You're Not the Type of Fag Who Has One Night Stands...

...anymore. Or at least this is the bullshit that actually comes out of your mouth during your daily boy update with your Gal Pal. For some reason you just feel like you're over one night stands. Perhaps you've gotten *gasp* too old, or perhaps you've learned that these hook-ups never seem to turn into anything worthwhile. Lately you've been pretty clear headed about finding someone substantial, and you decide that this elusive species of gay boys are probably looking for someone substantial themselves. Although you like to believe that, deep down beneath your shallowness, you, too, are substantial, you can't help but wonder whether you've been hiding this lesser known trait to the world? Or instead of being substantial, have you just been acting a bit substandard? It's not like you have anything against a one night stand. Hell, some of your best friends have come out of these situations. Well, best acquaintances. Whose names you never seem to remember. But you digress. It's not a moral issue, more like a whore-al issue. How do you expect to find the man of your dreams if you keep acting like a hooker? Let's face it honey, you're not Julia Roberts and this ain't no Pretty Woman.

Later that afternoon, during Happy Hour if you must be exact, you get a text from your BFF telling you to meet him at XES for a Gay Cocktail, and although his misspellings don't initially cause any misgivings, when you arrive at Happy Hour you quickly realize that your BFF is already quite Happy. This is audibly evident thanks to his tongue ring which seems to get heavier with each drink, and ultimately works like a breathalyzer for discerning how many cocktails he's had. Considering that he can no longer produce the letter R without chipping a tooth, you can quickly surmise that your BFF is on his fourth Tanqueray and Tonic. This, of course, means only one thing to you. You better catch up. And quick!

It's a gorgeous night, and after the XES Happy Hour ends, you both decide to go to a place with an outdoor space. Although it is typically not your scene, now that you are sporting a bushy new beard, you uncharacteristically suggest going to The Eagle. Your BFF thinks this is a grand idea, mostly because he lives a block away from the bar, but partly so you can drop off your backpacks at his place, and, of course, mix yourselves a free cocktail. You ask if you can trade in your bright red preppy-ass Lacoste for something a bit more butch, and you are pleased as punch with a form fitting Graphic Tee sporting a '60s muscle car. Unfortunately, the bouncer at The Eagle is less than pleased with your new outfit and tells you that you aren't allowed inside with the T-shirt. Apparently, the Fashion Dicktator, who is donning nothing more than Leather Chaps and Nipple Rings, thinks your cute T-Shirt is too, get this, busy. So you stand there, dumbfounded, until he says you can come in if you take it off. Now, it's not like you don't go to the gym four or five times a week, but it's also not like you feel comfortable being half naked in public. But your BFF (who's wearing a much more acceptable stained Wife-Beater) says, "Just take it off" as he pushes past you and Anna Winwhore on the way to the bar.

Although you worry about what a brown shirt hanging out of your back pocket might mean amongst the Leather Crowd, you put it there anyway. You hesitantly make your way up the stairs, however, once you set foot on the massive deck, your confidence goes through the non-existent roof! Between the Flat Ass wearing nothing but a jock strap, and the hairy Chia-Pet wearing nothing but sneakers, you've never felt so good about your body before! You briefly consider donating your entire ensemble to the worthy cause of clothing these Gents, but, unfortunately, your Cub-Sized clothing wouldn't cover too much of these Bare Bears. This is when your BFF turns to you and says, "Toto, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore." And you ask, "Don't you mean Ken's Ass?"

You're instantly struck by a cowering boy who is sitting down beneath a four watt light bulb, in the middle of the roof deck bar, getting his, get this, haircut by a man whose pupils are so dilated that you begin to be convinced that the dim bulb might actually be giving off enough light for a decent cut. But when a Crooked Mohawk is shaved onto the twenty-two year old, you wonder whether you should help out by flashing your cell phone upon the poor boy's head. That's when, out of nowhere, an extremely sexy, in shape, surprisingly hairless boy walks up to you and practically penetrates you with his piercing blue eyes as he asks, "Do you have a profile on Connexion?" to which you happily answer, "Yes." And when he begins to rattle off your stats and details from memory, "You're a writer, right?" The two of you fall quickly into a conversation so your BFF disappears and returns with beers for everyone as he informs you that he has decided to get a free haircut.

