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

...although the smell of brewing coffee makes you a little bit ill, you definitely get a bit surly if you haven't had your two liter daily quota of Diet Pepsi. So after a lost weekend on Fire Guyland (where there was nary a Pepsi product to be found), it's probably not the wisest idea to email your Swedie Pi about getting together. You had a few back and forth emails over the weekend, but any information he offered up seemed a bit unnecessarily vague, especially since he never suggested getting together. However Swedie Pi definitely did mention the fact that he was leaving town for Mallorca in a few days. Although his signals are definitely mixed, you did have a fantastic first date so you decide it's worth sending a casual email to test the waters: "hey, i've returned from the gayer island to the merely gay island. i'm exhausted and need a vacation! how was your weekend? got any time for a libra before you jet away to mallorca?"

While you wait for Swedie Pi's response, the Libra in you begins to weigh all the different scenarios of how this Dating Don't email will come back to haunt you. You decided long ago that Mixed Signals were just as irritating as Mixed Bars. You don't take it personally anymore, because you know that even if Swedie Pi is unsure of the way he feels about you, Mr. Right, on the other hand, will be very clear. The reason you know this is true because, after years of dating, you've learned, first and foremost, to always trust your own feelings. When you feel ambivalent about a boy, you tend to act ambivalent. And when you're really into a boy, you are always willing to prioritize and clear your busy dating schedule around spending time together. But Swedie Pi seems to be playing his Tarot Cards ridiculously close to his smooth Nordic chest. If He's Just Not That Into You, then why does he keep sending emails? Or on the off chance that he is into you, then why wouldn't he suggest getting together before he leaves for Spain? And you're even more confused when you receive his reply, "Want to meet up for lunch or coffee early afternoon? I can come to your hood."

Lunch or coffee? For a second date? Before he leaves the country for two weeks? Not to mention the fact that you receive the lunch offer at 12:51pm... Now you may be wrong (even though you're not), but you really don't see the possibility of having sex arise after lunch or *gasp* coffee. You don't even want to think about kissing Swedie Pi's Coffee Breath. Ugh. And although you don't (typically) mind playing it a bit Gay Slow and waiting for the third date to have sex, the fact that Swedie Pi is leaving the country on Wednesday seems to make the possibility of a third date seem as remote and foreign as Mallorca itself. But here's what really confuses you: Why does Swedie Pi want to get together at all? Why doesn't he just tell you he's too busy? Does he just want to be friends? Ugh. Honey, you have too many friends as it is! Anyway. You reply a bit tentatively, while passive-aggressively fishing for a date that could involve a cocktail or possibly bottle of wine over dinner: "just got your email. not sure if you meant today, or if there's just a delay in your email? regardless, today won't work for me. tues or wed would be okay though. not sure when you leave." There is no delay in his next response, however, and you are shocked to receive this: "Yeah today. Tomorrow I work all day and evening, wednesday it's Chelsea gallery day with a friend. But why don't we get a nice breakfast somewhere wednesday morning? You up for that?"

A nice breakfast?! How do you go from having one of the best, most romantic first dates you've ever had, to some lousy breakfast date? Ewwww! No thank you! Unless, of course, you're being served breakfast in bed, you have absolutely no interest in going on that date! How could two people have such a completely different take on each other? You begin to feel like you may finally be losing your mind until you remember the adorable waitress at Cafe Gitane who thought that you and Swedie Pi had been dating for months! Even she noticed the chemistry! But you are actually more intrigued than ever by Swedie Pi's bizarre retreat and you are curious to see how this one plays out, so you decide to make yourself a bit more available: "i've got a doctor's appointment at 11am on wednesday, so breakfast might be cutting it too close. maybe i could make tonight could work. i've got an event at 6:30 on west 48th but maybe i could meet you beforehand? i know a few bars in that area but, since i don't drink coffee, i never know any coffee places. do you know of any place nearby?"

Swedie Pi slowly returns your emails throughout the afternoon and eventually he suggests you meet him at Coffee Pot on Ninth Ave & 49th Street at 5pm. He is waiting for you when, of course, you arrive five minutes late. The place is a dump. Zero atmosphere. And when you get there, something seems a bit off. There's no enthusiastic hello. At all. And you're not sure why, maybe it's because of the harsh florescent lighting combined with the bright sunlight streaming through the window, or possibly it's because you are drinking plain Iced Tea instead of your preferred brand, Long Island, but Swedie Pi looks older. Much older. The lines around his eyes seem to scream "I lied on my profile!" But regardless of this unexpected wrinkle, there is one thing that is absolutely for sure: All of the magic from the first date is missing. Without a Trace. The whole time you are annoyed because it just seems like Swedie Pi has agreed to meet you to throw you a fucking bone! Without throwing you his bone! As if you don't have better things to do than to fill an hour and a half of your day with conversation about his retired mother! But honestly, at this ridiculous point in the date you realize that you will never see this boy again so you just go through the motions. Suppressing yawns and irritation and substituting them with more and more questions, mostly to evade having to answer anything probing that he might ask, because, honestly, you have shut down. How can you go on more and more of these ridiculous dates? You'd love to ask Mr. Owl "How many dates does it take to get to the center of a Charm(less) 'Mo Top?"

When you look at your watch you are shocked to see that it's only 6pm! You already told Swedie Pi that your next party began at 6:30, and since your BFF isn't going to show up until then, you pull some more questions out of your ass just to keep the conversation going for another half hour. At this point you can't help but be shocked by the fact that your last date lasted five hours and you were actually bummed when it ended! But after an hour and a half of Swedie Pi's monologue you remind him that you must get going, and just as you begin to put on your jacket he throws you a doosey that you weren't expecting. You are practically heading out the door when Swedie Pi asks, "So what's the title of your novel? And what's it about?" You feel like the Meryl Streep character from Death Becomes Her after she gulps down the anti-aging potion and her Voodoo doctor says, "And now for a warning..." You almost scream out, "Now a question?!" but you don't even have any interest in being funny at this point so you just tell him, "It's called The Convertible Life." And, although you are annoyed by the immense question that Swedie Pi has casually asked just you as you are literally walking out the door, you give him a brief synopsis about how it's about an adoption search that completely changes the protagonist's life. But you are absolutely shocked when Swedie Pi has the gall to say, "That sounds too serious." You really can't believe the inane direction that the conversation has turned, but you are on the street so you just smirk and roll your eyes as you say, "Well I'm a very serious guy." Swedie Pi gives you a double euro kiss goodbye and you head over to Wired Magazine's 15th Anniversary Party with your BFF at Highbar and get wired on anything but coffee while you peer over the roof deck and wave Buh-Bye to your Swedie Pi. Anyway...

