You're not the type of fag who Breaks Up over Email...

...but you're definitely the procrastinating type who'd rather be doing something a bit more festive, like perhaps washing your roommate's dirty dishes or even having a colonoscopy, sans anesthesia. Unfortunately, when it comes to break-ups it's very rare that two people ever see eye-to-eye. Even when you assume they do. Especially when you assume they do.

After a week or so of being incommunicado, you receive an email from The Cuddler as if you've been in daily contact. He tells you all about his busy week and wants to know when you're free. You're actually kind of surprised, mostly because you thought this one would just fade away on it's own; no fuss, no muss. So you write back and apologize for your absence. You tell him how you've been sick and a bit depressed, but you also explain that you've been feeling a bit ambivalent over your "relationship." You don't go into any further detail, because really, what's the point? Isn't ambivalence reason enough? After all, you definitely wouldn't want to date a boy that felt ambivalent about you.

The Cuddler emails you back and suggests meeting for coffee to discuss the situation. Ugh. The phrase "Meeting For Coffee" definitely has a slight Exit Interview odor about it and you are so less than interested in bookending this particular Internet Dating Experience with beverages on either end. Especially non-alcoholic beverages. Anyway. The Cuddler tells you to email him when you're feeling better so you can make a plan. Only you kind of know that you'll never feel that much better. Especially since you don't even drink coffee...

You discuss the Exit Interview situation over drinks with the Boy Luck Club and their advice is split right down Fifth Avenue. The Chelsea Half of the BLC thinks you should just let a dead dog lie and avoid all further contact, but the East Village Contingency thinks you should beat this dead dog with a phone (call). The one thing that everybody does agree upon is that coffee is just way too much effort for such a short-lived Dating Experience. So you kind of put the situation on the back burner and forget about it. A few days later you get this:

"I'm not sure what's going on with you, but I hope things are OK. I definitely get the sense that you don't want to date anymore,which is okay; to be honest, after this past week I don't want to. I have no idea what your thoughts are, and I don't want to put words into your mouth, but from my side your silence has spoken. I hate doing things like this via email, and I hate being that guy doing it by email. But you don't even want to meet up to talk to end things and clear the air. It's all good, I'm not angry, just surprised and disappointed that you'd fall off the face of the earth like this. You didn't seem like that type of guy. I hope all is well and I wish you the best."

OMG! You've just been Email Dumped by the guy you were too lazy to break up with! It's almost as wrong as if K-Fed had beaten Britney to the chase with the infamous Text Message Dump. But you're not K-Fed! You're Britney, bitch! And to make things worse, The Cuddler accused you of being "That Type of Guy." So much for avoiding the drama. The Cuddler is obviously upset, but do you really deserve to be lumped into the"That Type of Guy" pile? And what exactly is That Type of Guy, anyway? Obviously "That Guy" has got to be lazy, because during your quiet attempt to avoid unnecessary conflict you've actually ended up creating much, much more. And the worst part is that you really have no hard feelings. You like this guy. Double ugh. So you write back. Immediately:

"Sorry for the silence. Actually I've only temporarily fallen off the face of the earth. Been a bit sick and just in a generally blah mood. Lots of shit with my parents. Please don't take it personally. I've just been depressed and have obviously been avoiding things that are complicated. Again, I'm sorry for that.

Regarding us, I told you I've been feeling ambivalent. I really do like you, however I just don't feel like we're headed down that crazy, passionate "Let's-scream-it-from-the-rooftops" kind of road, which probably doesn't even exist outside of cheesy '80s movies. I don't know. I hope it does. Anyway, it sounds like you're done with me, and if so, I get it. However, if you have any interest in parlaying this into a friendship, I'd really like that."

Soon after, your email inbox dings with The Cuddler's reply:

"Nah, it's not that complicated - we just weren't feeling the spark. I've been feeling the same way, so I get where you're coming from and glad things aren't awkward. I'm really sorry about your troubles, I hope you can work through them!"

Although you question The Cuddler's sincerity about "working through your troubles" (mostly due to his use of an overly exuberant exclamation point), you are happy that there's been some adult-like closure (even if it was via email). The good news is that now you both are single and available to look for your "shout-it-from-the-rooftops-type-of-boys. The even better news is that it shouldn't be awkward when you run into each other. And if there's one thing you know for sure, it's that you always run into these boys again. Anyway.

You're not one of those Early Riser Fags...

