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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...but as you're sitting on The Ex's stoop, homeless, surrounded by everything you own in the world that wasn't just carted away into storage, as you sit there with the wrong set of keys, you start to obsess about your Lovely Lady Mumps and begin to feel like your lymph nodes have become so swollen that you are actually having trouble breathing. Or perhaps it's just your hysteria? You begin to leave frantic messages for The Ex and his friend who left you the wrong set of keys, but, of course, nobody is taking your calls. That's when, smack in the middle of your homeless dilemma, a party boy you kissed years ago walks by and looks up at your Sesame Street Stoop and asks you, all impressed, "Is that where you live?" and you are just so irritated by his sudden interest in you that you respond, "No, actually I'm homeless." And with that Ms. Fair Weather Fag turns up her nose and keeps walking down the picturesque block.

When your cell finally rings you realize that your battery is almost dead, but luckily it's The Ex who feels terrible for your situation. Unfortunately he's in LA and he informs you that there are only three copies of his apartment keys, one of which is in your hands and doesn't work. One of the remaining two is in the possession of his Co-Op Board President, but she's apparently on a Straight Cruise (not to be confused with a Tom Cruise). Just in case, you try to buzz Mrs. President's apartment but there is no answer. The last person happens to be your Ex-Niece, only she's busy moving today too, so even if she has the keys they are probably lost in an unmarked box somewhere between Manhattan and Brooklyn. But you leave her a frantic message anyway, just in case her move has been less chaotic than yours.

And then you nervously inspect your Lovely Lady Mumps while waiting for your cell to ring, hopefully before either you or your phone dies. Luckily your Ex-Niece gives you a rescue ring and she is so adorably sweet and offers to interrupt her move and drive her U-Haul back from Brooklyn just to bring you the keys. But this is when someone who lives in the Co-Op finally walks up the steps. You practically hang up on your sweet Ex-Niece as you accost the man walking into the building. Luckily he believes your gay-ass Saab story and allows you into the building so you can store your defrosting Tilapia and other random stuff in the hallway until you can track down a key. He also tells you that Mrs. President is actually back from her cruise and that they are having a Co-Op board meeting right this very moment on her glamorous roof deck. He says to stay put and that he will try to find her. You call The Ex while you wait, because really, if he doesn't speak to Mrs. President directly, then why on earth would she ever hand over his apartment keys to some homeless stranger who has moved onto her front stoop.

Eventually the whole mess gets worked out, but Mrs. President turns all Mrs. Kravitz on you when you realize that she's only given you a key to The Ex's apartment. So if you ever decide to leave the building, you'll have no way to get back in through the front vestibule door. You ask if perhaps you can borrow a set of front door keys from her so you can make a copy, but for some reason this scenario turns out to be a big fucking deal. Apparently Mrs. Kravitz has no problem with you living inside her glamorous Co-Op, however if you ever want to leave then you'll never be able to get back inside. Perhaps you should place an ad in HX and start turning tricks in there so you won't have to ever go out? Or maybe just leave the gas stove on? Or spray paint her common hallway with gay graffiti? This woman who runs your Ex's life is really not thinking anything through, but eventually you somehow convince her to hand over her keys and you promise that you'll make copies tomorrow morning as all the locksmiths are surely closed now that it's 9:30pm. Although you are initially relieved when you finally get inside of The Ex's apartment, that's when things actually really go from bad to worse.

His apartment is full of your things. Things you bought together. Your couch. Your photos. Your TV. Your rug. The kitchen is full of your Fiestaware. The hand-blown wine glasses you bought together in Venice. The picture frames are full of photos of your lives together. But it gets really upsetting in the bedroom when you have to sleep in your old bed. The bed you shared for over a decade. You lie there, remembering how amazing it felt to be held every night before you went to bed. What it felt like to have The Ex spell "O.J." on your back because he was thirsty and it was too tired to speak. But what really gets you is the afghan sitting at the base of the bed which your Ex-Aunt knit for you boys eons ago. Only now it's covered in cat hair from your Kitty Cunt who suddenly just died a few months ago. This was your life. You shiver, not from the overly powerful central air conditioning, yet from the feeling of being so uncomfortable surrounded by all the homey things that gave you nothing but comfort for years. Will you ever be that comfortable again? Anyway...

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

...yet. But when you wake up with a Pride hangover that is absolutely nothing to be proud about, you aren't even worried about your impending move nor the fact that you have no place to move. All you can think about is your Lovely Lady Mumps which are the lumps formerly known as Lymph Nodes. When you look in the mirror it's like you're just one giant Jabba the Neck. Even though you know your new beard is the only thing that is visually separating your chest from your chin, you decide to shave off your beard while you're taking a shower. Once the beard is gone you are both appalled and terrified. So you call your doctor for an emergency appointment, only to find out that he has retired and someone else has taken over his practice. Luckily she can fit you in before your movers show up.

Unfortunately, your new doctor seems more like an actor who only plays a doctor on TV. She giggles a lot. And plays with her hair. And she leaves her white coat open so you can see that she's probably spends more time shopping than she does prescribing. But she gives you a blood and urine test and writes you a few precautionary prescriptions since you're about to be homeless on Fire Guyland where the only doctors on the entire island are the ones who are self-medicating at Low Tea. Then you race home to finish packing your Home Sweet Hovel and meet the movers.