You are torn. Although you would really enjoy the freudenschade entertainment of watching your BFF make a terrible decision, you decide that you must be a good friend and beg him not to. But you're practically Talking To The Hand as he sits down in the moon-lit chair and attempts to tell the Cracked Out Barber about the type of free make-over he'd like to receive. You and Bald Boy wind up giggling and flirting your way through your BFF's entire denigrating hair-removal process. At one point you worry whether the Cracked Out Barber might have actually scalded off some hair with his dangling cigar, but you are having too much fun watching your BFF getting his free haircut. That's when Bald Boy begins giving you some free kisses. And the delicious kisses tend to be more successful under such low-lighting. Bald Boy's fantastic kisses quickly pull your attention away from all things hairy. The next thing you know, your BFF interrupts you with a tap on the shoulder and informs you, "I'm going home. Everybody's ugly." You attempt not to laugh at the yarmulke that has been recently shaved onto the top of his head as you say your goodbyes. And then, after a beer or two, you find yourself hailing a cab back to Bald Boy's apartment, for what you expect to turn out to be a substantial one night stand. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Coffee Date Fags...

...but when a boy you've been eyeing on Connexion for years suggests getting together for a Cup o' Joe, you jump at the chance. You've been chatting online all week and although he had an Endoscopy this afternoon, he told you he'd call afterwards if he felt up to meeting. And he has kept to his word, so off pack up your laptop and head over to Joe's to meet your next Blah-Blah-Blog victim. However, as you head down Sixth Avenue the pit in your stomach begins to fill with butterflies, or more likely moths, when you realize that this is the same coffee place where you first met Blonde Beard last January. The idea of possibly starting a new relationship while reminiscing about a failed one seems like a very, very bad omen. Only when you walk up to the place you realize that you are indeed wrong! You have somehow confused Joe's with Jack's and have gone to the wrong establishment! Although you are thrilled, you also realize that you are now late, so you call up your date and explain the situation while you walk the few extra blocks to meet a new boy at a new venue that someday you'll probably have to shun because of painful, caffeinated memories. The Endohottie is waiting for you outside and you apologize for your dyslexic mix-up. He's dressed very well for someone who just had an invasive medical procedure, but that probably has more to do with the fact that he designs menswear and has an outfit for every outlandish occasion. He could, however, use a lesson or two in Accessories as his tortoise shell sunglasses aren't winning any catwalk races against the Hare. If anything, these glasses are more prone to scare the Hare into conceding.

Even though it's beach weather, you end up ordering a hot tea and instantly end up regretting it. Since Joe's is packed, you both decide to go for a walk and head over to Sheridan Square in search of a park bench. You find a nice spot in the shade next to a few Homeless Trannies who are so down and out they aren't even in drag. But you aren't even noticing them because your attention is focused completely on these tiny little metal objects that are stuck all over the Endohottie's left ear. On one hand they kind of look like tiny adhesive electrodes that the doctor forgot to remove after his invasive procedure, but in the shimmery light of Christopher Street, they are definitely giving off a Rhinestone effect that is surely going to invoke some kind of Tranny Jealousy. You almost hear a creepy woman's voice say, "Look away from the Ear, Carol Ann!" but you are quickly distracted from the decorative medical objects as the two of you begin a pissing contest of all your various ailments. You match his endoscopy with your colonoscopy, and he quickly meets your call and actually raises you with a remissive case of Testicular Cancer. Thankfully, you have nothing to compete with The Big C, but you do tell him about your own testicular tribulations, specifically your varicosal veins that you initially mistook for a cancerous lump. Although you are having a fun chat, suddenly you feel like you should be feeding pigeons with what little is left over from your Social Security Check as you reminisce about the golden days of Hollywood before the Talkies took over. Aren't dates supposed to be hot and exciting? So you try to imagine yourself kissing the Endohottie. Only instead of getting lost in his lips, you find yourself drawn back to the adhesive electrodes while wondering if the testicular cancer has left the Endohottie with One Ball in the Corner Pocket?