...in fact, getting up is one of your least favorite activities of the whole live-long day. Going to bed and being unconscious, however, is definitely one of life's greatest pleasures. So obviously you're more than a little perturbed when you're having a Gay Cocktail with The Cuddler and he informs you that he's got to get up early for the gym tomorrow morning. You, of course, inform The Cuddler that there's a 100% chance that he's going to oversleep. Unfortunately, he explains that he's made an appointment with his Personal Trainer which is too late to cancel. You had no idea he had a PT. The Cuddler is fancy. You used to be fancy, but these days? Not so much. Needless to say, you used to be in better shape, too.

Meanwhile, after a few more Gay Cocktails at XES you kind of forget about the whole annoying Trainer business. Everything is happy-go-fucky until you get back to The Cuddler's place and he begins to set his dreaded alarm clock. You groan at the offensive LED display which reads 6:15am. You want to ask him why the fuck he suggested getting together tonight since he had to get up so damn early, but what comes out of your mouth is, shockingly, much sweeter: "Maybe I could just sleep in tomorrow and rob you blind while you're at the gym?" The Cuddler, however, doesn't answer.

You attempt to have a quickie Exerfuck since you are so obviously not going to the gym tomorrow, but The Cuddler kind of shuts you down at the half-way point. This really annoys you since you haven't seen each other since you subsidized his Birthday Dinner ($150 thank you very much.) Your last contact was via text message on New Year's Eve when you responded to his exuberant "HAPPY NEW YEAR!" with a low-energy, lower-case, "happy new year 2 u 2," sans exclamation point. So you take care of your business, solo, and your highly anticipated Exerfuck quickly dissolves into, surprise-surprise, a Cuddlefuck.

You fall asleep for a few nano-seconds until his alarm clock shocks you awake so suddenly that you actually scream. The Cuddler hops out of bed like Johnny Appleseed, presumably to plant something in the bathroom. You lie there, annoyed, while you ponder what time the sun actually rises this time of year? Enough time passes that you actually begin to wonder if The Cuddler is going to let you sleep in and leave you a cute little note asking you to lock the door behind you when you leave. Wouldn't that be nice? After all you've been dating for two months and it should be obvious that you're not a serial killer. Suddenly the bedroom lights turn on full blast, even though they're on a dimmer switch, and then The Cuddler starts rubbing your back as if he's a fucking mommy trying to wake her baby. But there is nothing soothing about waking up this way. At all. That's when The Cuddler actually has the gall to inform you in a voice much too loud and inappropriate for the morning, "You need to get up because I've gotta be out of here in ten minutes."

Ten fucking minutes! You sleepwalk your way to bathroom as you mumble something about how Firemen are probably allotted more primp time. You brush your teeth and rummage through his medicine cabinet for helpful products. A few drops of Visine help get the red out, while you briefly consider putting a few drops into The Cuddler's workout water bottle.

It's still dark out when your ass has officially been kicked to the curb, and you have absolutely nothing to say to The Cuddler as you pass by a few Tweakers, fresh powder still dripping from their noses after an all night ski trip on the slippery slopes of Hellsea. When you reach the subway you grunt, "Goodbye," and although you mean it as a permanent goodbye, it probably doesn't come out that way, mostly because your voice hasn't kicked in yet.

For the rest of the day you're a walking zombie because of all the Sleep Debt you racked up last night. Later on, all you can do is roll your red eyes when you get a text from The Cuddler that says, "My trainer didn't even show up this morning!" Needless to say, you don't bother responding. Anyway.

You're not the type of fag who Sneak Dates...

...but sometimes, even with the best of intentions, you find yourself in a state of dating-overlap. It's not like you intend to juggle boys, it's just that sometimes your relationships tend to be in different stages of their dating-lifespans. Anyway.

Last week when you and the Boy Luck Club crashed a Random Christmas Party your only ulterior motive was a night full of free booze. The host's apartment was decorated super cute (as were his guests) and although the decor didn't involve any mistletoe, kisses were definitely invoked due to a plethora of Absolut-a-toe. Things with The Cuddler seemed to be wrapping up so you didn't even think twice when the Cello-Playing Corporate Lawyer started chatting you up. He was cute, funny and so tall that he made you feel like your own little mini-you. It was nice to feel so petite, especially since you've been feeling like a holiday-heffer. So you went home with him. Is that so terrible? One simple ho-ho-hookup does not a Holiday-Ho make. Especially when the Ho in question has Whiskey Dick.