When you get back home you are kind of shocked to see that your Hobosexual Roommate has told his new victim (whoops, you meant roommate) that she can move in on the last day of your lease. While you are moving out. On the day before her lease begins. The whole situation is just so irritating and surreal that, when she begins to talk your ear off while you are frantically packing, you decide to actually tell her the truth when she asks you questions about the Hobosexual rather than sugar coating it. "He's filthy," quickly segues into, "He doesn't clean up after he manscapes," and before you know it, the conversation quickly dissolves into, "He doesn't use soap when he bathes." And with that your movers buzz your doorbell and you excuse yourself from the Hobosexual's new victim.

When the movers finally arrive in your Home Sweet Hovel, huffing and puffing from the six flights of stairs, they begin to freak out when they see the sorry ass state of your apartment. A vein in the Foreman's forehead actually begins to twitch as he looks around. However, the only thing the Ex-Con says to you, slowly and deliberately as if he's Dirty Harry, is "This was supposed to be a little move." And he says it in such a way that it seems like he might actually be considering murdering you just so he can go back to jail and not have to deal with carrying your shit down six flights of stairs. You quickly explain that, "Most of this crap is not mine," while glaring at the Hobosexual's New Victim who isn't paying any attention because she still seems to be stuck on her new living situation which is equally hopeless and soapless.

Since you and your Lovely Lady Mumps are extremely organized, your move actually goes rather quickly. And, since you're now officially homeless, once the Ex Cons finish loading their truck they just leave because, until your new place is ready for occupancy, all your shit will be kept in storage. Which means you actually have to pay for two moves plus one month of storage as you couch surf around Manhattan. Your first stop happens to be The Ex's apartment. Since he's in Los Angeles he has graciously offered up his apartment for you and your homeless tranny ass for the next three nights.

Between you, your roller bag, two back packs, a giant blue IKEA bag and a several bags full of groceries and frozen meat, your cheap ass decides that it's best to hail a cab. So you stand at the corner of Houston and Allen and you wait. And wait. And wait. During rush hour. With everything you own stuffed into Trader Joe's bags that are beginning to defrost and leak onto the busy summer sidewalk. You briefly consider hiking your baggy cargo shorts up and sticking your leg out into traffic with a sexy pose, but luckily a cab finally stops. After you load what's left of your life into the trunk, you explain to the cabbie (who not only doesn't speak a lick of English, but also is busy yapping away on a phone call which is obviously much more important than any of your directions) that you need to make two stops so you can first pick up The Ex's keys from a mutual friend's doorman.

Luckily everything works out and the keys are waiting for you so you hop back into the cab and head over to The Ex's brownstone apartment on a Sesame Street-esque, gorgeous tree-lined street in Chelsea. You swipe your credit card even though the Cabbie informs you that the machine is broken (funny how suddenly he speaks perfect English when his tip is involved), and you schlep your soggy groceries and various bags up the steps of the gorgeous brownstone. For a moment you feel like breaking into song and singing the theme to The Jeffersons', "Moving on Up!" until you attempt to put the key into the keyhole. Then suddenly it ain't nothin' but Good Times in the Projects, "Temporary lay offs! Good Times! Easy credit rip offs! Good Times!" That's when you look down at the keys and realize that they are for the old apartment that you and The Ex lived in together. The one he sold before he moved here. Two years ago. 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 Political Fags...

...but the TSA Agent at the Palm Beach International Airport Security Check seems to think you might be some sort of Gay Terrorist. Okay, it's true, you do live on the Lower East Side, but if you were going to blow something up to make a political statement, your target would more likely be Splash than some random JetBlue flight filled with Snowbirds from Boca. You are not-so-politely asked to stand aside as he sends your backpack through the X-ray machine for another scan, and when it fails the second test you are asked to stand quietly behind a yellow line so you can watch helplessly as the Transportation Security Asshole rifles through your extremely well packed bag. Although being an Anal Retentive traveler makes you constipated, the silver lining is that your bags look as if they've been packed by a Professional Folder at The Gap.

The Transportation Security Asshole pulls so many things out of your little backpack that a small crowd of Breeders begins to form around you "Oohing" and "Aahing" as if the Clown Car at the Circus has just arrived. As the TSAsshole digs further, you begin to worry about what embarrassing thing might be uncovered, and that's when he starts inspecting your liquids. Now, being one of those Felix Unger Fags, you don't bother with one of those flimsy quart-sized Ziploc bags. You, my friend, spent hours in The Container Store looking for clever travel ideas that will enhance your vacations (mostly as a distraction from procrastinwriting), and you found this wonderful little, quart-sized Clear Zippered Cube that works wonderfully. Meanwhile, since it's not a silly Ziploc the TSAsshole starts to empty all of your liquids, including your measly three ounce allotment of Astroglide Lube, to see if it fits into a damn Ziploc. Now, you want to say, "A quarts a quart, right?" but you keep your trap shut as another chunky TSAsshole pulls you aside with his metal-detecting wand and tells you to, "Spread 'em," in a way that completely ruins an on-going arrest fantasy you've had since your very first foray into Gay Porn. You suddenly have the urge to tell them that if they're looking for your bomb that you packed that into your checked luggage, but, thankfully, you bite your tongue as the first TSAsshole finds the offending object and, ironically, pulls a stainless steel Tongue Scraper from your bag. You had no idea that good oral health was so important to Al Qaeda. But you digress.