The Homeless Trannies, however, don't seem all that interested in your little game of Pocket Pool. They're much more interested in screeching at each other about who's Adam's Apple is more feminine. You both decide to leave before you are enlisted into the Tranny Tantrum for an unbiased opinion, but the timing is good because the Endohottie has theater tickets and has to go home and change, where hopefully he'll remember to remove the Rhinestones. You decide to walk with the Endohottie on your way toward the subway, however, as you pass by a pizza place that is mysteriously not named Ray's, you hear your name yelled out from the open window. Although you're slightly worried about the potential disaster of being caught on a coffee date, you are thrilled to look up and find your BFF shoving the last bit of a slice into his mouth. So you say your goodbyes to the Endohottie and run inside to say, "Hi." Your BFF instantly gives you a disapproving look as he points toward the Endohottie and asks, "Who was that?" You haven't even begun to explain when your BFF points to the big dumb cup in your hand and asks, "And what is that?" You look at the tall cup which is now too cold to drink, and before you get a chance to answer your BFF has figured it out, "Ewwwww. Were you on a Coffee Date?" You laugh as you drop the paper cup into the trash can as if it is infected with cooties and say, "Is it Happy Hour yet?" And you both head over to XES to get a real, non-caffeinated adult beverage. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Fags Who Has Professional Headshots Taken for his Online Dating Profile...

...as if! Facebook-Schmacebook! When it comes to your blog, you don't even have a Face! But when Half-Share sends you a cute group photo from last weekend on Fire Guyland, you quickly crop out the entire group and post it on Connexion. You've found, for some unknown reason, that posting new photos seems to renew interest in your profile and attract new boys. And now that you've said, "Buh-Bye, Swedie Pi!" you could definitely use a new Milkshake to Bring All the Boys to the Yard. Even though you've got your fingers crossed for a New York Super Fudge Hunk, in the warming weather your Mojo definitely seems to be melting to the point where you'd happily take the Rocky Road and settle for something Half Baked. Moments after you post the cropped photo there's a knock on your bedroom door and you are surprised when your Hobosexual Roommate is standing there with an unidentified perky young girl who you've never even seen before. "I'm sorry," he lies. "I didn't know you'd be home so I scheduled a few potential roommates to come see your room." Although you want to say, If you wanted to know my schedule then maybe you could have... Oh I don't know? Asked? But you are moving out of the Home Sweet Hovel next month and the Hobosexual's next victim is smiling perkily and, although you know you should be screaming for her to, "Run Forrest! Ruuuuuuuuuun!!" you are also ruuuuuning late for an Out Magazine party to preview the Marc Ecko Summer Collection (yawn) but, more importantly, you are late for some free Three Olives Vodka!

While you're in the bathroom doing some vitally important last minute nose hair trimming, you can't help yourself from listening to the inane conversation going on in the living room of your Home Sweet Hovel. The trimmer buzzes away while buzz words like Fung Shui and Generational Discourse grab your attention to the point where you burst out laughing. Shouldn't the Perky Girl be asking more probing questions like, "Do you ever do your dishes?" or "What do you wipe yourself with during the weeks when you run out of toilet paper?" or possibly even a simple, "Do you ever use soap when you bathe?" But no! Instead these twentysomethings are yapping about the Fung Shui of a lumpy futon that was recently plagued by the Hobosexual's imaginary Bedbugs.

You escape and head over to Eighth Avenue & 17th Street in Chelsea to meet a bunch of your friends who have absolutely no idea why you told them to meet you at Marc Ecko, yet instantly dropped their interrogation when you said, "Free Vodka." Actually, you don't even know what this party is for! One of your Blah-Blah-Blog friends, the Non-Party-Boy Party-Boy (aka NPBPB) was nice enough to forward you the invitation because he knows how partial you are to anything free and gay. You walk in off the avenue and when you find your friend Half-Share and you instantly know that something must be gravely wrong when you notice the grimace on his face. When he notices your deep concern, Half-Share shakes his head as he gives you the terrible news, "The vodka is either grape or cherry flavored." That's when Jet Blew takes a big gulp, finishing his glass before informing you expressionlessly, "It's absolutely vile."

Your friends, of course, ask you to pick them up some refills as race to the back of the store to get in the bar line so you can do your own taste test. That's when you recognize someone you know from the Ski Fags, and you quickly realize, now that it's warm and sunny outside, the two of you have absolutely nothing in common. So you wind up in one of those deep, "You look great! -- No, you look great!" Chelsea conversations until you feel an ominous tap on your shoulder. All the Ghosts of Your Dating Past start flashing through your head as you take a big breath of the grape and cherry scented air. However, when you turn around and see the Shoulder Tapper, you have absolutely no idea who the hell he is. Now, although you are terrible with names, you are pretty damn good with faces (unless of course you meet the Faces when you are drunk, which is mostly when you meet the Faces. Okay, okay. So you're terrible with names and faces.) But the Shoulder Tapper just stares at you for a loooooong moment with a big, shit eating grin on his Face. You, of course, don't say anything. You're pretty sure that you've never slept with him. Well, okay, possibly there's a slim fifty-fifty chance. So you smile, just in case. And that's when the Shoulder Tapper tells you his name (which does sound vaguely familiar, yet doesn't quite ring your Tinkerbell) and that's when he says, "You told me to say hi if I figured out who you were. So I'm saying hi this time." All you can do is gulp when he says, "I love your Blah-Blah-Blog."