It was nice. You and The Cellist exchanged numbers and he actually calls. So you set up a dinner date and meet at Bombay Talkie. Luckily, you two have enough talkie of your own to get through the dinner, this time without the Absolut-a-toe. When you finish you decide to head back to his place. The Cellist is about to hail a cab, but it's such a nice night that you suggest walking up Ninth Avenue. The streets are bustling and you're yapping about something or other when you look up and notice a large Hellsea Boy Posse smack in front of you. One of the boys catches your eye, possibly because he's cute, or more probably because he's staring at you. Your eyes lock for a moment and that's when you realize that you've met this Hellsea Boy before. You're trying to place him when he totally gives you the Evil Eye. The Cellist is still blah-blah-blahing about something to which you are no longer paying attention because now you are racing through the Ghosts of Boyfriends Past in a vain attempt to recocknize Evil Eye Boy.

And that's when it bitch-slaps you like an angry Drag Queen. You never slept with Evil Eye Boy. However, you do know him because The Cuddler introduced you on Saturday night at the xxx-mas Party. Although you have a nasty habit of forgetting everybody, you were uncharacteristically sober that evening and you remember this boy in particular. You remember him because he was so officious about how great it was to finally meet you; how he had heard so so so much about you. Yadda-yadda-yadda.

Evil Eye Boy passes and neither of you say hello because you both know that you're so busted. But then your mind starts playing party-tricks and you begin to wonder if The Cuddler might have been part of the Hellsea Boy Posse? Did he catch you on your Sneak Date, too? Should you turn around? You decide it's better not to look back because that somehow seems more incriminating. Ugh. So you just keep walking up Ninth Avenue and curse yourself for not taking a fucking cab.

Later on, afterwards, when you're trying to fall asleep next to The Cellist who's lying so far away from you that you feel like two straight guys separated by an empty homoseat in a movie theater, later on, you can't stop thinking about The Cuddler. More specifically, you find yourself wishing you were sleeping in his bed instead. Anyway.

You're not the type of fag who Plays Games...

...but you are usually well aware when you're being played. Over the years you've developed a few dating Do's and Dont's that have served you well:

1. Be sure your words and your actions send out similar messages.
2. Say what you mean, mean what you say, and try not to be mean when you say it.
3. And never ever play games.

But sometimes, especially when it comes to dating boys, things can get a bit hairy. But isn't that why God invented Laser Hair Reduction? Anyway.

Today is The Cuddler's birthday and you've put a lot of thought into it how to approach this delicate dating dilemma. You want to wish him a happy birthday, but since you fear your time together is nearing its conclusion, you definitely don't want to come off as an over-zealous well-wisher. Since you don't see this relationship as heading anywhere serious, you decide, in advance, that email is the best mode for this particular communication pickle. So you email him a simple mid-morning message that simply says, "Happy Birthday! Hope you have a great day!" A little lame, especially from a writer, but hell, it's the thought that counts, right? And meanwhile, isn't it supposed to be a little lame?

The Cuddler responds pretty much instantly and says, "Thanks for thinking of me. It's been nice getting to know you these past few weeks and I'm looking forward to knowing you better." You take a lot of time composing your careful reply and say, "You're very sweet. What's the plan for tomorrow?" And that's that. A day passes and you don't know what to do. You still don't even know where the dinner is being held. Now you have a real dating conundrum. Should you call to find out the location of the dinner that you don't want to go to? Or should you just let it go? And meanwhile, did The Cuddler ever receive your email? Will you come off as The Asshole? And, more importantly, do you care if you do?

Finally, twenty-nine hours later, The Cuddler calls you a few hours before the dinner and immediately apologizes because he has to cancel his birthday dinner tonight because, get this, "Something Suddenly Came Up" at work. You refrain from telling him that you've seen this Brady Bunch episode, but he rushes off the phone because it's a crazy day at work. Blah-blah-blah. You don't really believe The Cuddler, but is he lying? Is he just being protective? Is he mad about your lame email? Is he really cancelling the Birthday Dinner? Or is he just cancelling you? The whole thing seems designed to confuse you (most likely by his other friends going to the Birthday Dinner.) Are you being played? Anyway.

You're not the type of fag who gets off hearing the Right Words from the Wrong Guy...

...but the romantic in you doesn't hate hearing them either. Neither does the narcissist. Meanwhile, you made tentative plans with The Cuddler to meet at one of his friend's Christmas parties after you finished with one of your friend's Bowling Birthday Parties in Williamsburg. You hate going to Billburg, mostly because it feels like Logan's Run and, unfortunately for you and Logan, both of you are, well, let's just say thirtysomething. The Bowling Party is fun even though there are so many damn hipsters that the party breaks up long before the four-hour queue to bowl does.