After your Impromptu Strip Search, you repack your own bag (mostly because you can't bear to watch the TSAsshole attempt to amateurishly shove your professionally trained Ringling Brothers' Clowns back into your little VW Beetle backpack), you somehow still have time to wait at the gate and are absolutely thrilled to get a call from Mr. Write. Although you don't typically love talking on the phone with people you barely know, you are amazed at how easy it is to shoot the breeze with him. You tell the Non-Jewish Jew all about spending Passover with The Ex's family. He thinks it's funny that three and a half years after you and The Ex broke up, that you're the one flying down to Florida to celebrate Pesach with his Aunts and Uncles when The Ex is nowhere to be found! Well, The Ex did actually put in a phoner from LA, but you, my friend, were the one treated like Manna from Heaven since you actually showed up for the Matzoh Fest. You know The Ex's family all secretly want you two to get back together, but you have your sights set on spending your next Passover, not necessarily in Israel, but if everything goes well with your current ridiculous fantasy and it doesn't need a Mr. ReWrite, then perhaps you will be saying The Four Questions next year with Mr. Write's family?

Although you are literally surrounded by babies on the plane, they miraculously sleep during the your uneventful night flight back to JFK. In fact, they are such good babies that by the time you get back to your Home Sweet Hovel you find yourself willing to trade in your Hobosexual Roommate for a complete set of Screaming Septuptlets because at least they would be breast fed and wouldn't have left the kitchen literally overflowing with dirty fucking dishes. But the filth doesn't get to you because you have a cute tan and a date with your cute Playwright tomorrow. Anyway.

The day flies by and, uncharacteristically, you actually get a lot accomplished. Having a nice tan amongst millions of pasty New Yorkers seems to give you more energy, almost as if you've knocked back a bottle of Geritol. Luckily, summer (and your Summer Share in The Pines) is right around the corner and you'll have this kind of Vitamin D energy all the time! But you're getting way ahead of yourself. Right now you need to concentrate on looking cute for your dinner date with Mr. Write. He suggests getting drinks at the same place you had your first date, North Square, and although the repeated date doesn't seem all that inspired, you weren't offering him any better ideas so you happily agreed. At the very least you know it will be quiet and romantic.

When you arrive, Mr. Write is sitting at a table and, as if on cue, the waiter immediately comes over to take your drink order. The Absolut Vodka flows as smoothly as the Absolut-ly engaging conversation does. You like talking to Mr. Write almost as much as you like looking at him. The two of you discuss the reading of his most recent play and about how the Lead Actress made an unfortunate accent choice which Mr. Write mimics so perfectly that you can't help but expose your dimples along with a big hearty laugh. You quickly realize that he has just passed one of your five deal breaking tests: any boy that you're going to get serious with must be able to make you laugh. Seriously. You think back to Blonde Beard and although he definitely wrote some witty emails, in person he was somehow more reserved. Instead of guffaws, Blonde Beard seemed to produce more of an overall "awwww" quality. But right about now, as you are laughing heartily across the table you wonder what exactly was so awe inspiring about Blonde Beard's sense of humor?

After a few drinks, you both wind up being too lazy to leave the bar and decide to let the Cocktail Waitress carry your heavy beverages and your even heavier tab over into the dining room. You both order light fish dishes as you both, ironically, begin to fish into each other's past. Mr. Write tells you how he doesn't really do much dating. Especially online dating. And then he quickly begins to offer a little too much information about the Sociopath he dated during/after he left a four year (open) relationship. And then was promptly dumped. Since Mr. Write said he doesn't date much, you find yourself wondering if the Sociopath was actually a sociopath, or more likely just resided in Chelsea-opath? If there's one thing you've learned from three years of dating, it's that boys in New York are fickle, especially when they find themselves in any sort of an emotional pickle. However you aren't really too concerned about the Sociopath's particular details, since none of it really matters to you. What does matter is that it seems to matter to Mr. Write. A lot. Especially since, for some unknown reason, he is talking about it on your first "official" date. Your Ex-Cousin-In-Law once told you that everything you need to know about a boy you learn on the first date. What you are learning right now is that Mr. Write seems to be equally enthusiastic about you as he is for the Sociopath (notice the present tense). And you don't like to share. Hell, if you're going to end up in a three-way then you definitely want to get some emotionally detached sex out of it! Yet Mr. Write seems to be quite attached. Now, you know you're not completely over Blonde Beard. Far from it, actually. But you do know better than to be yapping about your baggage on a date! What really annoys you is that Mr. Write was supposed to be your rebound, and yet you are quickly realizing that you are more likely his rebound. Whatever. What is also obvious is that although Mr. Write obviously isn't going to be Mr. Right, does this mean that you can't get some sex out of Mr. Write? Right?

After paying the check you walk out the side door and seamlessly segue the conversation onto the lighter topic of politics as you shamelessly segue your trajectory toward Mr. Write's one bedroom apartment off Union Square. You offer to look up the Pennsylvania Primary Election Returns on your iPhone for Mr. Write because he is a fanatical Hillary fan, and he's absolutely thrilled when you tell him that Hillary has been declared the winner! Although you're still torn between Obama and Hillary, you definitely like the idea of having a lesbian in the White House. You also think Bubba will make a wonderfully charismatic First Lady. And you definitely like the idea that Bill will be the last one buzzing his agenda into his wife's ear each night before they retire to their separate bedrooms. And really, how bad could ol' Hillary be if she named her kid after a gay neighborhood?

