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 Drama Queen Fags...

...but you are dramatic. Especially when it comes to your love life. Lately you've been all over the place emotionally. The littlest thing can set you off and make or break your entire day. Like the other night when you were publicly judged by the Karaoke Nazi and then made a big scene by throwing down a wad of money to pay the check before storming out and almost getting run over in a crosswalk by some Jersey Hyundai Hag. Apparently her left-hand turn was more important than your life, so you smacked her driver's side window so hard that you actually hurt your hand. But if you look hard enough there's always a silver lining to these dramatic outbursts. For instance, since you left Karaoke early you never got a chance to publicly embarrass yourself after drunkenly requesting Christina Aguilera's Ain't No Other Man when a) You have no right nor any vocal range to sing that song, and b) There ain't no man in your life. And to top it off, since you hurt your hand, c) You were unable to write the Karaoke Nazi any sort of formal apology for your dramatic outburst.

You were, however, able to hunt and peck a one handed iPhone note to Mr. Write since you felt like your last short dismissive email may have come off a bit too dismissive. And you are not one to dismiss an opportunity to have sex, no matter how remote the possibility. So when you wake up the next morning you reply (again) to Mr. Write's ridiculous email about how he couldn't see you because he was "Doubly and Triply" booked over the weekend that he initially asked you out for! Now that it's Monday you realize that it might be nice to keep the potential open for a possible date next weekend, so you write: "how'd your weekend go? sorry for the short reply before. my home internet has been down since Friday and i only had my phone. i kind of had a shitty weekend, but am feeling better now."

Although you don't immediately hear back from Mr. Write, the Gay Gods must have heard your plea and accepted your offering because your phone rings almost instantaneously as you receive a call from the Portuguese Brazilian From London, who, according to his message, has commuted back to New York for a few days. Again. You only met him once (met = kissed) immediately after your Hurtful Hernia Surgery when you went all Judy Garland and accidentally mixed Absolut and Oxycodone (oops), which made for one Absolut(ly) Oxy(moronic) Memorable Blackout. But, as usual, you digress.

After an unproductive day of procrastinwriting, you call back the Portuguese Brazilian From London during your walk home. Although you have recently been feeling completely un-dateable, feeling somewhat desirable by someone turns out to be a wonderful distraction from your depression even though the man is completely unavailable, lives across the Atlantic, and has a twentysomething boyfriend in New York. Unfortunately, between the incessant street noise and the horrible cell-to-cell connection, coupled with the Portuguese Brazilian From London's indecipherable accent, you honestly have no idea what the hell he actually says to you. But it's all good because it was nice of him to get in touch and that simple fact has instantly put you in a much better mood even though, in actuality, he very well may have called to tell you that he has Herpes Simplex One and had an oozing cold sore when he kissed you during the night of your Memorable Blackout.

But none of this matters because tonight you and your BFF have tickets to go see your boy Calvin Harris at Bowery Ballroom! Since you live right down the street from the venue, you tell your BFF to meet you at your place and he surprises you with a nice sized bottle of designer vodka that he swiped during his company's xxx-mas party. Your Hobosexual Roommate stays put in his room busy doing something typical like not-cleaning, and your BFF thinks it is very odd that he's never even met the Hobosexual even though you've lived with him for almost a year. But you just shrug and mix a couple of drinks that are so strong that hopefully they'll take the hair off your chest. Especially that gray one you recently plucked. What's up with that? Anyway.

Eventually you are sufficiently liquored up and head down to the Bowery Ballroom just as the opening band is, thankfully, packing up, which makes it an Absolut(ly) perfect time to go to the Bowery Ballroom's Bar Room and order a much needed Gay Cocktail. Only, as you look around you, you are kind of shocked to realize that you two are the only gay boys in the entire place! Everybody is either *gasp* a Straight Slackster from Billyburg, or they're currently dating one. And this, my friend, is not your typical demographic. Toto, I don't think we're in Ken's Ass anymore. But it's all good because eventually Calvin Harris's Ass storms the small stage at the Sold Out show. Calvin is, as expected, fantastic. His fans, however, not so much. By the time Calvin sings "The Girls" you are about to start bludgeoning The Girls surrounding you with their giant leather shoulder bags. How much makeup do they really need to lug around to a dark concert? And to top it off, The Girls keep squeezing past you to sneak closer to the stage, or The Girls need to push past you to buy another Cosmopolitan, or, more likely, to go buy some more giant fake Prada Bags in Chinatown. Whatever they're doing, The Girls' movement is both constant as well as constantly annoying. Luckily you are taller than them and your big feet have a habit of stomp dancing onto their Jimmy Choos if they get too close. Oh so sorry. Unlike Calvin, at this particular moment you are not loving The Girls.

