the air that has nothing to do with the altitude in the French Alps. So you both decided to blow your dwindling wad of credit (with a 3% international transaction fee, merci beaucoup) on this one particular dinner. Although the portions are quite petite, this works in your favor because a) the food doesn’t dilute the effect of the bottomless wine glass, b) you have already gotten a bit fat with all this rich French food (gay fat, bien sur, never straight fat!), and c) you are completely and utterly constipated. The entire gourmet experience turns out to be absolutely lovely (even though it could have been a bit disastrous since you once had a little kissy-fest a few months ago with one of the Ski Fags at your table. Or was that twice? Anyway.

After dinner you and your BFF direct your little group to Le Non-Gay Gay Bar, only when the Ski Fags arrive there is nothing Non-Gay about it anymore! You check your coat and descend into the less-than-glamorous basement venue, and for some unknown reason the heat is pumped up to about 95◦ Celsius, however the hellish heat wave all becomes clear when your foot leaves the last step. Instead of sticking to the dried up puddles of spilled beer, your feet sink into a pile of sand. Your irritated BFF looks up from his polished Pradas and says, “Ugh. It’s a beach party,” with a copious amount of disdain, probably because he forgot his cute Speedo. The two of you make a bee-line for le bartender and order €6 domestique beers, which luckily seem extremely foreign to you since the current exchange rate makes the draft beers $9 a piece. You toast each other’s liver health and take a sip. That's when you finally begin to feel moved.

Your Doody Free Metamucil cocktail has finally kicked in and you are finally ready to relieve yourself of that binding bagel you had in Newark Airport, days ago. Only you’re in a dirty gay bar. Underground. Trudging through sand. In the French Alps. But nature is calling so you decide to check out the bathroom, just in case it’s nice. Or clean. Or possibly has toilet paper. You tell your BFF to hold onto your priceless draft bière as you race through the crowed bar toward the stairs. However, when you pass by the Kiddie Pool some Drunk French Boy in board shorts hops into the pool and begins to splash everybody as if he’s Jennifer Fucking Beal from Flashdance. The Non-Gay Gay Garçons clear the center of the room as quickly as paint on a Spin Art board, and you race your wet ass up the stairs toward la toilette. You cross your fingers as you pass by the coat check and open the bathroom door. What you see before your pansy eyes is worse than anything you could have ever imagined. Besides being filthy (and not in the good way) and smelling foul (that's never good), you are completely confused as you scan the room for the missing porcelain. The tiled room (which has never, ever seen a bottle of Tilex) has no toilets and no urinals. There is, however, a small tiled hole in the floor with a drain at the bottom. You don’t quite comprehend the whole confusing situation until you notice the roll of toilet paper hanging on the wall. You stare at the tiled hole in the floor for a moment or two, while you actually consider squatting over it. Only some Coke Head is already banging on the door and screaming “Dépêches toi!” as you happily realize that your window of oppor-number-two-nity has closed and you no longer have to go anymore. So you go back downstairs and decide to order a Binding Banana Daiquiri no matter how many fucking euros it costs. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Fags Who Likes to Douche...

...and neither do the French, apparently. The shower situation in l'hotel est très ridiculous! Mais oui! In that same way that "brunch" is a combination of breakfast and lunch, you, my gay friend, have discovered yourself an authentic French bower. It's not really a shower. And it's not really a bath. It's a bathtub with a hand shower that does not attach to the wall. There is no shower curtain of any kind, so if you stand up in the bower you will inevitably flood the entire hotel. So you kind of have to get down on your knees (a position not all that unfamiliar to you) and kind of carefully move the hand wand around your freezing body as if you're bathing in a bidet. But suddenly it becomes crystal clear why the French get a bad rap for not bathing. Don't blame the French. Blame their bowers. Anyway.

After getting into an argument with the Merci Beaucunt at the front desk about the impossibility of moving to another room with an actual shower head, you, your BFF, and your all the Ski Fags in your gay ski group head into town for Gay Cocktails. This poor little mountain town has never seen such a parade of designer jean fabulousness as you all prance your Jet Lagged asses to Le Rusticana. Et voila! Le petite mountain town has its first impromptu gay bar! The red wine flows through your veins in direct proportion with the Euros flowing out of your wallet, and after you are sufficiently liquored up, a bunch of the Ski Fags talk about heading to Chamonix to check out Le Non-Gay Gay Bar that the bartender turns you onto.

