You're Not One of Those Fags Who Has a Laundry List of Boyfriend Qualifications...

...but you do have five things on a very short list that you absolutely must have. At first glance they seem rather simple, however, when taking into account your dismally unsuccessful dating history over the past four years, they actually seem rather elusive:

1. Must make you laugh.
2. Must have great sex.
3. Must like to cuddle.
4. Must like the beach.
5. Must like to drink. (Okay perhaps this qualification should hold a more coveted position on your list...)

But nothing else is negotiable! This, of course, is your first thought when you wake up in Bald Boy's arms (#3) with a bit of a hangover (#5) after a night of great sex (#2) at Bald Boy's beach house (#4). Bald Boy is a very rare species. He's a four out of five. Unfortunately (for you), Bald Boy is missing your number one requirement and, after a romantic weekend of no laughs, this is something that even you can't deny. Although you've had a magical beach weekend in Ocean Grove, you can't help but wonder if today will actually be the end of your Three-Night-Stand?

You and Bald Boy explore Asbury Park and the day flies by. Later on you have a pleasant, yet humorless drive back to the city so you can meet the Boy Luck Club for dinner and, surprise-surprise, drinks. You and Bald Boy say your goodbyes on a West Village sidewalk and Bald Boy asks you about your plans this week before you head to California. Since you don't really have any plans (Loser, party of one!), Bald Boy tells you that he'll call to make a date which seems perfect. You're actually curious to have some alone time so you can sort out how exactly how you feel about Bald Boy. Either you'll keep thinking about him or it'll be yet another case of "Out of Sight, Out of Hind..." Only time will tell.

You race home to drop off your stuff and shower, and then meet the Boy Luck Club at Elmo where you order the world's weakest, yet most expensive mocktail masquerading as a Mandarin and Soda. In fact, the drink is so weak that the taste of lime actually over-powers the non-existent hint of mandarin (even though you haven't even squeezed the lime!) But you and the boys have lots of laughs during a nice, sober dinner sitting outside on Seventh Avenue before deciding to swing by G for some drinks that actually contain liquor. You wait at the bar for your your favorite Red Headed Bartender who makes drinks the way they were supposed to be made (strong!) while a very hot muscle boy (stronger!) standing next to you crushes a wet napkin and throws it over the bar into a trash can. Without a moment of hesitation, you actually forfeit your turn to order from the Red Headed Bartender in order to say, "Two points," to the cute muscle boy who chuckles, but walks away.

But then he walks back. So you say in a snarky, yet somewhat confused tone, "You're back." To which he responds, "I realized that I should've stayed." And the two of you begin to sip your drinks (#5 -- Check!) while chatting about how jealous he is about your beach weekend (#4 -- Check!). Before you can get through the rest of your check list, the muscle boy throws you for a loop and tells you that he has two kids? He used to be married (to a girl no less!) and has a five and ten year old. You, of course, start imagining yourself making his children's lives a living hell as their Evil Stepmonster, ordering them to polish your Pradas as you yell "Make them shine like the top of the Chrysler Building!" and, of course, beating them with wire hangers if they fail to deliver. Your fantasy of free slave labor gets you kind of hot and it isn't long before you and your Baby Daddy are making out in the back of the bar. It gets pretty intense, so when Baby Daddy asks you to come back to his place you begin to have a moral dilemma. Actually it's more of a whore-al dilemma. For someone who recently proclaimed to be too old and mature to have one night stands anymore, you ironically find yourself in the precarious and slightly slutty position of not having slept in your own bed for the past three nights. But the big question is: Will you try for four, Whore?

Of course you will! As you are hailing a taxi you decide to check out the Guinness Book of World Records first thing when you wake up tomorrow just to see if you've actually broken some Homeless Hooker's record. For now, however, you settle for another Guinness when Baby Daddy offers you a drink. Although Baby Daddy's apartment is a bit messy and dirty laundry is scattered about the floor, you, my friend, are much more interested in seeing how many more qualifications you can check off your laundry list. It doesn't take long before you are both naked in bed and you're a bit shocked because Baby Daddy's upper body is so big and bulky that you begin to wonder if he's on steroids? However, the balls never lie and there ain't no shrunken junk downstairs. In fact, everything seems to be extra-large which is actually somewhat shocking after spending your wee-weekend with Bald Boy (and no, you are not st-st-stuttering).

The sex is pretty fucking amazing (#2 -- Check!), and afterwards you are so exhausted that you actually fall asleep in Baby Daddy's arms for god knows how long (#3 -- Check!), but when you wake up you decide that you have to go back to your Home-Sweet-Hovel, partly because you feel like you are somehow desecrating Bald Boy who you haven't actually thought about until right now because, just like Bald Boy, Baby Daddy has yet to make you laugh (#1). Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Fags Who Blows Off His Friends For a Boy...