However, when you finally arrive at Mr. Write's building he kind of just stops and stands there. Almost as if you're supposed to say goodbye. You're so confused that you actually say, "Am I not coming upstairs?" Because if this was the case you certainly wouldn't have walked ten blocks out of your way just to say au revoir on the street. Hell, he already invited you up for a make-out session the first time you went out so what could be different this time? That's when Mr. Write informs you that you are allowed to come up, if you'd like, but he is definitely going to watch the Pennsylvania Returns on CNN. You agree to his odd terms (especially since Hillary has already won), but whatever. At least Mr. Write is passionate about something, right?

So you go upstairs and Mr. Write immediately turns the TV on with the remote as you immediately attempt to turn Mr. Write on with a kiss. His breath is so fresh and minty, which is nice, but the kisses seem to be lacking all the passion that his politics seem to have inherited. But this is okay because you love a challenge. So you pull Mr. Write down onto the couch and start to grind your hips against his as your hands disappear up his shirt. Touching his tight little body definitely works faster for you than taking a fistful of Viagra, however, although you're definitely ready to play a nice little game of "Intern in the White House," Mr. Write turns out to be the one who could use that fistful of Viagra. Only when you open your eyes you realize exactly why Mister Softee is not into you. Although you were busy getting lost in the moment with your eyes closed, Mr. Write was busy watching ol' Hillary on CNN. Now it is common knowledge, especially to Mrs. Clinton's husband who has practically admitted, in a court of law during his impeachment trial, that his wife is a bit of a turn-off. You're about to turn-off the damn television when the secret of Mr. Write's minty fresh breath actually falls from his mouth and lands on your cheek! You scream, "Are you chewing gum and making out with me?" as Mr. Write plucks the offensive Wrigley chunk from your face and gets up to throw it away. Only when he returns he sits down on the other sofa.

Obviously you are no competition for Hillary, so you stand up and tell Mr. Write that it's getting late and you should go home. He offers to walk you downstairs because he has to walk his dog, and although you're surprised that he'll leave his precious Hillary, you kind of think it's sweet. So you take the elevator and head down 14th Street toward the Sixth Avenue F train. After crossing Fifth Avenue, you all take a pit-stop so that the pooch can take a pee, and Mr. Write asks you if you have plans for this weekend? Although you're not sure you want to have another sexless bi-sexual three-way with Mr. Write and Mrs. Clinton, you do tell him that you have plans Thursday and on Sunday, but that, so far, you are free both weekend nights. That's when the dog is finally done with marking his territory, only Mr. Write doesn't seem to notice. Or move. So while you stand there wondering whether you're missing an F train, you find yourself asking, "How far do you usually walk your dog?" and Mr. Write says, "Oh just to the corner," as if he's just done you some big favor by extending the nightly walk and taking you all the way across the street. You quickly take the hint that Mr. Write has no intention of walking neither you, nor his lethargic dog, an extra half block to the subway station because, just like Obama, both you and the pooch have just lost out to Hillary Clinton. So you say, "Okay, well I'm gonna go now." As you give Mr. Write a peck goodbye as you finally decide that you are now unquestionably going to vote for Obama. Anyway...

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

...but there is nothing you love more than to be sitting on the beach sending snarky picture messages to all your pasty New York friends as they sit at home, shivering, because their cheap slumlords have turned off their furnaces for the season. The only problem is that, for some Global Warming bullshit reason, Florida is actually chilly, while two of the New York Weather Fags (ABC & Fox) are predicting that it's going to hit 80 fucking degrees in the city this weekend! Luckily the clouds clear up long enough to sit by the pool for an hour at your parents' condo, and although it's a sad substitute for the glorious beach, the pool is at least protected from the raging wind so that you don't have to be wrapped up like a gay mummy (in 500 thread count Egyptian cotton, of course).

You're on your best behavior laying obediently on the chaise next to your Mommie Dearest. You're wearing a Straight-Friendly one-piece just like a good little Christina would, as Mommie Dearest yaps away about her latest wire-hanger debacle. Apparently her upstairs neighbor's toilet has recently caused a horrible leak and caused your Snowbird parents' ceiling to cave in. Since your Hobosexual Roommate is prone to causing these types of unnecessary leaks, you wonder if perhaps his Hobosexual Mother might actually live on the 16th floor? But this conversation grinds to an absolute halt when Mommie Dearest's absoulte dearest friend plops down onto the chaise next to you. Apparently, unlike your gossipy mother, her Floridian BFF, Paige Six, really likes to stir the pot. As far as you're concerned, it takes Two to Tango, but you shut your trap because you're on a free vacation and you think Paige Six is a hoot. So when Ms. Six invites your whole family out for an evening of Seafood and Reggae music at Conchy Joes, you quickly accept the opportunity to be her Deep Fried Groupie so you can drink gallons of Red Red Wine and mooch off of the Senior Set's pension plans, of course.