You’re Not One of Those Fags Who Publishes His Cell Number…

...but you are always happy to stumble upon some quality reading material to keep you occupied while you’re on the can. Even on the Long Island Rail Road. You are actually a bit skeptical, however, about John’s outlandish claims that he will, ironically, meet you in this particular John on the 5:09 pm train to Babylon (Monday through Friday no less) for some “Hot Man on Man Action!” Although you are pretty sure that John-John would probably not be your type, you are a little bummed that you are, unfortunately, on the 3:21pm to Sayville, because it would certainly be entertaining to watch some suburban commuter hovering around his personal little Meatrack on his way home to his wife and kids. You, of course, rush back to tell your own little Fire Island Fag Family all about John-John, mostly so you can enlist them for help to remember which exact train to take in June when you have your next Quarter Cher week on Fire Guyland. Luckily, one of your more prompt Housemates arrived to Penn Station early enough to secure a spacious six-person banquette, so you and five of the Kinsey 8's you share a beach house with can all sit together and shield yourselves from the unsettling number of Kinsey Zeros who could really benefit from an episode or seven of Queer Eye for the Long Island Guy.

Since this is your first weekend of the Fire Guyland season, you are initially a bit confused by the 22 year old Columbia Student from Hong Kong who, although much too young, seems way gay enough to be part of the Kinsey 8. For some reason, although it appears that his hair consultant is Christian from Project Runway, this gay boy does not seem at all interested in participating in any of your convergaytion. Eventually, when you can’t stand the suspense anymore, you decide to ask one of the three Rice Queens about their not-so-Ancient Chinese Secret? You aren’t at all surprised to learn that Hong Kong Boy Toy is Rice Queen #1 and Rice Queen #2’s Exchange Student for the weekend. You immediately feel like Molly Ringwald in Sixteen Candles as her grandparents introduce her to the “Weird Chinese guy in Mike's room,” a.k.a. Long Duk Dong. Even though The Donger is nowhere near as social as the one played by Gedde Watanabe, he certainly is young enough to make you feel old enough to be Grandma & Grandpa. Which, in and of itself, is enough reason to instantly hate The Donger.

Luckily, this is when Rice Queen #2 pulls his weekend bag from the luggage rack, which clanks like a noisy wind chime and confuses you until he opens it up and reveals a nice travel sized unopened bottle of Knob Creek. Although you prefer clear alcohols for the same caloric reason you prefer Diet Pepsi, you quickly decide that beggar alcoholic buggers can’t be choosy, and you happily accept a big swig which instantly fills your esophagus with warmth and good cheer, almost as if it was a well endowed good queer. Since Rice Queen #1, Rice Queen #2 and Rice Queen #3 are all busy fawning over The Donger, you start chatting with Rice Queen #3’s Boyfriend who is a lovely Vietnamese boy from California. And since this San Francisco Treat has been in a relationship for several years, he seems to be quite interested in hearing all about your recent date with the Swedish Engineer that you've been fancying, Swedie Pi.

Although the Knob Creek is long gone by the time the Fairy Ferry docks at Fire Guyland, all of the usual Harbor Hob Nobbers start jumping impromptu Creeks that have formed along Fire Island Boulevard thanks to the monsoon that developed during your Escape From New York. You race to the Real Estate Office with the rest of the Kinsey 8 because you need to pick up the House Key before heading over to your house on Beach Hill Walk. The Donger walks along the path, umbrella-less, but Rice Queen #1 and Rice Queen #2 both sacrifice their own dryness, while selflessly choosing to shelter the Hong Kong Donger with their umbrellas as if not only his feet are bound, but his hands are too. Meanwhile, you wish that The Donger’s mouth was bound because everything that comes out of it just makes you feel as old as The Last Emperor.

Considering the downpour, your first night on Fire Guyland is a total washout, but luckily you wake up to a Sunshine Day that’s so gorgeous it’s worthy of a Brady Bunch song. After a leisurely breakfast you and the Kinsey 8 are surprised by an impromptu visit from a few Gentlemen Callers, who turn out to be some boys that share a beach house with your friend Half-Share (who upgraded to a Full-Share this season, only in a less glamorous house). It’s not long before you and all the rest of The Marys are sipping some Bloodies by the pool, however the real bloodbath begins when you all begin to crucify all of the poor gay boys unfortunate enough to be out of earshot. But you digress. The sky is blue and the vodka is Skyy and when the latter ends up being as clear as the former, you all decide to head over to Half Shares house for $90 worth of Tuna Fish sandwiches (purchased from the Grossly Overpriced Grocery) and you wash them down with a few Coronas (Light, of course, as Speedo season has officially begun), and sit by Half Share’s pool, boozing away the afternoon until Cocktail Hour finally arrives.

You race home and change into a scandalous pair of New Religions and decide to top them off with a politically correct, yet inappropriately tight, “Marriage is so Gay” T-shirt. After all your Gay Cocktailing, the fit is a bit too Gay-Tight, even for Low Tea on Fire Guyland, but black is always slimming, and considering everything going on in New York and California you decide that it’s an excellent conversation starter to begin your annual summer Husband Hunt. Low Tea at the Blue Whale is absolutely overflowing, and although you are just beginning your Senior Year of Camp Camp, some liver spots on certain Senior Citizens’ bald heads make your overworked liver feel as if it were the liver formerly known as Prince. So you, of course, decide to Party Like it’s 1999. You and the San Francisco Treat ditch The Donger and the Three Rice Queens and head over to the outdoor bar to order some drinks. Since the San Francisco Treat has never been to Low Tea before, you give him a quick education about the best value on the Island and revise his drink order with a round of Planters Punch that are so strong they seem to put more hair on your recently manscaped chest.