...however, if a blow job is involved, then you can't be held responsible for any selfish actions. Luckily your friends understand this. Well, your gay friends. Anyway. So there you are. At the Jersey Shore. In bed with a recently debriefed Bald Boy. And you're kind of in shock. Although you definitely don't consider yourself to be a size queen (actually you're a big fan of average), you are definitely a bit surprised by his small, err, stature. And honey, you've seen quite a few statures in your day. Even though this particular stature is hard and ready to rumble, it's actually the same exact size as you are, when you're ready to fumble and completely flaccid. Seriously.

Luckily you are extremely attracted to Bald Boy and his amazing swimmers build, so you quickly move from flaccid to placid and, once you get over the initial visual shock, the whole experience actually turns out to be pretty damn hot. Bald Boy is a little dirty and he starts to push you around in the bed, telling you things like, "You like that." He has no questions. Just authoritative statements. The best part is that he's always right. You do like that. In fact you like everything that Bald Boy is doing.

In the morning you make some delicious eggs, but while you're cooking you suddenly have this feeling that you're playing house. This is something that you are vaguely familiar with since you lived with your Ex for over a decade. But oddly enough you're only on day three of your Two Night Stand and, although you know you'll be leaving this afternoon, you are perfectly content playing Martha Stewart and making eggs while you both plan a day of wandering through Ocean Grove's annual flea market. Although it's an odd feeling, you are thoroughly enjoying it because this is definitely what you want. You want to play House. You especially want to play Beach House! Even though you're quite aware that something a bit intangible is missing, you are definitely enjoying your fantasy weekend way too much to spend much time analyzing it. After all, there are fleas to be marketed!

The two of you roam the flea market like an old married couple, wondering if you can make use of other people's useless things, but the only purchase is an old mirror that Bald Boy buys for the landing at the top of his staircase. Even though you can't really picture the spot he's describing, like a good wife you agree that it will look absolutely fabulous. Afterwards you both race home in order to beat the rain clouds that are storming toward the little town. Luckily you win the race and wind up having thunderous sex during an extremely violent electrical storm.

Afterward, Bald Boy gets a call about a dinner invitation and he looks over at you, lying naked on the bed and asks pointedly if you'd like to come along, even though he knows you have to leave in a few hours. Only now you don't want to leave. You're enjoying yourself, or rather, you're enjoying escaping yourself. You love playing Beach House and the two of you are having a really pleasant time. The idea of schlepping to Billyburg for a wine tasting party is becoming less and less appealing. But you remind Bald Boy that, indeed, you have to leave, but he looks deep into your eyes as he tells his friend, "He's not sure yet." And, one thing's for sure, Bald Boy is absolutely right.

Ultimately, surprise-surprise, you wind up texting your Wine Tasting friend to cancel. Although you know texting her is totally lame, you decide not to call because you don't want to be talked out out of your selfish decision to keep playing Beach House. Later on at the dinner party, which is wall-to-wall gay couples, you finally realize exactly why you it is that your game of Beach House is purely fictional. Although there are four other couples, there is only one boy at the table that you're enjoying talking to. And it's not Bald Boy. The friend is absolutely hysterical and the two of you wind up laughing and giggling like a gaggle of girls about the silliest little things. When you ultimately find yourself wishing that this particular boy didn't have a boyfriend, that's when it suddenly becomes crystal clear that, although you've had a picture perfect weekend playing Beach House, you have yet to share a hearty laugh with Bald Boy. The last time you remember belly laughing was back in the city when you got a glimpse of your BFF's horrendous free S & M haircut he got at The Eagle. Just before you left the city to play Beach House with Bald Boy. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Size Queen Fags...

...but when you leave Bald Boy's studio apartment, you find yourself wondering if you could live in place that was so small? His bed, toilet, and refrigerator are all within a five-foot radius. However, if it meant that you could afford a beach house, then you would probably choose to shit where you slept also. You kiss Bald Boy goodbye while pondering his bold invitation to spend the weekend at his beach house on the Jersey Shore. When you hit the street to make your Walk of Shame after a One-Night-Cuddlefuck-Stand, you instantly realize that you left your laptop & backpack at your BFF's house last night. So you and your unbrushed teeth call your BFF and head up to his place before he leaves for work, and when you arrive he is absolutely miserable. You can't help but laugh as he shows you the hatchet job that the crackhead barber at The Eagle gave him last night beneath the four watt bulb. It definitely looked better in the dark. Although you definitely feel bad for his harried dilemma, you can't help but remind him that you did try to talk him out of it...