That evening, you all pile into Daddy Warbuck's gynormous SUV and drive over to Conchy Joe's which ends up being a bit of a schlep. But it's all well worth it when the Waiter insists upon seeing your ID before serving you a glass of Red Red Wine. Although you are absolutely thrilled, you find it to be a bit unnecessary when the entire table begins to cackle at the obviously Farsighted Waiter. You glare at Mommie Dearest who is actually choking on an Oyster Cracker that she accidentally inhaled while you were being proofed, so you bitterly move Mommie Dearest's glass of water just slightly out of her reach as you hand the Farsighted Waiter your not-so-new New York License. Ok, now you know you look pretty good for your age (you are gay after all), but does the man really have to do a Double Take as if you're starring in some Damn Doublemint commercial? Then the Farsighted Waiter, who is easily ten years your senior, throws your ID back at you while shaking his head in disgust as he informs you, "I'm actually two years younger than you," as if you have just been pre-qualified for Social Security. You bite your tongue and choose not to explain the difference between Straight Years and Gay Years to the Farsighted Waiter who probably hasn't seen any non-AARP Members since the Category 5 winds of Hurricane Andrew obviously impaired his vision. Regardless, being the youngest looking fag in the room is a nice contrast from feeling like a cent-less centenarian in the under-thirty-only zone you live in below Houston Street that you commonly refer to as Logan's Run.

After several jugs of Red Red Wine, the Reggae Band starts to play and they actually turn out to be pretty good. But what's really entertaining is watching your graying parents pop some Advil and drag all their combined aches and pains onto the dance floor in order to Shake Shake Shake Their Booty. Paige Six somehow drags her Sports Fanatic husband onto the dance floor, even though he's in dire need of a double knee replacement, and Kneeless Joe waddles in place to "I Shot the Sheriff" in the arms of his Drunken Deputy. Eventually, as the Pacemaker Patrons finish up their Blue Plate Specials, the whole dance floor quickly fills up, and, from the copious amounts of Advil you spy being popped by the greedy fistful, it is safe to say that a good time is had by all. Even you end up limping your way onto the dance floor, and with your Healing Hernia and your Balloon Balls, you practically fit right in with the Straight Senior Set.

Only you don't fit in. And not just because you're gay. You don't fit because all these Snowbirds have coupled up and mated for life. And you, my friend, are sorely single. Again. You look around the room and wonder if, decades from now, you'll have someone to retire and grow gray(er) with? For Christ's sake you just noticed (and quickly plucked) a gray fucking chest hair! Or will you wind up living your Golden Years watching Golden Girls reruns from your Craftmatic Adjustable bed? Alone? Or *gasp* even worse, will you be so relationship-ly destitute that you wind up spending the rest of your days wearing Depends Undergarments in your Home-Sweet-Hovel arguing with your Hobosexual Roommate over whose turn it is to replace the Polident? This last pathetic image seems to make you shiver, until you realize that what you assume to be your emotions shaking this deep-seated fear out of the darkest recesses of your Cajun Blackened Heart, the vibration is actually coming from your cell phone in order to alert you of a new text message from your Boy du Jour: the Playwright in Shining Ardour, Mr. Write.

During the drive home you have a total interstate text fest with your Non-Jewish Jew and you tell him all about how you are driving down to West Palm tomorrow so you can ask The Four Questions during Passover with The Ex's family (even though The Ex won't even be there). You find it extremely sexy when Mr. Write practically orders you to pack up your bags and, "Come home! Someone else can ask the 4 questions." But the contrary Shiksa in you immediately taps back, "I only have 1 question to ask of you: Why is it that on this night a bitter aging fag would give up the increasingly rare opportunity of being the youngest boy in the room?" You click send and wait patiently for a witty response from Mr. Write, but you are jarred out of your Four Question Fantasy as well as your car seat while everybody in Daddy Warbucks' Gas Guzzler partakes in a collective chorus of, "OH MY GOD!" You look up as Daddy Warbucks skillfully swerves off the two lane road in order to avoid running over an oncoming motorcycle that has just flipped over and is sliding its way toward your over-sized 4WD along with the leather clad couple who are also tumbling toward you on their way to become one big collective speed bump. Luckily, Daddy Warbucks (who thankfully hasn't had a drop to drink) somehow maneuvers his Beige Behemoth and completely avoids what could have easily become yet another Retiree Roadkill statistic. You all jump out to help the poor people who are somehow still alive even though their Harley has shed a few key parts down the road, including it's Handlebar.

Somehow you are the one who ends up calling 911, even though you are thoroughly drunk and have absolutely no idea where the hell you are. After slurring a few unintelligible "Um, I dunno's" to questions that you are ill-equipped to answer, Paige Six grabs the phone from you and informs the dispatcher where to send help. The Bloody Driver is obviously in a state of shock as he seems to be pacing back and forth and worrying more about his Handlebar-less Harley than he is about his Wailing Wife who is inspecting the various cuts and scrapes covering her dark Bain(daged) Soleil legs through her now-shredded jeans. To calm him down, Mommie Dearest tells the Bloody Driver that you will move his Handlebar-less Harley out of the middle of the road, which seems completely reasonable until you and your Healing Hernia attempt to lift the damn thing. Although you haven't been allowed to go to the gym for over a month, could it be possible that you have lost that much strength? Or, please God, is the Handlebar-less Harley just ridiculously heavy for one drunk gay boy to lift? Luckily the police show up and "I Shot The Sheriff" ends up helping you roll the Scrap Metal out of the road.