You are absolutely stunned! You've been so diligent about remaining anonymous and are completely floored that the Non-Party-Boy Party-Boy has somehow easily identified you from at least a hundred Chelsea Boys in what now feels like a Gay Police Line-Up (for the vodka bar, of course). Arrested doesn't even begin to describe the way you feel. Frozen is more like it. You are like a Deer caught in NPBPB's extremely natural-looking Highlights. And that's when he says, "Well, I've got to go now." And this twist in the conversation actually helps you untie the one in your tongue, "That's it? You're not even going to talk to me or ask me anything?" This is when NPBPB informs you exactly where you fall in his gay pecking order, "I've got tickets to see Patti Lupone in Gypsy tonight. Sorry." And with that, the Non-Party-Boy Party-Boy disappears into the crowd, just as quickly as he appeared, and races off to his next Non-Party. Luckily, you have finally reached the bar and it is now your turn to order. And since you are a bit shaken from the Tap-and-Run outing, you tell the bartender (who you somehow recognize from G even though he has his shirt on) that you'd like one Cherry Soda and one Grape Soda, and you complete your own impartial taste test on your way back to your friends.

Half-Share and Jet Blew instantly see the look of horror on your face and they shake their heads in agreement while continuously sipping their flavored vodkas, "Isn't it absolutely vile?" But you explain that you've just been Outed! Half-Share quickly quips back, "Honey, did you really think people would think you were straight in that outfit?" "What?" you ask, "Is my T-shirt too tight?" To which Half-Share responds with a silent, yet dramatic eye-roll. You say, "Oh come on! It's more Straight-Tight than Gay-Tight." And then Half-Share says, "What do you expect when you shop from the Baby Gap clearance rack? But don't worry," he says. "It looks good on you." You laugh as Half-Share rolls his eyes again.

After a couple more trips to the bar, even though you have actually grown partial to the Welch's Wodka, your friends, who obviously have more mature palates (combined with more mature wallets), decide to go around the corner and head over to XES to pay for the privilege of not having to drink Cherry and Grape flavored Vodka. XES is absolutely packed to the gills with Sauced Sardines because they are apparently having a Genre Magazine party. You look around aimlessly for the Genre Gent you met over the winter (yet lost touch with), hoping you can, once again, hit him up for some freelance work. But the bar is way too crowded and you quickly give up your search when you run into your BFF and his co-worker, Pussy Galore, as they're ordering drinks at the bar.

At 8:30 Half-Share and Jet Blew decide to go grab a bite to eat at a restaurant you can't afford, so you all kiss goodbye and the next thing you know you are dancing on a platform, singing passionately along to the new Madonna vs. Justin Timberlake song as if you were the one who only had Four Minutes to save the world. That's when a Columbia Photographer from Colombia starts snapping his flash all around you. You, of course, camp it up for him as if he's your personal strobe light, and you are the Last Model Standing. Afterwards the Columbia Colombian actually says with a completely straight face, "I want to do a session with you." You instinctively roll your eyes and he says, "No, seriously! I need new shots for my website and I think you'd be perfect." You stare at him for a long time, waiting for Alan Funt to emerge from behind the wall and say, "You're on Candid Camera!" but he doesn't. After a beat or two you realize that the Columbia Colombian is being serious and not just feeding you a, for lack of a better word, line. You actually believe him when he says, "I just like your energy." And that's when you are immediately embarrassed by the situation which is simultaneously flattering yet equally objectifying to the point where you have no choice but to giggle and cover your mouth like a Japanese school girl wearing too much Hello Kitty. Although the Columbia Colombian is not typically your type, you find yourself drawn to his unexpected compliments in the form of a kiss. And it's absolutely amazing.