Once you have your drink in hand, you quickly ditch the San Francisco Treat so you can do an unencumbered Fruit Loop around Low Tea, as it's time to play your favorite game that you like to call,“Who Would You Sleep With?” Although the pickins’ are a bit slim (and not so slim in many cases), you eventually decide to talk to a boy who’s t-shirt begs you to “Take the Pepsi Challenge!” Although you are a Die-Hard Diet Pepsi fanatic, you definitely lose the Pepsi Challenge so miserably that you may actually have to wake up and nurse your hangover with a *gasp* Diet Coke tomorrow. But all you really want is a kiss. It feels like forever since your lips have been graced with all the possibility that a boy’s lying lips seem to promise, and tonight you feel like a Lip Syncing Missile as you mouth the words to some Disco song that’s even older than you.

Low Tea ends just when the sunset turns the western sky a lovely shade of Planter’s Punch, and you and the Kinsey 8 drag the San Francisco Treat down the dock and up the stairs for his first High Tea at the Glow Lounge. Luckily the music is a little more M People than Village People and you and your Planters Punch quickly Hustle yourselves over to the DJ booth where people are actually dancing without the aid of a ‘70s line formation. You are Mercifully drawn to the one Real Girl who is shaking her Fake Tits to Duffy and the two of you start to tear up the Pergo. There’s nothing you love more than dancing, and there’s nothing that Real Girl loves more than shaking her Fake Tits, so the two of you make a fantastic pair, flitting around without ever spilling a precious drop of your respective cocktails. It’s almost like an episode of Dancing With the Bars. But that’s when you see him. Leaning against the wall. Staring at you. Smiling at you. You flash him some dimple and abandon your Real Girl for the promise of a Real Kiss from a Real(ly) Cute Boy.

You quickly ingratiate yourself and are quite surprised when the whiskered boy puts down his Scotch Whiskey and introduces himself with a thick handshake and an even thicker Scottish accent. The talking quickly disintegrates into kissing, and you find yourself mashing against the wall between the DJ booth and the dark harbor sky which pours in from the open window. It’s really, really nice. You try to convince yourself that Hairy is the new Smooth as your clean-shaven face scrapes up against his unshaven one, but even you can see through your drunken denial as you can’t help but compare Scotch Whisker’s kiss to Blonde Beard’s. But he’s tall. And foreign. And available. God knows how many songs or how many kisses go by before The San Francisco Treat taps you politely on the shoulder to remind you about dinner, even though your intense appetite is no longer hungry for food. Scotch Whisky informs you that he, too, must head home for dinner and the two of you share one of those awkward “Where do we go from here?” moments. You assess the situation, and then decide, instead of asking for his number, to find out if he’ll be going out afterwards. When he says, “Indeed,” you smile and tell him, “Good. Then I’ll see you at Sip N’ Twirl later on.”

You get one last taste of the Dewar's on Scotch Whisker’s sweet breath before he leaves you standing alone on the dance floor. Although, you should probably be racing home for chicken that The San Francisco Treat has soaking in Red Wine for at least as long as you’ve been soaking in your own Vodka marinade, instead you find yourself pleading along with Rihanna for the DJ to “Please Don’t Stop the Music.” This moment is yours and you are floating with the evening’s new potential. You could give a shit that you are the only boy in the whole bar dancing. After all, it’s not the first time and it definitely won’t be the last. And you just Keep on Keepin’ On even when Half Share yells from across the bar, “Come on, Elaine!” as he throws his thumbs out, mimicking both you and Elaine Benes’ disturbing dance moves as he leaves the bar for another $90 Tuna Fish dinner. You just smile and wave goodbye, thumbs and all, until a small statured acquaintance who’s (allegedly) into fisting, locks arms with you and begins to drag you (fist first) and your good mood off the dance floor. You try to imagine a man’s hand rammed up your little friend’s bum as The Muppet pulls you away, showering you with patronizing tidbits like, “Come on honey, it’s really time to go home.” And you are instantly annoyed because, although you are, of course, drunk, you’re not that drunk. You’re just happy. Or at least you were until The Muppet had to go shackle your buzz. So you send The Muppet back to Sesame Street for a three way fist fuck with Burt & Ernie as you make your way back to dinner.

Dinner is on the table when you finally get home and the San Francisco Treat has really outdone himself tonight. Everything is made from scratch and there are no empty Rice A Roni boxes to be found anywhere. Even though it’s absolutely delicious, you find yourself racing through dinner so you can get over to Sip N’ Twirl and meet your Scotch Whiskers for another reassuring round of razor burn. You even, *gasp*, pass on the wine because you don't want to be too sloppy when you meet up with Scotch Whiskers. By the time you get to Sip N' Twirl you are relatively sober, especially for a person who started drinking twelve hours ago. Although you are tired, you are a man on a mission, specifically to be in the missionary position before the night ends. So you circle around Sip N' Twirl, over and over. And over. Even though it's dark and packed with boys, you search that gaystack from Tops to Bottoms for your lost needle, but you never find your Scotch Whiskers. By 2am you are practically falling asleep so you decide to call it a night and head home, alone, for a no-night stand with your right hand. But as you head out you notice The Muppet headed your way. Even though he's not dancing, per se, he is convulsing in such a disturbing way when he makes his way over, and his pupils are the size of frying pans as he traps you on the dance floor and shudders with a stutter, "Hey! Wanna dance?" You force a smile for the tweaking Muppet, and although you feel like you should probably call 911 and have him airlifted to a nearby hospital, you decide to let someone else lift him with their bare fist as you say, "No thanks," and head home.