After the concert it's raining again, and you and your BFF just stand there trying to figure out your next umbrella-less move, which, please God, will hopefully be a Gay one. But that's when Calvin Harris himself walks out onto the sidewalk and begins to wave all of the stragglers to a little bar just south of Bowery Ballroom down by Broome Street. So, of course, you and your BFF tag along and at the bar you have a lovely conversation with Calvin that he couldn't be less interested in! Whatever. If Calvin ever decided to Come Out and write a song called "The Boys" you are sure that you would rank higher on his currently non-existent Gaydar.

On the way home you decide to stop for a Gay Nightcap at Urge and are Pleased as Planter's Punch to realize that your favorite Thursday Therapy DJ also plays at Urge on Mondays. So you give him a big double Euro Kiss and sit down to enjoy the fact that you have Absolut(ly) salvaged what could have been a terrible day, and have ultimately turned that frown upside down! You check your iPhone while waiting for the bartender to concoct your Gay Nightcap, and your heart skips a beat when you realize that you have finally received a response from Mr. Write. You quickly burst into hysterics and read it aloud, dramatically, to your BFF:

“finally writing back. yes, your response seemed terse, i tried not to read anything into it. sorry your weekend was so bad.

but i'm not much better. i have been like a canary in a cage since yesterday, running from one dean to another. i finally ended the day SCREAMING like a hag, like a crazy crazy hag, into the voicemail of the senior dean and i may have committed job suicide. no joke. and i mean SCREAMING. i never get like this, so i am now going to lie down on my sofa, and probably cry. i'm supposed to see my ex tonight for a movie but i am thinking of canceling and drinking a lot of wine.

sorry about my friend from LA coming, and then to collide with you when all this job crap AND the bad/sociopathic ex is sending me letters and leaving me sobbing voicemails. i wish this wasn't happening in my life now; it has derailed getting to know you. i have little energy for US and i'm not sure how to proceed.”

And yes, Mr. Write actually capitalized US as if you and he were on the cover of the Weekly! OMG! His email is so insanely crazy that you actually think that Mr. Write may have actually fabricated it just to scare you away! After all, he is a Playwright who moonlights as a Professor in, surprise-surprise, the Drama Department. But if Mr. Write just wanted to blow you off, wouldn't it have been a lot easier to just not return your damn email? Regardless, you are now absolutely sure that Mr. Write is indeed Mr. Wrong and you and your BFF giggle-sip your cocktails while you re-read the insane monologue again as if you were William Shatner performing William Shakespeare. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Fags Who Gets Depressed and Becomes a Hermit...

...but you are really bummed about the fact that Blonde Beard is a Crack Head. Or might be. Hell you don't know, but you had such high hopes for this one and now you are totally re-examining everything underneath a giant microscope, even though what you really need is one of those giant Drug Sniffing Dogs that like to hang out around JFK Customs.

You're working from home today even though the police called to let you know that they recovered your laptop from the Lazy Blackmailer's apartment. You told them you'd drop by the precinct and pick it up tomorrow partly because you don't feel like getting out of your pajamas, but mostly because you're enjoying wallowing in your own filth and self-pity. After whining to your BFF about your latest novel: "Crackheads and the Boys Who Love Them," he informs you that your dilemma is nothing that can't be solved by a few Gay Cocktails. So you two make a plan to meet at The Ritz for their extremely economical Half Priced Happy Hour.

After an unproductive day of work, somehow you pull it together to take a shower. While you're waiting for the hot water to meander its way up to your 6th Floor Walk-up, you end up staring at your mopey-fish-face mug in the mirror and decide that you need to shave off the damn beard you've been growing. You think of it as a symbolic shave that will somehow rid you of your disturbingly co-dependent feelings for Blonde Beard. Besides, yesterday someone told you that it made you look older, so good riddance and buh-bye to the beard. First you do some weed whacking with your manscaping clippers and then you hop in the hot shower to shave the fucker off.