After what feels like a half hour, you look at your watch and feel like someone is playing a practical joke on you when you realize that it is now midnight and you have that awful realization that you still haven't had dinner. Although the Columbia Colombian asks you to come back to Astoria with him, you are feeling unsure. You tell him (and you actually believe yourself in the moment) that one night stands are no longer your thing. That's when the Columbia Colombian gives you his business card and says, with all seriousness, "I'm really serious about doing a photo shoot." You kiss him good night and put his card in your pocket. And when you wake up the next morning and find yourself thinking about the Columbia Colombian in some of your earliest hungover thoughts, you end up Facebooking him a message which says, "All right Mr. De Mille. Facebook is ready for my new close-up." Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Name Dropping Fags...

... (Jesse Archer, Jesse Archer, Jesse Archer!) but you find yourself unable to keep hush-hush about the fact that your Internet Crush (Jesse Archer, Jesse Archer, Jesse Archer!) who just happens to be the star and co-writer of the fabulous new movie, A Four Letter Word, has sent you his photo (Jesse Archer, Jesse Archer, Jesse Archer!) to be included in your Blah-Blah-Blog's slide show! And as if that wasn't enough to get your panties in a twist, your handsome, movie-star Internet Crush also invited you and your BFF to come to the New York Opening of his new film at the World Famous Chelsea Clearview Theater. Anonymously, of course.

Meanwhile, all of this brouhaha has put you in way too good a mood to go to Connecticut for a funeral, but, unfortunately, the father of one of The Bolters has recently passed away and you and your High School friend, Bunny, have decided to schlep out to Greenwich to, shall we say, represent. Although you thought you were closeted back in High School somehow you still managed to be the only Boy Bolter in an exclusive group of Burgeoning Teenage Fag Hags. And somehow, all these years later, even though everything is different, nothing has really changed (besides the fact that when you were in High School George Michael was straight and Madonna was gay). At the funeral you pick right up with your old friends as if no time, nor fathers, have passed. However you do have the eerie realization that 2/3 of your friends' fathers have now kicked the bucket. In fact, you and Bunny are the only two Bolters whose fathers haven't, for lack of a better word, Bolted.

The Eulogy is kind of sad, but not in the typical "Oh I didn't realize this man was so wonderful" kind of way. In this particular instance you are kind of shocked at how un-wonderful this man is being portrayed. Although you were very good friends with his daughter, you never really knew much about the man lying in the casket, mostly because he was a very successful businessman who was always working. Somehow it seems appropriate that one of his New York Telephone colleagues is giving the eulogy. Even though you remember their sapppy old commercials bringing tears to your eyes, The Colleague is actaully making you wince as he informs the grieving Orphans (and the rest of the not so crowded church) about what a great job the dead man did thirty years ago on some Merrill Lynch Project. He drones on and on about how he was in charge of installing twenty-thousand phone lines when Merrill Lynch moved their corporate office downtown. Snore. During the Eulogy, The Colleague uses words like "stoic," "hard-headed" and "staunch," and he barely recognizes the five recently orphaned children in the front row. He definitely never refers to them by name.

After the funeral ends, you and Bunny hug the Orphaned Bolter who breaks down in your arms as she says, "My two best friends from High School!" And you instantly know that schlepping out to Greenwich for the "stoic" funeral was the right thing to do. You are here to support your old friend in her time of need. And you get to meet her super cute baby who is nothing but happiness and smiles (luckily the stoic gene must've skipped another generation).

You race back to the train station because, after all, you can only take so much of the suburbs before you start to break out in Heterosexual Hives, and on your way back to the city you start thinking about what your BFF would say about you if he were giving your eulogy. He certainly wouldn't be talking about the Merrill Lynch Deal that you slaved over, but what would he say? Half of the funny things he could say would probably be way too inappropriate for Straight Company. You'd definitely have to have a Boys Only Service where he could reminisce about the time you entered, and lost, that damn Ass Circus Strip Contest! Or perhaps he would mention that time when you both were so broke that you decided to brown bag it between Gay Bars and got caught by an undercover cop while walking around with a Forty Ouncer? (Come to think of it you probably should have been arrested just for purchasing that damn Breeder-esque Budweiser.) Or maybe he'd mention the time last summer when you two schlepped out to Fire Island on the last ferry of the night with no place to sleep in order to play a round of P.H.A.G. F.A.G. (Please Help A Gay Find A Guy). Needless to say you woke up the next morning, miserably hungover, still single and extremely sandy.