The next morning you wake up bummed, wishing you had given Scotch Whiskers your phone number because now you fear you will never see him again. Eventually you pull it together and end up walking to town with Rice Queen #1 to pick up a dozen $8 eggs. Since #1 stayed in last night to Dingle the Donger, he's curious about what ultimately happened with Scotch Whiskers. And just as you're telling him your sob story of being stood up, guess who passes by on the boardwalk and calls out your name? Scotch Whiskers seems as genuinely excited to see you as you are to see him, even though he is walking with a boy who may or may not be his boyfriend. You decide to play it safe and introduce your friend first with the hope that Scotch Whiskers will introduce his friend sans moniker like, "This is my boyfriend." Which he does not. So then you say, "I looked for you at Sip N' Twirl last night, but couldn't find you." Scotch Whiskers explains that he was there, late, but he didn't see you either. You almost want to say, "I was the one running around all night looking for you," but then he says, "It was so crowded. We should have exchanged numbers." To which you find yourself responding in an unusual, yet appropriately pushy way, "Would you like my number?" Usually you never, ever offer up your number without being asked, but Scotch Whiskers, of course, says yes (what else is he going to say?) as he taps your number into his iPhone. You're kind of unsure about the impromptu interaction as you walk away, but Rice Queen #1 seems to think it went well and goes on and on about how lucky you are and "What are the odds of ever running into Scotch Whiskers again!?" You tend to think that the odds should have been higher for running into him last night at Sip N' Twirl, and you end up winning the bet (or perhaps losing it) when you never, ever receive a call from Scotch Whiskers. Anyway...

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

...but the Boy Luck Club seems to feel differently after you relay the Blonde Beard "Best" email story to them over an impromptu sushi lunch at Kodama (45th Street near Eighth). You are in absolute shock as Rice Queen informs you that he gets desperate emails like the one you sent to Blonde Beard all the time. "But," you attempt to defend yourself, "I was just trying to be nice! I didn't want him to think that I was the one who gave him Herpes!" But Rice Queen isn't having it, "It doesn't matter," he says. "About six weeks after I check out of a relationship, I will inevitably get an email like yours and it's obvious the boy is wondering what happened and, I'm sorry, but it just comes off as totally desperate."

Desperate? As in des�per�ate (dspr-t) ADJECTIVE: 1. Having lost all hope; despairing? Could that possibly be how Blonde Beard perceived you? Perhaps that's why Blonde Beard wrote you back and used "Best" as his final closing word to you? Perhaps he thought you were just being desperate and didn't want to lead you on with an overly affecionate "Sincerely" or get really racy with an "XOXO"? Typically you would just look at this ridiculous Best situation and tell yourself that obviously Blonde Beard is scared to show any kind of true emotion. That Blonde Beard has obviously become so jaded and fucked up from years of gay dating in New York that he has decided that the Best way protect himself is by emotionally dibesting from a relationship instead of actually having a conversation that could actually expose a true feeling. And here you are actually expecting the Boy Luck Club to back you up on this issue while comforting you with enlightened mantras they learned on Oprah or Dr. Phil. That's when Half-Share chimes in with his two cents, and since he was the only White Boy ever to date Rice Queen, you are desperately sure that Half Share will come to your rescue. But he actually agrees with Rice Queen about your email coming off as some desperate need to find closure. You look to your anorexic friend, Fat Albert, but he is too busy shuffling his food around his plate to make it appear as if it were actually eaten, and obviously he doesn't notice your visual plea for emotional support when he, too, sides with Rice Queen and Half Share on this particular Gay Dating Conundrum. Fat Albert even goes as far as telling you that you obviously scared Blonde Beard away by prematurely expressing your love for him. You are in shock! "Even after dating someone for three months?" you ponder aloud as your friends all nod their heads in agreement that three months is much, much too soon to express love. They explain that exposing your love for a boy is the kiss of death. Someone even goes as far to describe the whole experience as, "A real dick deflator."

You leave lunch with all these new ideas floating around your head, haunting you. You actually give the situation some real thought since these are your good friends and you know in your heart that, unlike the emotionally unavailable Blonde Beard, these boys actually have your Best interest at heart and definitely have no agenda (besides, of course, finding you a boyfriend so you'll stop yapping about your endless gay dating dilemmas.) But it's all good. You live and you learn, and perhaps next time you will play your cards a little closer to your chest instead of letting all these silly gay boys play Slap Jack every time you reveal your (Jack of) Hearts. And these are the thoughts swirling around your head as you tear through various outfits in your closet in order to cuten yourself up for your date with the Swedish Engineer that you've been chatting with on Connexion.

That's when you remember a comment that Swedie Pi made about how he had a thing for men in suits. About how he liked to think of them as special gifts that he got to unwrap. And with that, your wardrobe woes are solved as you pull out a blazer to wear over a form fitting Lacoste shirt, which, although not a suit, is about as dressed up as you've ever gotten for one of these silly internet Meet n' Greets. You worry that his time you may have let your expectations get the best of you. Usually you like to meet these boys right away without putting a lot of time and energy into excessive emails and playful phone calls, however, Swedie Pi has been busy working in Sweden and so you've gotten yourself worked up to the point where you are definitely one Desperate Fag.

You're really looking forward to meeting your Swedie Pi, and the date seems promising and unique since he's invited you to an Gallery Opening in Little Italy for a Multimedia Artist named Bill Shannon. You really have no idea what to expect, but when you arrive at the Douz and Mille gallery you are rather surprised to find a Buxom Blonde with a clipboard, looming from the preferable side of her velvet rope, and you and your Brunette Blazer gulp as she searches her list for your name and then promptly removes the velvet barrier and grants you access to an elevator which whisks you quickly up to the fifth floor. When the door opens again, you are instantly blinded by a giant, blinking Motel-like sign, which upon closer inspection actual reads "MURDER," which is exactly what you plan to do to your heart if it finds itself desperately creeping down onto your sleeve during this date which you've been looking forward to for weeks. You promise yourself that you will play it cool tonight. You will not come off as desperate. You will not Deflate Dicks. You, my friend, are not desperate! And, luckily for you, your forearms are sleeved with a form fitting cotton American Eagle blazer that is way too tight for anything to slip out beyond your emotionally stable, yet somewhat limp wrist.