Afterwards, even though it's only been a few weeks, you definitely do a double-take because you've already become accustomed to your fuzzy/furry look. You definitely look younger though. Gray hairs sprouting from your cheeks was definitely not your best look. So you get dressed to go out and meet your BFF, but when you go to leave your hovel, the bottom door lock just spins and spins, yet never unlocks. There's no click. You stare at the inside of your apartment door in disbelief as you begin to grasp the fact that you are actually locked inside your apartment. How is that even fucking possible? Did your Hobosexual roommate break the bottom lock when he went out for dinner? Do these sorts of ridiculous things happen to other people? Or specifically just to you?

You immediately call the Hobosexual and, of course, you get his voicemail. You leave a frantic message, partly because you want your message to seem a bit urgent, but mostly because you are totally Jonesing for your Gay Cocktail. Next you call your Super, even though he only answers to text messages, but you figure bombarding him with S.O.S.'s can't hurt. Then you call your BFF so that he doesn't wind up going to The Ritz, since it's pretty damn obvious that you won't be meeting him there anytime soon. When he answers you tell him, "Don't go to the bar." "Too late," he informs you, "I needed a cocktail. What's up?" You explain your ridiculous situation which he can't help but laugh at you, "You're locked inside your apartment?"

After lecturing you on your shitty-ass karma, your BFF pledges to come downtown and rescue you after he finishes his cocktail, of course. While you wait for your BFF to arrive, you end up playing sappy broken-heart love songs, and by the time he buzzes you, you're busy scanning the ceiling of your Hovel for something strong enough to hang a noose from while listening to Jennifer Hudson belt out "And I Am Telling You I'm Not Going." Ten minutes after buzzing him in, your out-of-breath BFF reaches the final step of Mount EverShanty. You tell him that you're gonna slide the key under the door for him to see if he can unlock it from the outside. Luckily this works and you don't have to go to Plan B where you play Rapunzel and yell out the window pleading with Bad Samaritans on the sidewalk for help. Or the dreaded Plan C where you have to call, and pay, for a Locksmith that you will never be reimbursed for.

You let your BFF catch his breath before beginning the long descent to gayer pastures. By the time you reach the third floor, the two of you decide to go to Urge since it's close by. And as luck would have it (obviously your BFF's luck, as you are void in that department lately) it turns out that your BFF knows the bartender (which is the New York equivalent of winning Lotto). After a few extremely strong and desperately needed cocktails, you actually end up having a laugh about your latest dating debacle. Your BFF thinks that you should keep your plans with Blonde Beard for tomorrow night and just go out and have a good time. After all, you really like the guy, and you don't know for sure that he's a Crackhead. Maybe he's only a recreational Crackhead? Maybe he uses soap that smells like Mothballs? Maybe it was his roommate's Crystal Pipe? Since you don't have the answers to any of these questions, it's important not to presume that Blonde Beard is guilty until proven innocent. You should never judge a Crackhead by his Crack Den. Especially when the Crackhead is great in bed.

And then, after you are sufficiently cheered up (or, more likely, sufficiently liquored up), the cute London Lush without any facial hair (who you've been keeping tabs on from the corner of your wandering eye) begins to chat you up with his adorable accent. You ask him a few questions about nothing in particular, and, yadda yadda yadda, you're making out with the London Lush in the back corner of Urge, exchanging cell numbers. Blonde Beard who? Anyway...

You're not the type of fag who falls in love on an Internet Date…

...but you've been especially looking forward to your follow up date with Blonde Beard. You tend to think of Internet Meet n' Greets as sub-dates; they're usually so terrible and awkward that, even if you like the boy (which you never do), you don't really count them as first dates. But the two of you have been emailing back and forth since you met, and Blonde Beard definitely gives good email. He makes you laugh. Almost every time. And it's really hard to make you laugh. Actually, it's not that hard, but it's important to point out that nothing but nervous, uncomfortable, "I-want-to-kill-myself" kind of laughter has ever emanated from a stupid match.com date. (See fagnote #1, below.)