Although your après bowling plans were tentative, The Cuddler texts you several times during the non-bowling-Bowling Party and asks when you're coming to Chelsea to meet him? You reply to ask if his xxx-mas party is fun (sans double entendre, bien sur) and he instantly responds, "Would be better if you were here..."

Wow. Just wow. The Cuddler just said exactly the right thing. Only your heart didn't melt. Or skip a beat. Although you're not too surprised, lately you have definitely been craving these kinds of heart ailments. You want to be one of those sickening couples holding hands on the street who are so desperately in love that they don't even notice the gay-bashing thugs screaming, "Fags!" from the safety of their Escalades complete with gold-plated New Jersey licence plate frames.

But what if your heart could skip a beat for The Cuddler? Maybe you're just too self-involved, too up-your-own-ass to notice your heart palpitations? Maybe if you went to his friend's xxx-mas party you'd finally realize you felt differently? Besides you have nothing to lose because Brooklyn Bowling is over, and you have to take the L train which conveniently stops a block from the party. So you text The Cuddler and tell him you're on your way, to which he gives yet another exactly right response: "I miss you." So you schlep your defrosting heart through the frozen sleet and into the Bedford Avenue station where you quickly run past Logan's little hipster brother's who's barfing up chunks of tofu and good times onto the platform while his drunk girlfriend rubs his back. Now that's what you call love.

Luckily, the Manhattan bound train comes quickly and the xxx-mas boys buzz you up without much of an interrogation. Rihanna's seductive S.O.S. guides you to the right, gay party but when you open the door you are instantly shocked by a completely foreign, almost out-of-body experience: you are much too sober to be at this party. You consider making an about-face, but it's too late; The Cuddler catches your eye and his eyes light up in a way that expose either a skipped heartbeat or the fact that he's so wasted that both eyes can no longer blink synchronously. Or possibly both. ?

The xxx-mas drunks surround you as The Cuddler gives you a big kiss and begins to introduce you proudly to all of his friends who are saying things like: "It's so nice to finally meet you!" and "We've heard so much about you!" But the real kicker comes in the form of a simple, "You two make such a cute couple!" Although these compliments should make you feel good, they don't. In fact, they freak you out so much that you begin to panic. Have you finally become one of those gay men who's more concerned about his abs than he is about having a real relationship?

You don't want to think about this right now nor do you want a cocktail, so you tell The Cuddler that you're tired and he happily begins saying his goodbyes under the assumption that you are going home together. You're not sure what you want yet, but by the time you hit the slushy street, you realize that he's way too drunk to get home alone so you wind up hailing a taxi during the hail storm and escort him home.

The Cuddler is making Z's by the time you finish brushing your teeth with the travel-sized toothbrush you keep in his bathroom, so you pull his shoes and pants off and squeeze into his bed so you can spoon your drunk friend like you're two puppies trying to stay warm. You feel a bit ambivalent kiss the back of his neck because you realize that the guy who eventually does melt your heart better cuddle as good as this sweet boy does. Anyway.

You're not the type of fag who hearts the Birthday Dinner...

...in fact, you loathe the Birthday Dinner. It's such a blatant violation of the unspoken rules and regulations of the ridiculous privileges that New Yorkers get away with on their birthdays. Chelsea Boys especially tend to use their special day as a way to sucker their friends into paying for ridiculously expensive (surprisingly carb-intensive) meals at restaurants that they'd never otherwise frequent. One day each year these Gluttonous Birthday Offenders put down their beat-up Zagats and dust off their Michelin Guides to choose three-star restaurants that no one in their circle of friends can neither pronounce nor afford. But this is not the worst part. The real kick-in-the-balls comes when all these Gray's Papaya paupers gather together in front of so much unnecessary silver cutlery that even the 700-thread count tablecloth becomes unworthy of mention; once the Maître d' hands out les menus qui sont écrit en français; once your MetroCard carrying friends begin the annual Birthday scavenger hunt for the most expensive dishes on le menu: appetizers, amuse bouches, starters, hors d'œuvres, entrees, side dishes, desserts, desserts for the table, desserts for the fucking table next to you. You know you're in trouble when your poorest, most unemployed artist friend (who, by the way, once told you that H&M is way too expensive) asks the Sommelier to describe the nuances of a rare vintage Château Neuf du Pape. That's when you reach down between your legs and realize you should've worn your protective ice-hockey cup instead of those cute 2xist boxer briefs because the liquor alone will eclipse the already exorbitant food bill. You begin to wonder if there's such a thing as a second mortgage for a rent-stabilized sixth floor walk-up?