You make your way through the maze-like gallery, passing several video installations that make absolutely no sense to you, as you scan the various rooms for your Swedie Pi. Your eye quickly spots an open vodka bar, and although everything else in your focus begins to fade as your liver begins to salivate in a classic Pavlovian response. However, somehow during the ten steps that separate you from your sober sal(i)vation, somehow you take your eyes off of your 80 proof prize as 100% of your attention segues away from the dark blue lettering on the Svedka bottle and settles quickly upon the dark blue eyes of the Swede who is smiling at you. "Hello!" he says in an accent that is sexier in person than it was over the expensive international phone call, and your heart actually skips a beat as it begins its descent down your tight sleeve. Swedie Pi introduces you to the Gallery Owner and several other VIP's that irritate you mostly because you have to feign interest in them when you really want to be concentrating solely on your Swedie Pi. The whole experience is surreal because a documentary film crew quickly surrounds you as if you are Michael Moore's next docuventary victim. You stare directly into the camera as the Cameraman attempts to document your first few words with your Swedie Pi, however, everybody is surprised when your first words turn out to be the Cameraman's full name. The cameraman's full face emerges from his viewfinder as he says, "Oh my God," and gives you a warm, welcoming straight man hug which is more like a quick pat on the shoulder while his crotch seems to retreat so far across town that it may have actually have to pay a toll when it eventually decides to make its way back across the Hudson River.

You haven't seen the Cameraman since you shot the series finale of the sitcom you both used to work on and you are in shock. Partly because it's been years since you've seen him, but mostly because this handsome boy that you used to lust over has actually gotten a bit Straight Fat during these past few years of Reruns. You instantly ask your TV friend, Rerun, "What's Happening?" and Rerun explains that he has been shooting a documentary on Bill Shannon ever since the sitcom ended. You are happy to have a little bit of Artist Street Cred as you introduce your Swedie Pi to Rerun. But Rerun is busy working so he runs off to film something that is, surprisingly, somehow more interesting than your date with Swedie Pi (which is, surprisingly, even better than you expected.) You order a drink as you peruse the exhibit and attempt to fathom how on earth a video installation artist who films himself bopping around the city on makeshift crutches can actually make money? Or warrant a documentary film crew? You and your Swedie Pi discuss these and other issues as your first date goes along swimmingly until you make your way back to the bar. You, of course, order another Svedka, but are surprised when your Swede orders a Sveven-Up... "You're not drinking?" you ask, confused as to why anyone would order a Soft Drink at an Hard Bar? Swedie Pi explains that he is very Jet Lagged and that alcohol would just put him to sleep. You feel a little funny about drinking alone, and you worry that the liquor might act as your Emotional Truth Serum but you quickly get over it as the bartender hands you your free Svedka & Soda.

Afterwards you are both hungry, and although you live steadfast by the rule of No Food on a Meet n' Greet, you have already broken all your other Gay Dating Rules with Swedie Pi, so you are certainly not about to let this Jet Lagged Fag go to bed anytime soon. You wind up sitting at the counter at Café Gitane because the place is packed and the woman behind the counter takes a shine to you as she tries to plop a big basket of bread in front of you and you say, "We're Gay so we don't eat bread." In fact she likes you so much that she makes you forgo a table when it becomes available just so she can chat with you boys. The conversation just flows. The two of you have so much fun talking that the Waitress refuses to believe that you are actually on a first date. And to her credit, it doesn't feel at all like a first date. In fact, although you are sitting together for the very first time, somehow it feels like you two are an old established couple, bickering about directions as you drive through Stockholm in the Volvo that your Swedie Pi bought for you after you sold your first book.

Your desperate fantasy continues as Swedie Pi tells you all about a Bed and Breakfast in Madrid that he bought for his Mother to run. Then he goes on to explain how it's his dream to open a small hotel in New York one day. You instantly imagine yourself sitting beneath a rainbow flag at the Front Desk of the Hellsea-Clinton B&B in a beautiful Brownstone that the two of you renovated shortly after trading in the Volvo for a pair of matching Metrocards and abandoning The Netherlands for New Amsterdam. But as the clock strikes midnight, your Metrocards expire as your Cinderfella Fantasy quickly turns back into a delicious Pumpkin flavored dessert that is quickly turning you into a Gay Plumpkin.

So you split the check and walk your Swedie Pi up to Houston Street where you hail him a taxi because he is much too tired (and rich) to bother with the subway. You hold the cab's door open for him as you attempt to break your very last dating rule and lean in to give your Swedie Pi a goodnight kiss. You are practically patting yourself on the back at this point for somehow keeping all your desperate B&B redecorating fantasies all to yourself instead of pulling out an Ikea Catalog and exposing all your fabric swatches and color schemes to your Swedie Pi. However, even though your mouth somehow seems to cooperate this evening and doesn't reveal your innermost Dick Deflating Interior Decorative feelings to your Swedie Pi, you find yourself quite surprised when your welcoming lips receive nothing but a little peck. After such a great date the bizarre goodbye actually feels more like the Kiss of Death as Swedie Pi hops in the cab and leaves you and your Deflating Dick standing alone like Hand Solo on the sidewalk. You're actually so surprised by the quick turn of events that, instead of walking home, you find yourself hurrying back to Café Gitane because, although you have no intentions to bear your gay soul to your Swedie Pi, you decide that it is somehow okay to run your desperate gay ass back to ask the cute Waitress what she thought about your date. She's actually just as shocked as you are when she sees you return, alone. However the only thing she really tells you is that, surprise-surprise, she thought that Swedie Pi seemed a bit more reserved than you, but she does remind you that he was suffering from Jet Lag. As you walk home you begin to go over the entire five hour first date, replaying the whole thing in your head while desperately worrying whether or not the new and improved, non-desperate you may have been so desperate to not come off as desperate that you may have actually come off as aloof and uninterested? Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Steroid Fags With Bitch Tits and Shrunken Balls...

...but after a two-month doctor prescribed gym hiatus thanks to your Hurtful Hernia, you are feeling a little bit scrawny and a whole lot Gay Fat. And it's just one mere week before Fire Guyland Season begins! So after your morning workout, you actually find yourself wandering into your Gym's Gift Shop and asking the Monosyllabic Muscle Head behind the counter about the Pros vs. Cons (i.e. Muscle Growth vs. Kidney Failure) of Creatine while you swipe your credit card, along with your street cred, as you descend deeper into both financial as well as ethical debt.