You breathe a sigh of relief when MetroNorth returns your gay ass back to Grand Central without getting Gay Bashed by Suburban Republican Thugs, and you race home to change from your Functional Funereal Frock into something much more Gay-Appropriate so you will sparkle and hopefully catch the piercing blue eyes of your Internet Crush (Jesse Archer, Jesse Archer, Jesse Archer!) So you put on your G-Star V-Neck to compliment your True Religions and make your way over to the Chelsea Clearview to catch the New York Premiere of A Four Letter Word.

You actually get to the theater *gasp* early, and, since all the rest of the Chelsea Queens are still on Gay Standard Time, you and your BFF get excellent seats. You wind up sitting directly across the aisle from the middle row which is roped off for all those Filmmakers and Grips and Fluffers that were necessary to make your Internet Crush look adorable on the Silver Screen. And since you're on the aisle, you get an excellent view as all the Boys and their Fag Hags start filling up the Roped Off Seats. Only you start to get concerned as the row fills up with nary a sign of your Internet Crush. Will he pull a Madonna and just sneak into the packed theater after the lights go down? Or is he going to pull a Britney and just skip his own Premiere because in reality he's just a Hot Tranny Mess? Regardless, you don't have time to dwell on this situation because you're way too irritated from standing up and sitting back down again (over and over) because the Irritating Boys next to you keep racing to the bathroom to pee, or to get refills of Diet Coke, or probably, more likely, keep racing to the bathroom for to refill their dieting nostrils with Coke. After the fourth time of this up-and-down nonsense, you decide to give the Irritating Boys your Evil Stank Eye, only when you look up at the cuter of the two, you almost faint as his Off-White Linen Blazer brushes your cheek while he says, "Excuse me," because, you realize, that the Cute Irritating Boy who has been sitting next to you this whole time is, indeed, your Internet Crush! (Jesse Archer, Jesse Archer, Jesse Archer!)

Apparently a better seat opened up and your Internet Crush and his Posse of One decided to move over with the Cast & Crew. Unfortunately this all happens in the brief seconds before the lights go down, so you don't even get to stare at him shamelessly while batting your eyes and stuttering something inappropriate like, "Would you autograph the crotch of my True Religions?" But luckily the movie starts so you don't spend too much time beating yourself up over your Missed Star-Fucker Opportunity. Meanwhile, you quickly become engaged with the film (which is almost as cute as your Internet Crush) and you love-love-love seeing all your local watering holes featured prominently in the film (Vlada, XES, HK Lounge). You also love that you are completely surprised and extremely impressed that such a cute, well-written, well-intentioned, un-preachy, completely hysterical movie could be made on such a shoe-string budget! And we're not talking about Prada shoe laces, boys. We're talking about a Last Markdown at D.S.W. after their Christmas Blowout Sale kind of budget. But the thing that really knocks your socks off (besides the fact that you get to see your Internet Crush naked...) is that although this Indie Film is about as gay as gay can get, it somehow remains chock-full of heart (not to mention cock-full of Full Frontal Male Nudity.) You definitely attribute this feat to your Internet Crush who helped give three-dimensions to a seemingly two-dimensional character, not only through his acting, but also from his writing (your über-talented Internet Crush also co-wrote the film).

When the movie finishes, the Cast and Crew get up to answer questions from the Audience and you are much too afraid to ask anything, although you love hearing your Internet Crush cross all kinds of inappropriate P.R. Lines as he mentions a Fluffing Story that took place Off-Camera during the Drag Queen scene. This is when you realize that your Internet Crush is definitely going to have one damn interesting Eulogy himself; probably complete with Full Frontal Male Nudity. And you begin to wonder if this might be another one of those Gay/Straight differences that makes you pleased as punch to be a Card Carrying Homosexual. While those poor Straight Men are out brokering Phone Deals for Merrill Lynch to support their children, you Gay Boys only have to support your own bar tabs (and honey, your tab is just like feeding a fat family of six. And we're talking Straight Fat).

Afterwards your Internet Crush invites you (and the rest of the damn theater) to an After-Party at H.K. Lounge where you can get a free drink with your ticket stub. But, unfortunately, since you got in for free, you have no ticket stub. But you also feel a bit humbled by both the funeral as well as the boundless talent of your Internet Crush, so you decide to let him sparkle amongst all his adoring fans tonight. But this probably has more to do with the stalker in you knowing that on some other random non-movie premiere evening you won't have to share him with anybody else. Anyway...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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