But you digress.

You're on the phone with The Cuddler trying to come up with a free evening to get together when suddenly you find yourself caught between a stale baguette and a hard-cover Zagat Survey. You stammer when The Cuddler catches you off-guard and invites you, surprise-surprise, to his Birthday Dinner. You kind of deserve it though, after the whole Match.com wink debacle the other day, even though he took your vengeful, "I-caught-you-on-Match.com" evil-intentioned wink as more of a "ha-ha-aren't-I-cute?" playful sort of thing. You immediately want to throttle your straight girlfriend who convinced you it was too cruel, even for you, to break up with this boy moments before he was another year closer to gray pubic hair. But the absolute worst part of this scenario is that you and your big mouth already told The Cuddler that you were free. Anyway.

You're not the type of fag who hearts Match.com...

...but you are the type who hearts a sale, and the promotional email in your inbox practically begs you to come back for $5.75 a month if you sign up for three. In fact, it's such a bargain that the fact that you are currently dating The Cuddler never even crosses your mind. You quickly update your dusty profile, add a few new cute photos and gulp ominously as you change your profile from "Hidden" to "Visible."

You begin your initial Match search by entering some specific age, weight and zip code criteria in order to whittle down your Mr. Wrongs to a more manageable list of 500 or so ineligible bachelors. Apparently every single gay man in Manhattan between 31 and 41 is athletic and toned. Including Fat Grandpa from Bayonne who somehow winds up at the tippity-top of your list of liars. You scroll deftly through the inventory as you mutter, "You get what you pay for," but the words are barely out of your mouth when you first notice him. Your jaw slackens and your heart skips a beat. Not only does The Cuddler have a profile on Match.com, but he's actually online at this very moment!

You’re not new to dating. You’re not even new to online dating. You even read that damn book, He's Just Not That Into You, but only because your friend Liz co-wrote it. But this is a dating hurdle unlike any you've ever experienced. You consider calling Liz for help, but you quickly remember her one fatal flaw when it comes to dating advice: Even after Oprah's Book Club made her a millionaire, Liz still can't keep a boyfriend. So you find yourself asking yourself one of life’s most pertinent questions: "What would Carrie Bradshaw do?" Although you've seen every Sex and the City episode more often than old Brady Bunch reruns, you still find yourself utterly stumped. But before you can lisp, "She sells seashells by the seashore," you find yourself summoning up your that trusty dating vixen from the ‘70s: Marcia Brady. Unlike Carrie Bradshaw, Marcia-Marcia-Marcia quickly presents you with the answer to your dilemma. And just like that, your problem is solved with a quick mouse click. Before you even get a chance to regret it, you send The Cuddler a simple, yet vengeful Match.com "Wink."

And then, just like Carrie and Marsha before you, you find yourself in the middle of a poorly written sitcom in dire need of a page one rewrite (smack in the middle of the Writers' Guild strike, nonetheless.) You feel vaguely awful as you search through Match.com's online help for ways to take back the Wink. Unfortunately, you quickly realize that although Marcia would simply have to enlist her brothers and sisters for help to fish her "Dear John letter" from a federally protected, navy blue USPS mailbox, you will have no such luck. Even though you know that this boy is not the boy, you do like him and, after all, he is an excellent cuddler. Not to mention the fact that your Wink is pretty fucking ridiculous considering you both have active dating profiles on Match.com. You resign yourself to the consequences and are about to log off when the solution to the Wink dilemma hits you: the profile visibility option!

You’re not sure what it will do exactly, but you don't waste a second as you race back to the settings page and click on the "Hide" link in order to make your invisible again. You pat yourself on the back smugly with a sigh of relief as you sign off Match.com and take a big sip of Diet Pepsi as you return to your email inbox to finish reading your emails. You delete the damn Match.com coupon which now seems to be vaguely mocking you. And that’s when Outlook alerts you with an ominous little ding to announce a new email’s arrival; a new email from Match.com; a new email that proclaims, "Someone Winked at You!" Your heart drops as you open it and see the profile picture of the boy you are dating. Correction, the boy you were dating. The Cuddler's cockeyed smile, however, now appears much more like a big fucking, obnoxious Wink ;-)

Anyway.