As soon as you emerge from your underground Ghetto Gym (which happens to be so far underground that you're more likely to receive a message via semaphore than by cell), your iPhone alerts you to a text from The Ex, “give me a call when you get a chance. the cat is in the hospital with kidney failure - not uncommon for older cats, but the vet isn't optimistic. we'll know more on friday. so sad.” The Ex got the Kitty Cunt in the divorce, but if you could have split him in two, you probably would've. Meanwhile, it's a very strange feeling because you are in NY and the Kitty Cunt is currently in LA with The Ex. Although you inherently broke up with both of them three and a half years ago, you suddenly feel like it was just yesterday as both you and your mood descend into the subway. When you found her fifteen years ago, the Kitty Cunt was just another Pre-Giuliani Homeless New Yorker, abandoned by her owner over a divorce spat. Luckily, your own divorce was much less contentious and the Kitty Cunt remained housed and (over) fed by The Ex until the point of teetering that fine (fe)line between Straight's Fat Cat and Lesbian's Fat Cat. But she was happy. And three and a half years after your divorce, so are you. Or at least you were until you received this bad news.

You call The Ex when you arrive at work in order to get the whole story, and you are surprised at how well he is taking the tragic news because, however much you love that Kitty Cunt, your Ex is way more Pussy-Whipped than your gay ass could ever be. Unfortunately the phone call turns out to be even more upsetting than the text. The Kitty Cunt is currently having her kidney's flushed via IV at the Vet, and they won't know anything until they finish the flush and can conduct some more tests. Your Ex, however, is surprisingly keeping it together even though you expected that he'd be taking blood tests to see if he were a good match to be the Kitty Cunt's kidney donor. You tell him to keep you posted with any news, mostly because you don't want him to go through the horrible situation all alone, but partly because you suddenly feel more alone and single than you have in years. You find yourself wishing you could be in LA with your feline and your fractured former family of three.

Eventually you drown your sorrows in a remarkably tasteless glass of Creatine, and gulp it down while you Procrastinwrite for a bit, but your heart's not really in it. Since you're feeling rather lonely you quickly wind up going online to see if there are any cute boys lurking around on Connexion, and luckily, since it's still relatively early in Sweden, you quickly see that the Swedish Engineer is currently online. Before you know it you're having a chat with your Swedie Pi and you tell him all about your ailing Kitty Cunt's Kidney. Having never had a pet, Swedie Pi is not really all that sympathetic, but honestly you are just looking for nothing more than the potential to not feel so pathetically alone and single. But you are absolutely floored when your Swedie Pi asks for your number because he wants to call. From Sweden. Now you're typically not the kind of fag who likes to put a lot of email/IM/phone energy into any boy that you haven't met offline, but you are feeling particularly vulnerable today so you end up giving Swedie Pi your number. And he calls. Right away. He's got a super sexy voice with a hot accent to boot. For some reason the phone call isn't at all awkward and the two of you instantly develop a quirky rapport and Swedie Pi comes off just as self-assured as he did during your online chat. You like that you can easily notice the integrity behind his playful cockiness. And you really like that your Swedie Pi is confident enough to allow you to see it. But you are absolutely thrilled when Swedie Pi asks you out on a date for the day after he returns from Sweden. You, of course, instantly accept, and decide to figure out the exact date-y details in the next few days.

You don't talk too long, after all it's very late in Sweden, not to mention that it's an expensive international call, so you tell your Swedie Pi to "Sleep tight" before hanging up. Afterwards, you mix up another batch of Creatine and gulp it down while you imagine your kidneys beginning to swell. Eventually, when you return to your laptop you realize that you forgot to sign out of Connexion Chat and notice that a sexy Photo Journalist with a fauxhawk has attempted to initiate a IM with you while you were busy with your Swedish Skype Session. And unlike your Swedie Pi, the Fauxtographer is currently not in Sweden. So you put your Swedie Pi on the back burner (even though, so far, this particular Ikea project has had an extremely easy assembly process) and end up sending the Fauxtographer an email since he has gone offline. Since you and the Fauxtographer are in the same Gay Standard Time Zone, he returns your email in no time and, before you can say, "Say Cheese!" you have plans to grab a drink later this evening. The Fauxtographer definitely doesn't waste any words. Especially not funny ones. He seems as if he may be a bit too intense for you, and after Blonde Beard you could definitely be happy with a little less intensity, but you could also be happy with a little more sex so you decide it couldn't hurt to go out for a quick Fauxto Shoot. You tell the Fauxtographer that you'll be free after 8:30pm and he promises to text you before then so you can make a plan.

After work you head over to Callen-Lorde to get your second of three Hepatitis Vaccination shots. Miss Hot Tranny Meds is, of course, looking fabulous and she seems genuinely happy to see you, but unlike your last visit where you got tested for absolutely everything, this time she just pops a needle in your arm as she quickly goes over all the vital organs that Hepatitis will ruin before sending you on your Mary way. But this is when you realize that, besides your HIV- status, the doctor never called you back with the other results from the various STD tests you took last month. Although you usually consider No News to be Good News, Miss Hot Tranny Meds looks into her database and, as she is telling you that, "Everything is Fi..." she quickly seems to reconsider her words and then promptly leaves both you and your pounding heart to go find the doctor. You, of course, are absolutely positive that you have Herpes, because (although you chose not to write about it in you Blah-Blah-Blog because you eventually began to censor yourself when it came to all things personal with Blonde Beard) during one of your last conversations while he was still your Non-Boyfriend, your follicle faced friend informed you that he had tested positive for Genital Herpes and that his doctor had put him on Valtrex. But now that he dumped you, you have little concern about sharing his messy secrets, so you are completely prepared for the bad herpetic news as Miss Hot Tranny Meds returns to the office. She sits down and looks at you with her heavily made up eyes while she informs you that, "You have tested positive for Herpes Simplex One." You instantly throw your hands up and are absolutely beside yourself. She continues to blah-blah-blah and eventually you return from your narcissistic downward viral spiral, and start listening to Miss Hot Tranny Meds as she explains that you may experience a cold sore around your mouth every now and again. And you definitely shouldn't be kissing any boys during a breakout. "Oh!" you exclaim, relieved. "That's it? I've known about that for years." And you practically skip out of Callen-Lorde, absolutely thrilled to experience your next oral outbreak.