You've definitely been thinking about Blonde Beard. A lot. But that probably has more to do with the fact that you just spent a nice ski weekend in Vermont with lots of your irritating, lovey-dovey Couple Friends. They all got to share big beds while you and your right hand got to snuggle up in a twin bed. But you digress. Tonight's date is at a place called Rice. Of course you made Blonde Beard suggest the restaurant as a test, mostly because you find that boys choices tend to say a lot about who they are, and, more importantly, how they see you. As usual, your only request was Cheap and Cheerful.

Instead of daydreaming all day about your impending date with Blonde Beard, your day turns out to be extremely annoying since it is mostly spent holding on the phone for Yahoo! Tech Support (see fagnote #2, below). Somehow your narcissistic blog site had simply vanished from the Internet without a trace. Poof! After one hour and fifty minutes of hold music you scream at the poor straight guy who answers because you know that that Fags across America are in dire need to read all about your recent Hemorrhoid Procedure. You know this to be true because you received several nice emails and a concerned IM from gay boys who were worried about what the hell happened to 2ndPerson.net! (Props to QuickTechnoSilver!)

Anyway. You get a bit nervous before meeting Blonde Beard, but you shower with your expensive yummy smelling soap and take way too much time picking out a flattering outfit. Luckily the restaurant isn't too far from home so you arrive uncharacteristically early instead of your usual 5-10 minutes late (typically you conduct your life in the GST timezone: Gay Standard Time.) But somehow Blonde Beard is already there, waiting on a stoop, and when you look up at him your heart kind of skips a beat because you've forgotten how damn attractive he is. He smiles and you jump up on the stoop to meet his whiskered lips with a kiss (see fagnote #3, below), making it crystal clear that from this point on, handshakes have become obsolete.

The restaurant is super cute and delicious and extremely affordable, but none of that really matters because the two of you are so lost in your own boring conversation. All of the diners around you seem to fade away from consciousness, and at three separate vomit-inducing points during the date, you both completely forget what you're actually saying because you just sort of get lost in each other's lengthy stare. You know it's gross, but it was totally just like that! You did get lost in his eyes! And at exactly the same time that he got lost in yours! And it felt fucking fantastic! Like a well-timed mutual orgasm. Only visual. And, unfortunately, with your clothes on.

You definitely overstay your welcome at Rice, but neither of you seem to want the date to end. You even order an extra glass of wine after the check comes just to prolong the date. Even though you'd really prefer desert, this is, after all, a gay date and you don't want to come off like a "Feed Me, Seymour!" Fatty Fag (see fagnote #4, below). Eventually you split the bill and find yourself out on the cold street. Blonde Beard asks, "Are you up for doing something else?" to which you answer immediately, "I'm up for making out with you. But it's too cold outside." You both decide to take it slow, which is relatively easy since you are both saddled with homebody roommates. Eventually you decide to go to Urge since it's right around the corner.

You sit at the bar and order beers as your knees begin to touch. Slightly at first; then hard and deliberate. Soon after that the kissing begins and then there's no holding you back. You were a bit worried about how it would feel to kiss a beard, but you're pleasantly surprised at how soft and simultaneously masculine it feels. You definitely get lost in his kisses and don't care who's watching, even though you're typically against P.D.A.'s. Everything's nice and dandy until the damn Drag Queen show begins and everybody in the bar seems to be more interested in watching her show than listening to the two lustful bearded boys blah-blah-blah about what good kissers they are. So you grab Blonde Beard's hand and yank him toward the front of the bar where it's completely empty. That's where you guys let loose and really go at it. After some heavy hand-over-the-Diesel-Jeans action, you are as happy as Christopher Columbus with your recent discovery of Blonde Beard's substantial new land mass. (See fagnote #5, below)

After both of your lips are way too chapped to do anymore kissing, you walk him to the Second Avenue F train and, get this, you go down to wait with him even though you're within walking distance from home. Your cheap ass is completely shocked as you find yourself swiping your Metrocard just to wait on a subway platform with the simple ulterior motive of not wanting the date to end. You must really like this guy. Unfortunately your two dollar entrance fee isn't really worth the price of admission since the train comes almost instantly. You kiss Blonde Beard goodbye, but not before making plans to see each other again on Sunday. Only now that he's gone, Sunday seems sooooooo far away. Could you be falling for Blonde Beard? You almost want to smack some sense into yourself so you don't let your emotions play tricks on you. But then you realize that anything can happen between now and Sunday. And it usually does ;-) Anyway...