Before you leave the scene of the crime (without ever being asked to make any sort of statement or to leave any contact information) you are happy to see that the Bloody Driver has finally stopped worrying about his Scrap Metal and has sat himself down to console his Wailing Wife. And then you pop back into the SUV with the Straight Senior Set and begin your drive back to the Ocean Front Condo. Paige Six immediately begins to spin the simple story into the biggest thing since Hurricane Wilma thrashed through the state of Florida and Bamm Bamm'd everything in it's path into tiny little Pebbles. Meanwhile, when you finally remember to check your phone to see if Mr. Write ever responded, you find yourself equally pummeled by the Category 5 text message you have just received from Blonde Beard. He's obviously received the Shutterfly Photo Book that you spent days making for his 40th birthday in order to document your entire relationship. As you read his words, your heart sinks even faster than your non-relationship did after you stupidly dropped the L-Word on Blonde Beard. The message simply says, "Got your gift. Thanks, it was very thoughtful." Anyway...

You’re Not the Type of Fag Who Cries Himself to Sleep...

...but you do whole-heartedly believe in the medicinal powers of an old fashioned sleeping pill. Forget about all this Ambien and Xanex crap, you, my friend, prefer to follow in the footsteps of the Ghosts of Divas Past. After coming home, alone, after the dramatic subway platform ending of your three month relationship with Blonde Beard, you decide to treat yourself to thirty milligrams of forty-winks and you knock yourself out (like Judy and Marilyn would have) with one of your left over Restorils prescribed to help you survive a Red Eye on your recent ski trip to Chamonix.

The next day you wake up, extremely groggy, and you’re kind of thrilled about the gorgeous warm weather. You don’t have any plans, so, as you lay in the comfort of your comforting comforter, you start to think about how best to spend your Sunday. And that’s when it hits you. You suddenly remember last night. You remember Blonde Beard’s fortieth birthday dinner at Supper. Drinks at The Ritz. More drinks at Barrage. Then you remember that sentence. The one that caused you to forget everything else that was said before or after. Blonde Beard’s sentence that suddenly put everything into perspective for you and your three month relationship: “I just feel that, between work and school, that I’m spreading myself too thin.” You are shocked, but not because of Blonde Beard’s irritatingly lame break-up sentence. You are shocked, but not because that sentence ultimately caused you to confess your love on the West 4th Subway Platform before walking away and bursting into tears. You feel like you've done everything you could in this relationship, and somehow you don't feel like too much of an idiot. Expressing your feelings to someone you love is not a bad thing. And the one thing you know for sure is that when you do express your love for a boy, you definitely expect it to be a good thing. Actually, more like a great thing. But none of these Post-Mortem realizations are all that surprising. What you find to be completely shocking today is that you're not really all that sad. At all. And shouldn’t you be? After all, you told the damn guy you loved him and then he let you walk away. Could you have possibly made a mistake? Well, obviously you were wrong for falling in love with Blonde Beard in the first place, but is it possible that you were never actually in love with him at all?

You remember your first break-up with your first love. You cried for weeks. An entire summer, in fact. And after you broke up with your second love you remember breaking into sudden tears almost daily in the shower, where nobody, not even you, could see your tears even though they were undeniably present on a daily basis. And the third boy you’ve ever said, “I love you” to is Blonde Beard. Shouldn’t you feel worse? Shouldn’t you be crying? After years of being single in Manhattan, is it possible that you’ve gotten too old and jaded to properly experience love and heartbreak? Your existential angst actually pulls you out of bed and keeps you busy sifting through your innermost superficiality for some hint of denied sorrow as you make yourself some (actually rather delicious) scrambled eggs and hop in the shower and sing along the poppy new British Import you bought on eBay, Now That’s What I Call Music 69, specifically to some song called Be Mine! by Robyn, “But you never were, and you never will be mine!” And, get this, even though the silly song makes you instantly think of Blonde Beard, it actually puts you in an even better mood.

So after getting dressed you decide exactly what you are going to do today. You are going to finish making that ridiculously romantic Shutterfly photo book that documents all of the dates you went on with Blonde Beard. And you’re not doing it to be spiteful. Well, you don’t think you are. Anyway. Instead of considering it as a birthday present, you decide that now it will work much better as a Lovely Parting Gift. So the Martha in you hobbles her Hurtful Hernia over to the restaurant that you took Blonde Beard to last night for his birthday dinner. Originally you had wanted to get the waitress to take a photo of the two of you for the last page in the book, but after Blonde Beard poo-poo’d that you decide that you still want to document your Last Supper with Blonde Beard which, ironically, took place at Supper.

And then you go home and spend the day in front of your computer, uploading photos, cropping them, putting them in chronological order, while you wait for Blonde Beard not to call. You title it “Forty Dates With a Thirty-Nine Year Old.” And you end it with a simple, “Happy 40th, xoxo You!” because the x’s and o’s seem to represent the way you feel now much better than the word “love” does. When you finish you actually feel kind of relieved that it’s over. You no longer have to live in fear of Blonde Beard finding out about your Blah-Blah-Blog. You don’t have to worry about him hating you for writing about your relationship and publishing it on the internet. The fact that he doesn’t love you seems somehow preferable to him finding out and hating your Gay Fat guts. And that’s when it hits you. It’s not that you’re too old to experience love and heartbreak, perhaps you’re just too scared to experience it publicly. Anyway...

Click here to view this photo book.

You're Not One of Those Fags Who Says Things He Doesn't Mean...