You race home to mix up yet another batch of Creatine and then get primped for your date with the Fauxtographer. However, when 8:30 comes and goes with absolutely no word from your tentative date, you decide that the film in this particular Fauxto-Shoot has obviously been under-developed, so you go ahead and make quite an elaborate dinner for one which consists of Tilapia, grilled vegetables, tomato soup and a big heaping glass of skim milk. And then you eat your three course meal. Leisurely. And then you wash all the dishes. Slowly. And just as you sit down to watch a little TV because you are exhausted and a little sad about your Kitty Cunt, that's when the Fauxtographer texts you, exactly one hour and seven minutes after he said he would. Now there is such a thing as Gay Standard Time and then there is an Hour and Seven Minutes Late for a First Gay Date. You're already over him, but the Fauxtographer informs you that he is actually on your block, “Where u at what u doing, on 1st and 1st. Would be up for 1 very cheap quick drink somewhere if u up 4 it.” Even though u are definitely not up for it, you decide that, between your Herpe scare and your Kitty Cunt's Kaput Kidney, you could really use a drink. So you text him back, "Ok I live right there. Where should I meet you?” but you are annoyed to receive, “U know somewhere cheap and Chill? If so, then there.” The last thing you want to do is put any thought into this outing, because, if you do, you know that you will surely reconsider and quickly blow it off. Not to mention the fact that you also absolutely hate making last minute plans via ten thousand text messages, so you put zero thought into it and give him one option in your terse one-word response, "Urge?"

Five minutes later you are walking West on East 1st Street as some weird guy headed toward you tries to violently jam some flyer into your hand as you pass by, and you sort of jump out of his way while pretending to ignore him because you are absolutely not interested in whatever he's selling. But when you look up you realize that this particular crazy man has a giant cardboard box on his head with two small holes cut out for his eyes. You begin to laugh nervously at the Box Head as he mumbles something about Jesus and the whole bizarre situation actually puts you in a better mood, which is good news for the Fauxtographer because you were really going into this Fauxto-Shoot with all the bad attitude and blank expression of a starving Supermodel.

Although it's dark inside the bar, once you're inside Urge you don't see anybody who's nearly as cute as the Fauxtographer should be, and this is when it hits you. Of course he's going to be cuter in his photos! He's a Fauxtographer! Ugh. So you look around a bit and find an older looking, semi-cute guy, and you say his name in the form of a question as the guy looks at you like you are insane and says, "That's not me," in a high pitched squawk which gives you a short-lived sense of relief until he starts to laugh at his own non-existent joke. You instantly feel like an idiot during the first two seconds of your humorless date, and you just sit down and listen patiently while the Fauxtographer tells you about what a funny guy he is. You hide behind your Absolut Mandarin and Soda and suppress a yawn so big that it almost produces bubbles through your straw. Whatever the reason, you just don't feel at all engaged by any of his stories, however, you suffer through the date like a gentleman and don't even bother answering your cell when a call taunts you by vibrating in your pocket.

After your "1 very cheap quick drink," which, unfortunately, turns out to be a not-so-quick 2-4-1, the Fauxtographer walks you home with the not-so-ulterior motive of going upstairs with you. But you say your goodbyes on the corner and are very vague about which actual corner you live on while being not-so-vague about the fact that your Hobosexual Roommate is waiting for you at home. You reach out your hand for a nice, formal shake, but the Fauxtographer somehow pulls you in and plants one on your unsuspecting lips. During your six-flight ascent to your Home-Sweet-Hovel, your phone vibrates with a text from the Fauxtographer which says, "you, my friend, are the fountain of youth ... was nice getting out and talking about writing and relationships - i had a good time ... thanx - text / call anytime ... xo." Which is nice, but obviously never gonna happen, but that's when you notice the voicemail indicator on your iPhone and dial in to see who called. By the time you reach the top of the stairs you are out of breath and in absolute shock as you unlock the door to your apartment and listen to the dire message from The Ex who wants you to call him back immediately. You instantly know what has happened before he even answers your return phone call, and you are uncharacteristically speechless as The Ex tells you about how he had to put the Kitty Cunt to sleep. He tried to call so as to include you in the difficult decision, but when you didn't answer he had to decide all alone. Both of you are in tears as The Ex explains the sad story of your panting cat, ultimately unable to catch her breath even though she was in an oxygen tank, and The Ex tearfully describes how the Kitty Cunt was licking his forehead as she drifted off peacefully to sleep as the Vet put the shot of drugs into her tiny IV. You're unbelievably sad and feel very, very alone as you lay in bed and listen to the story which sort of sadly signifies the absolute end of the relationship that the three of you started fifteen years ago. And right then, in a sort of bizarre homage to the Kitty Cunt's failed kidney, you decide that you will stop taking the silly Creatine because there is more to life than having big fake muscles on Fire Guyland. However, since it was rather expensive and you hate to waste, you decide that you'll stop taking it after you run out of it. Because, really, how much kidney damage could one little jar cause? Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Fags Who Thinks He's Da Bomb...

...in fact, when it comes to online dating you actually *gasp* tend to be a bit shy. You really kind of hate contacting strangers to say something witty and clever that will hopefully prod them to check out your profile and write you back. However you tend to get really annoyed when you actually do take the time to contact them and they don't take the time to write you back. What's up with that? Do these boys really think that they're that special? You tend to think that the whole Gay Courting Dance always plays out so much better in a bar situation, when you can get all the information you need in one simple glance. With a Gay Cocktail in you hand no less. If the boy is interested, you'll know. If he's not interested, then you haven't wasted all that time and energy sending out ridiculous emails to boys who obviously must just be overwhelmed by your clever e-banter, because what other reason could there possibly be for these boys not to write You back? Just because he paid some silly cinematographer to create a dramatic shadowy effect to enhance his six-pack for an online dating photo shoot during magic hour does not make him Burt Lancaster in From Here to Eternity! Do his rock hard abs really make him Da Bomb? Or just Da Dumb Blonde Bombshell? But, as usual, you digress.

You have long ago stopped writing Da Dumb Blonde Bombshells and have taken a much more passive-aggressive, yet very successful approach to first contact on Connexion. You visibly bookmark these boys. It's less hostile than a Match.com wink, yet somehow it seems to work. If the boys like you then they tend to write back. If they don't respond, then, although they are obviously missing out on a grand dating opportunity, for whatever reason it doesn't really irritate you. And less irritation in your life, although rare, is definitely a good thing. So you go ahead and bookmark the hot Swedish Engineer that has just caught your eye, and even though he doesn't have any gratuitous ab shots, you still kind of think he's Da Bomb. And then you do something that you are very, very bad at. You wait.