However, when le taxi arrives, the other Ski Fags quickly bail so you and your BFF are the only two die hards left. Your unbearable Jet Lag is quickly trumped by your collective need for more Gay Cocktails, coupled with le hope et le possibilitie of actual French French Kisses, en France. Your BFF starts yapping with Le Italian Cabbie in his native tongue as your drunk ass is whisked to Chamonix. After a ten minute ride, Le Italian Cabbie proceeds to rape your drunk ass with a 35 euro fare ($51). Le Italian Cabbie Rapist also neglects to drop you in front of the bar, instead choosing to let the two lost American Fags wander aimlessly through Chamonix in search of Le Non-Gay Gay Bar. But what the Italian Rapist doesn't know is that your liver is like a homing pigeon when it comes to Gay Cocktails!

When you finally locate Le Non-Gay Gay Bar, you are very confused because it’s 11:30pm on a Saturday night and the damn door is locked? You ring the bell and an angry French woman (je ne comprends pas?) comes up the stairs and yells through the glass, en français, and you think she tells you to come back at midnight. Midnight? Are you on the Champs d’ Elysee waiting to get into Le Queen? Unfortunately, when you look around the itty-bitty little ski town you confirm that you are actually standing outside of Le Non-Gay Gay Bar. But you wind up killing the half hour in some straight bar where everybody is drunker than you. And you hate that.

At midnight you and your BFF saunter over for your Non-Gay Cocktail and luckily the door has magically been unlocked. The bar is a tiny dirty little underground hole in the wall with Two Bartenders and absolutely no boys. But after a few Non-Gay Cocktails the place does pick up a bit and you start to get hit on by a French Man who doesn’t speak a lick of English! C’est parfait! You quickly figure out that the Non-Gay Gay Bar’s Female Bartender speaks a little Italian, so you end up enlisting her as your translator and between your merde-y French and your BFF’s Italian, you wind up being able to cobble together enough information about him. You learn that he is gay, that he works in construction and, most importantly, that he has a car. You have fun flirting without words (or comprehension) and after a few more Non-Gay Gay Cocktails, Le French Construction Worker offers to give you boys a ride back to your hotel. Actually, he might have asked you where you were from or what you did for a living, but his accent is so thick and your French is so bad that perhaps you just assume he offered you a ride, but it really doesn’t matter because you quickly accept his kind (and possibly make-believe) offer because you, the Jet Lagged Fag, are ready to say “Bon nuit!”

So you and your BFF pile into Le French Construction Worker’s teeny tiny little Smart Car, and you quickly realize that without the Non-Gay Bartender’s broken Italian, it is absolutely impossible to communicate anything beyond basic French terms like, “Hello my name is…” and “My favorite color is…” or “Voulez-vous couchez avec moi ce soir?” The ten minute ride takes an untranslatable eternity, and when you get back to the hotel your BFF knowledgeably abandons the Smart Car faster than the little voiture could ever get from zero-to-sixty. And there you are: drunk, tired, and trapped in a Dumb French Conversation with Le Construction Worker’s Smart Car who’s expecting toi to couchez avec lui ce soir. But you can barely keep your eyes open. In fact, you may have actually fallen asleep in the passenger seat when you receive your first official French French Kiss.

After about ten make-out minutes (which, incidentally, was equally as long as the ride home), you feel like you have more than fulfilled your obligation, so you say your au revoirs and sleepwalk your way back to your hotel room. Only when you walk into the room, you think something might be wrong when you find your BFF ransacking through his newly unpacked luggage, but you really know something is wrong when he doesn’t ask you any details. At all. Instead he says, “I lost my passport tonight. And my camera.” He begins to freak out as he calculates the time in New York so he can call the U.S. Embassy or whoever it is that you call in these dire, drunken situations. Meanwhile, you’re all pissed because all you want to do is gossip about your first French Kiss with Le French Construction Worker! You can’t get over the gall of your BFF to actually lose his passport on such a momentous occasion! Eventually, of course, he searches through his new TrueReligion Jeans pockets one last time and finds his passport all folded up in some map of the bars you went to in Chamonix.