...but sometimes you definitely mean things that you don't actually say. Like when you go out for brunch with The Ex. You've known each other so long that you don't even need to say things. In fact you can have entire fights without even saying a word. On the other hand, you can still have moments where you wonder why you ever broke up. Anyway. He's finished production on the movie he's directing in Texas and has a week off before moving to LA to begin editing. Since his idea of rest entails nodding off in a Broadway theater, you two meet at Eatery for a nice brunch before his matinee begins. You, of course, are late without any valid excuse, but The Ex, for some unusual reason, doesn't give you a hard time. You get seated right away and order something light because you feel like a big fat pig. And the two of you begin to yap while you wait for you food.

You start talking to The Ex about his imminent trip to Los Angeles and somehow you get on the subject of flying with the Kitty Cunt. The Ex got the cat in the divorce, and that was fine because he should have. That Kitty Cunt meant more to him than you ever did, and besides, you hated cleaning the damn litter box. Anyway. The Ex tells you a story about when he was traveling to LA with the Kitty Cunt who was, surprisingly, on her best behavior. However, during their Limo ride to The Four Seasons (yes, The Ex is fancy in that way), the Kitty Cunt couldn't hold it in anymore, so she turned her Kitty Cunt toward The Ex, raised her tail up inside the traveling cage, and pee'd a stream of smelly cat piss onto The Ex's white button-down shirt! The Ex freaked out and immediately opened the limo's window and hung the traveling cage out the window over the 405 (as if he were Michael Jackson dangling Blanket over that Berlin Balcony), and let the Kitty Cunt spray her scent over the gridlock they call West LA.

The two of you laugh and laugh over this ridiculous scenario until you begin to cry. Only you're not crying in that good way that The Ex thinks you are. You're actually wondering why Blonde Beard has never make you laugh like this? You wonder why your conversations with Blonde Beard aren't as easy-breezy as talking with The Ex. After brunch you are screwed because you know you must spend the day shopping for a present for Blonde Beard's 40th birthday and you have no idea what to buy. Although you had planned to take him to Vermont for a romantic birthday weekend, Blonde Beard's school schedule has recently changed and that trip will have to be postponed for weeks. And now you must come up with some sort of offering before his birthday dinner this evening.

During the train ride downtown, you put your thinking cap on to figure out a nice, romantic present that won't break the bank. You are, after all, still taking him out for an expensive dinner tonight, not to mention taking him to Vermont in three weeks. But you know you need to show up to dinner with something thoughtful. Luckily on the subway you have a brainstorm and you decide to make a Photo Book that documents all of the dates that you've been on since you two met. So you race home and quickly charge your digital camera while consulting your Blah-Blah-Blog for all of the wonderful places you've been. You make a list of bars and restaurants and then race down the six flights of stairs with the week-old surgical scars from your Hurtful Hernia. And you begin to document your relationship. You start at Urge where you had your first kiss and then you make your way West to all the romantic places you two have ever been. As you are taking photos of Quartino Bottega Organica, someone rudely asks you what the hell you are doing and you look up to see an old friend giving you shit. You are a bit embarrassed, but you explain to your Project Runway wannabe friend that you are photographing date locations for a Birthday Gift. Project Wannabe instantly starts to gush and he is sooooooo happy for you that, man-wise, things have finally turned around for you. You chit-chat for a bit, but you have tons of places to document, so you double-kiss him goodbye and then limp your way from East to West Village, taking photos and business cards from all the super cute places that you've shared experiences with Blonde Beard.

Sometimes people eating at these restaurants look at you a bit funny, but you don't really care. Sometimes you have to wait for a long time for the restaurant manager to find you a business card from beneath the cash register, but it's all worth it because everybody gushes about how romantic your gift is, and they all go out of their way to help you, which only makes you more and more excited to give it to Blonde Beard. At Shag, you even have to chat with the Bartender (who you made out with once in the corner of the bar which the surveillance system doesn't survey) while you explain that you are making a scrapbook for Blonde Beard. And funnily enough, the card the Shag Bartender gives you includes his phone number, prominently written on the back. But you digress. You wind up photographing twenty-three places and by the time you finish you can barely walk. You've spent the entire day documenting your relationship with Blonde Beard, and you wind up racing back home to quickly shower before meeting him at Supper for his birthday dinner. Of course you don't have enough time to actually make the book on Shutterfly, but Blonde Beard's birthday is a day away and you feel confident that your tardy present will be well worth it.

You're only a few minutes late, but Blonde Beard is, of course, waiting for you outside of Supper. You are soooooo excited to see him, however when you arrive it is obvious that he's in a bad mood. He informs you that he is feeling sick (again) and he begins to complain about it. However, you have spent the last five hours schlepping around Manhattan reminiscing about your relationship, and you are on such a natural high that you aren't about to engage his complaints. You just ignore anything negative, even when he seems to be taking it out on you for simply suggesting that he might want to finally go see a doctor. Although you let it all go, you can't help but wonder if Blonde Beard is trying to pick a fight? Perhaps he's just anxious about his big birthday? Whatever it is, it doesn't matter because you are here to make everything better tonight.

Your table isn't ready so you head over to the bar and buy a pair of overpriced $12 margaritas. You're even more bummed when you have to tip $2 per lousy (ridiculously expensive) drink, but you are happy when the tequila seems to help Blonde Beard lighten up. Eventually the host seats you at a not-so-private table for two, and you order more drinks as you begin your not-so-romantic dinner, during which Blonde Beard answers a phone call from his Jealous Roommate. Blonde Beard is told that he shouldn't come home because his Jealous Roommate is installing a new kitchen faucet this evening. You, of course, laugh heartily at this information, because his Jealous Roommate is the same man who hates you for joking about the fact that he's never going to finish his endless renovation... Meanwhile, you're thrilled because the faucet situation insures that Blonde Beard will be spending the night at your place (for the first time), which means you won't have to deal with the Jealous Renovating Roommate. During dinner you attempt (at least three times) to caress Blonde Beard's knee with your hand, but unlike previous dates, his hand never meets yours beneath the table. Perhaps his affectionate-less distance has something to do with him feeling sick? Anyway.