Luckily, you don't have to procrastinwrite for too long before your Inbox dings with, surprise-surprise, a message from your Swedie Pi! And he's actually writing you during his trip to Sweden! You email back and forth a couple of times before you take your relationship to the next e-level and begin to chat via Instant Message. You're a bit worried that your Swedie Pi's English won't be quick enough for a back-and-forth IM session (yet it will obviously be much more comprehensible than your Swedish would be), but the Queen practically speaks the Queen's English better than you do. Not to mention the fact that he gets all your jokes and references. You're really rather impressed. And let's face it, you're pretty tough to impress. Well, tough to be impressed by a boy without any professional abdominal shots. You tend to find rock hard abs infinitely impressive since you've been searching high and low for your own elusive six-pack for the past thirtysomething years. But you digress. The conversation is thoroughly enjoyable and you absolutely love it when you complain about something or other and Swedie Pi actually has the balls to call you whiny! You know you can dish it out, but you like to pride yourself on being able to take it, too. You're very versatile in that way (among others...) Unfortunately, most of the boys you date might find you, how can you say this diplomatically, a bit blunt. Bordering on caustic. But, having worked previously on a sitcom, you're always in search of the joke and pretty much everything and everybody is fair game. You never intend to hurt anybody's feelings, but from time to time there are definitely casualties. This is why you love it when some random Swedish boy gives you a taste of your own medicine, in your own language no less, and you suddenly find yourself cast in your favorite Elizabeth Taylor role: The Taming of the Shrew.

You actually lose track of time while chatting with Swedie Pi and are shocked when your anorexic friend, Fat Albert sends you a text saying "Hey, Hey, Hey! What time are we Splashing?" Although you have thoroughly enjoyed chatting with your Swedie Pi, you still have your gay priorities set, for lack of a better word, straight, and there are Gay Cocktails to be had at some (unfortunately named, yet extremely well-priced) free Blat Vodka event. So you wrap up your e-conversation with Swedie Pi and head over to Splash for the Immaculate Consumption party where, since you RSVP'd and are on the list, you are the lucky recipient of a bracelet which entitles you to drink impurity-free Vodka for two impurely free hours!

As soon as you walk through the door you notice your Fire Island friend Half-Share (who upgraded to a Full Share this summer, only in a less glamorous house) and he is, as usual, holding court smack in the middle of the bar. Half-Share is surrounded by all his Summer Housemates, which is typical even though it is still early Spring, and these boys welcome you with open arms and squeeze you and your glorious VIP bracelet up to the bar for some free Impurity Free Blat. While you wait for one of the many busy bartenders, you get into a conversation with one of Half-Share's prematurely gray housemates, Andy Warhol, and he tells you all about how he plans to replace the hideous art in their Summer House because the rental crap just doesn't cut it. You enjoy listening to Andy Warhol's uptown problems and all is good until you realize that the gorgeous bartender who looks exactly like the Ben character from Queer As Folk (except for the fact that the bartender is much younger and wearing nothing but an extremely flattering pair of Calvin Klein briefs). It's a bit awkward since, about a year ago, Queer As Ben actually gave you his number while you were imbibing at Splash. You, of course, slaved over whether or not to actually use the number and give Queer As Ben a call, but ultimately decided that you would inevitably fall helplessly and hopelessly in love with the gorgeous man, and getting heartbroken by a man who goes to work in his underwear was just plain unacceptable, so you winded up never calling. And since you are probably the only boy to ever turn down an opportunity to date Queer As Ben, it's always rather awkward to order drinks from him (even though it's highly unlikely that Queer As Ben actually remembers you at all).

That's when Fat Albert shows up directly from work in a Hey-Hey-Handmade British suit which probably cost more than settling a Britney lawsuit ever would, and he squeezes his anorexic little butt up to the bar to put in his Blat order with Queer As Ben. A Gay Old Time is had by all during this constant cyclical process of ordering, drinking and then ordering again during the two deliriously free Blat hours. However, just as the free Blat Timer is about to expire, an extremely drunk man with a unibrow attempts to rudely push his way through your friends so he can reach the bar before the Blat altogether disappears. Only Unibrow attempts to push Andy Warhol out of his way by throwing around a ridiculously large knapsack (which is so huge that you begin to wonder if he perhaps Unibrow might have packed a few outfit changes for a Weekend White Water Rafting Trip at Splash?) Anyway. Unibrow has definitely picked the wrong fag to fuck with, and Andy Warhol informs Unibrow that he is not moving. And that's when Unibrow informs Andy Warhol that he better move because he has, get this, a bomb in his gynormous backpack.

Always the Good Samaritan, Andy Warhol reconsiders his stance and quickly moves out of Da Unibrow Bomber's way. However, while Da Unibrow Bomber attempts to order his last free Blat from Queer As Ben, Andy Warhol informs the doorman about the Unibrow Bomber's Bomb Threat. Moments later, Da Unibrow Bomber is forcefully ejected by a few burly Splash bouncers who have absolutely no interest in finding out whether or not the Drunk Boy Who Cried Terrorist is actually bluffing about Da Bomb. The whole scene is rather dramatic, but this is mostly because Da Unibrow Bomber is extremely vocal about the fact that he is thoroughly entitled to his last free Blat before his bomb goes "BLAT!" and reduces Splash to a pile of overpriced Barney's rubble. This drama continues as the Unibrow Bomber starts protesting his ejection, even as his ass hits the curb, until eventually the Police show up, followed closely by, get this, the Bomb Squad. You and your drunken Gay Posse watch incredulously out the window as 17th Street is blocked off from all traffic. Including pedestrians. And that's when Queer As Ben makes an announcement over Splash's P.A. system informing everybody that, "Since nobody is allowed to leave the bar, Splash has extended the free Blat Vodka for another hour!" The crowd cheers and rushes the bar as your Gay Posse giggles your way back to the bar to get Bombed on Blat. Anyway...

Post Script-A big thank you to the Non-Party-Boy Party-Boy (NPBPB) for sending You to "The Immaculate Consumption" Party, and, of course, an extra big thank you goes out to da Unibrow Bomber!!