The next day your hung-over ass is rudely awoken by some French Maid walking into your hotel room because, with all the passport hoopla, you forgot to hang the Do Not Disturb sign. You feel like merde but somehow pull it together to take an irritating bower and get on the slopes by 1pm. Actually, you arrive at le restaurant at the bottom of the slope by then, and by 2pm you are cramming into the Gondola with Europeans who seem to have absolutely no concept of waiting in line. Neither of you have any interest in skiing, and you are both endlessly irritated by everything and everyone. At the top of the mountain you decide to procrastinate over several $5 Coke Lights for the sole reason that it will enable you to put off skiing for another hour. Or so.

Your BFF bitches about not being able to take any photos of the beautiful scenery that neither of you are enjoying. At all. You spend at least a half hour discussing the lameness factor of taking the gondola back down to the base so you won’t actually have to do any skiing, but you decide that is just way too pathetic. Even for you. So you take your first and last run of the day simultaneously and as you walk back toward the hotel you begin to make up an elaborate story about the amazing day of skiing you had so you can save face if you run into any other Ski Fags on your way back to your room to take a Disco Nap. Only by the time you reach the parking lot, you look up and squint your eyes because of the glare coming off of the shiny metal object being held up by, you guessed it, Le French Construction Worker who is sitting on the hood of his Smart Car. Your BFF screams, “Mon camera!” as you want to scream, “Mon Stalkquer!” You begrudgingly decide to take Le French Construction Worker out for (yup, you guessed it) a thank you cocktail. Only today you are exhausted and hung over and you have neither the patience nor the cognitive ability to parlez français with Le French Stalkquer. Anyway...

You're not one of those Half Naked Go-Go Boy Fags...

...but you do like your Cher of attention. Especially after a few cocktails. But first things first because you're getting ahead of yourself. Last night you had a quiet evening planned with the Ex's Cousin, but when she cancelled you decided it might be good to do a little extra work. And when you say "a little" you really mean "a little," because moments after the cancellation your BFF calls to inform you that tonight is the monthly Ski Fags Party at Therapy and they're having a 2-4-1 Happy Hour till 8pm. If you hurry you'll be able to get in a few cheap rounds, so of course, you hurry. Since you don't want to schlep your laptop bag uptown, you decide to leave it at your Writing Space. You briefly think about shoving everything into your minuscule locker, but that will take more skill and patience than fitting enough cute Fire Island weekend outfits into your carry-on luggage (not to mention the fact that every minute wasted is cutting into your Happy Hour), so you just leave your laptop chained to the desk with a Kensington lock and tell yourself you'll pick it up on your way home.

The Ski Bums party is super cute and you know a lot of friends there. Unfortunately you tend to do more gay drinking than gay skiing, but let's face it, while equally fun, gay drinking is a much less expensive sport (not to mention the fact that the outfits are much more revealing.) So you enjoy your 2-4-1's, and, since you're drinking on an empty stomach, your right hand turns out to be a pretty cheap date. Eventually the Bartender gives you the bad news that Happy Hour is over, but then he quickly points out that $3 Draft night has just begun. The Silver Lining! So you order a Stella as you try to conjure up that Ancient Chinese Proverb, "Beer before liquor? Liquor before beer?" but you can't remember how it goes so you hope that your liver can't either.

Eventually, the Ski Bums with real jobs slowly begin to dissipate, and the replacement crowd is not really doing it for you. Your BFF suggests taking a trip downtown to XES, where the drinks are cheap and the boys are cheaper. You know your BFF only likes the place because it's around the corner from his apartment, but you agree to go because it's very close to your Writing Space so it'll be easy to pick up your laptop after another round. Or three.