Somehow dinner, plus tip, turns out to be $130 (not counting the $28 margaritas you bought at the bar), and it wasn't even that good. But Blonde Beard seems to have drunken himself beyond his bad mood so it was worth it. When you walk outside you somehow remember that you have brought your camera and you attempt to coax Blonde Beard into allowing a stranger to take a photograph. You, of course, want this photo to be the very last photo in your Photo Album of Dates, but Blonde Beard whines about being sick and not looking good and you just let it go because, after all, it is his birthday even though you imagined the last page in the photo book to include a picture of the two of you.

For some reason Blonde Beard wants to go to Hell's Kitchen and you agree (even though you know your Internet Crush is less than three blocks away at Eastern Bloc), and you wind up going to The Ritz. You start a tab there and drink lots of poorly poured beers by the cute but lousy bartender from Syracuse who slept with your BFF. Would it actually kill him to fill the damn glass? Eventually you are able to coax your shy Blonde Beard onto the dance floor, and even though you are suffering from post surgical swollen testicles, you somehow find the energy to dance. Blonde Beard just stands there. Watching. Disapprovingly. Even though coming to The Ritz was his choice. He keeps looking around at other people, but not in that skeevy way where he's checking them out because he wants to chat them up. Somehow it seems like he's just not that interested in chatting you up. Like his Attention Deficit Disorder is pulling him away from you. Even though it doesn't seem personal, it still doesn't feel good. Eventually the dance floor is packed and Blonde Beard starts making fun of the music (even though it's really rather good, which is easily illustrated by all the cute young boys grinding around you). Since you're feeling a bit unsure of the increasingly awkward situation, you decide that flirting is the best policy and inform your hairy faced man that your friend Bunny recently told you that once Blonde Beard saw you dance that he would fall head over heels in love with you. However, when Blonde Beard doesn't even react to either your dance moves nor Bunny's ridiculous claim, you definitely don't feel like dancing anymore.

So you go to Barrage for their Hour of Power and you position yourselves at the far end of the bar where nobody seems to be bothering you. Somehow you finally begin to talk. For real. And even though you've had way too much to drink, you are somehow still emotionally parched for something that has seemed elusive all night long. Honestly, you're not even sure how the conversation begins (although you definitely bring it up), and you (not so suddenly) find yourself on such uneven footing that you can't help but begin to ask probing questions. You don't even remember what you ask exactly. But it doesn't really matter. Nothing he says is reassuring. You begin to panic. How did you go from birthday cocktails to this fucking conversation? Although everything Blonde Beard says is bad, the only thing you actually remember him saying is the only thing actually worth remembering, "Between work and school and you, I feel like I'm spreading myself too thin..." And that's it. When you hear that you know it's over. People don't say things like that when they really like someone. People say things like that when they want to break up. Or when they want you to break up with them. The ironic thing is that you didn't even feel like Blonde Beard was neglecting you! Lately, of course, things have been odd, but he's always offered you all of his free time! Which he has next to none of! That's not such a thin spread! But these are things that aren't worth arguing about. You have no interest in someone who spreads himself too thinly for you. You know you deserve more than that. And Blonde Beard knows that, too. And that's exactly why he's saying what he's saying. You, of course, pay the tab and tell him you want to go home.

On your way back to the subway Blonde Beard informs you that he thinks he should go home alone (even though there is no running water) instead of spending the night with you; that he will call you tomorrow. None of this surprises you any longer. The C train comes and you both hop on and sit in absolute silence from 42nd Street to West 4th. You both get off there, since you need to transfer to the F and Blonde Beard needs to race home to his faucet-less apartment. So you find yourselves standing on the A-C-E platform at West 4th and you are unable to move. You know that there is nothing more to say, of course, but you can't seem to break away. You physically cannot leave him. You feel terrible because you're worried that you have both ruined his birthday and are now breaking up. You just stand there, silently, waiting for something to end the awkwardness, when the A train pulls up. It seems like Blonde Beard is trying to get rid of you when he asks if you can take that train home since it's on a fucked up Weekend Schedule. You can't, but the fact that he wants you to hop on the train makes you feel unwanted and really sad. You tell him, "It is really, really hard to walk away from you right now." And then you look deep into Blonde Beard's blue eyes as your brown ones begin to well up with tears, so you instantly avert your gaze and lean in toward him so you can whisper into his ear, "Because I love you." And you mean it.

Then you walk away. You don't look back as you head down the stairwell to the F train because you are scared to. That's when you really begin to ball because you know it will be the last time you will ever see Blonde Beard. All you want is for him to run after you and grab you into a hug and make everything better. But somehow you make it to the downstairs platform and walk the entire length to the front of the train, passing by drunks who stare at you and your girly tears,without hide nor hair of Blonde Beard. You sit down and cry for an eternity before the F train arrives. And even though he said he would, you know in your heart that Blonde Beard won't call the next day. That he was just saying something he didn't really mean because he felt uncomfortable. Anyway...