You know you're drunk when you offer to pay for a taxi downtown, but you're having a good time so it's all good. It's definitely slim pickings at XES when you stumble in and are accosted, almost instantaneously, by a Drag Queen who introduces herself as Mimi Imfurst. She's recruiting for a little strip contest she refers to as "Ass Circus" where boys strip to their underwear and the crowd applauds their favorite ass. Your BFF cackles and then offers to buy you a drink if you enter. Although you are the type of fag that would do anything for a drink, this particular trade definitely seems like a Lose-Lose situation. That's when Miss Imfurst tells you that she'll also buy you a drink and then sweetens the deal by informing you about the $100 cash prize. You quickly browse the fugly crowd and realize that, indeed, you do have a chance at winning. You did legs and abs at the gym earlier today so your butt is especially perky. You didn't eat dinner so you're stomach can't be that flabby. Plus there's barely anybody in the damn bar to witness the entire humiliating escapade, so you inform Miss Imfurst that you will, indeed, participate.

By the time you reach the stage you are officially hammered, but all is good because the competition isn't that stiff. Actually, it's pretty damn flaccid and you feel like you're a a shoo-in to win the Ass Circus. A Skinny Boy with the Chest of a Seven Year Old Girl begins the strip show, and you're pleased as punch while the Bean Pole dances around in his saggy panties. Afterwards Miss Imfurst tells him that he must now show his ass to the crowd. You are suddenly horrified and consider pulling out of the contest all together because this was not part of the job description! But before you get a chance to protest, the Bean Pole happily moons the crowd with his prepubescent ass and Miss Imfurst yanks you up on stage.

Mimi Imfurst asks a few simple questions: "What's your name?" "Where are you from?" and "What do you do for a living?" But you're totally having a wide-eyed "Cindy Brady/Baton Rouge" stage fright moment, so you just stutter or possibly slur your way through your lame one word answers. Luckily that's when the DJ begins to play Rhianna which immediately loosens you up. You decide it's best to take your time, ease into the song. Nobody likes a rushed striptease. Besides, you've seen Gypsy and remember Mama Rose's advice: "Make 'em beg for more. And then don't give it to them!" You decide to start with your shirt which comes off easily and you turn around and shake your ass for the crowd as you attempt to slip your shoes off. Unfortunately one of your Nikes goes flying off stage and hits Bean Pole's belly button. Bean Pole gives you the Evil Eye and begins to campaign against you as you mouth the words, "I'm sorry." But the show must go on so you begin to unbutton your jeans. The crowd seems pleased until you get all tangled up in them and end up tripping onto the stage floor. Eventually all the clothes come off except for your new Diesel briefs (50% off at the Union Square location BTW) and the DJ abruptly stops the song, even though he's ironically playing, "Don't Stop the Music." So you just stand there in your skivvies, humiliated, while Miss Imfurst instructs you to turn around, pull your underwear down, and shake your grove thing for the crowd. You do as you're told but you're not at all happy about it. Your BFF is both laughing as well as applauding, but you definitely expected more applause. Way more. Could the Bean Pole be cuter than you? Oy vey. You're premiere striptease number is bad in a pathetic Showgirls kind of way.

A few more contestants compete but you're too humiliated to pay attention. And Miss Imfurst won't let you get dressed till the end of the damn show, so you just sip your cocktail as naturally as you can, even though you're not wearing anything but your skimpy little Diesel underwear, in a fucking bar. After the final contestant humiliates himself, the crowd ends up voting by applause and you can actually hear the crickets chirping when Miss Imfurst instructs the crowd to clap if they want you to win. The good news is that now you can get dressed, go home, and blackout this entire experience. Which you do, immediately.

God knows what time it is when you stumble up the six-flights of your walk-up and pour yourself into the hovel you call Home Sweet Homo. You flip on the lights and start rummaging noisily through the fridge because you still haven't eaten any dinner, but you're shocked when you realize that you've woken up your Hobosexual roommate. For some unknown reason he is sleeping on the living room couch. You slur an apology and ask him why he's not sleeping in his bed, to which he shudders, "Bedbugs." Needless to say, you instantly lose your appetite.

The next morning you are woken up by an early morning, completely inconsiderate 11am phone call. Caller ID informs you that it's coming from your Writing Space (which is odd) but you let it go to voicemail because you're embarrassed that your raspy morning voice will definitely give away the fact that you're way too hungover for a workday. But you're even way too hungover to listen to the voicemail which says, "Did you by chance leave your laptop in the Writing Space last night? Because we had a break in and several computers were stolen. The police are here now so give us a call when you get this." Anyway.