When you finally get home you notice a text from Bald Boy that says, "I was serious about the offer to visit this weekend." So you respond, “And I am seriously considering it! What if I went down with you tonight and took the train back tomorrow so I wouldn’t miss my friend’s party?" Bald Boy writes back immediately, "That would be fantastic! Whatever works best for you. I was hoping to be on the way out of town around 1 or 1:30.”

Although you're still a bit foggy from the combined effects of booze and lack of sleep, you end up doing a bit of work before packing your bag and heading back over to Bald Boy's house to begin he second day of what has now become a Two Night Stand. Bald Boy buzzes you in and tells you to make yourself comfortable while he goes upstairs to get his Ex's dog. You share an kiss before he leaves and then you suddenly feel a bit awkward, mostly because you are now wondering if you are making a tragic mistake. But, you tell yourself, if you wind up having a terrible time you will just hop on a train and come home. It's a bit weird sitting alone in Bald Boy's apartment. You don't know this boy at all and yet you are about to take a vacation with him! Hell, you haven't even had sex yet! However, you can't help but be touched by his confident move of inviting a relative stranger to his beach house for the weekend. You love how he's just thrown caution to the wind, which, honestly, is why you accepted the impressively bold offer in the first place. That's when he returns with the dog who races over to greet you with a salutatory sniff of your balls, just like the boys greeting each other last night at The Eagle.

Traffic is terrible and it takes you an hour just to get to the Holland Tunnel from the West Village. But it's all good because you both seem to have lots of questions for each other so time seems to fly by. The beach house turns out to be amazingly beautiful and you feel instantly comfortable in a way that you know you've made the right decision to come. After you get situated, Bald Boy takes you on a tour of Ocean Grove which turns out to be the cutest little town ever, and you certainly enjoy his passion for his Home Away from Homo. You wander down Main Avenue looking at all the little Methodist's tented cottages and all beautiful Victorians, painstakingly restored by the Gays. You enjoy the ocean while taking a romantic walk along the boardwalk before heading over to Nagles for a very late lunch. But as you are walking into the restaurant you're a bit freaked out when Bald Boy asks you, "So what are your hobbies?" Suddenly you feel like you are on a Match.com job interview and your mind quickly goes blank. Do you even have any hobbies? Drinking doesn't count, does it? Bald Boy fills in your silence by asking you if you like to read. You say, "Of course," and then begin to discuss various books that you have both read recently. Although the conversation is interesting, you begin to notice that there isn't a lot of laughing going on. In fact, it's actually rather dry. Bald Boy is not really funny. At all. But he's so nice and extremely smart and unbelievably sweet that you begin to wonder if you could see yourself having a relationship with a boy who doesn't make you laugh?

That evening you are both so exhausted from your First-Night-Stand that you decide to stay in and watch Being Julia on DVD as you lay in each other's arms. Although the cuddling is very nice, you begin to wonder whether you're ever going to have sex with this boy? But, luckily, the kissing begins just as the movie ends and soon you find yourself being yanked toward Bald Boy's bedroom. And this time the underwear finally comes off. Only suddenly you find yourself in the precarious position of wishing it hadn't. You can't help but picture yourself suffering on an insufferable Disneyland boat ride while an endlessly repetitive soundtrack reminds you that, "It's a Small World After All!" Anyway...

Greetings From...

...the Yaz reunion concert!

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

...although you are definitely compulsive. But impulsive? Well, maybe just a wee bit, however when it comes to dating? Not so much. Okay, okay! So you're more impulsive than most. Perhaps even a hell of a lot more. Only you like to think you're getting better. Right? You giggle to yourself as you and Bald Boy hop in a cab outside of The Eagle and head toward the West Village. When Bald Boy asks you awkwardly, "What's so funny?" you tell him about the conversation you had with your Gal Pal, mere hours ago, about how you thought you were over having one night stands. Bald Boy gives you a hearty laugh which quickly turns into a lengthy kiss after you stare into his piercing blue eyes for a moment too long.

Although you're the first to pull away from the embrace, you continue to hold Bald Boy's hand as the yellow cab races down Ninth Avenue. That's when Bald Boy asks, "Who says it's going to be a one night stand?" You smile at his optimistic confidence, but since this is not your first time around this particular tree-lined Chelsea block, you can't help but wonder where this 2am testosterone fueled union will lead? And when Bald Boy tells you in the form of a question, "Let's just sleep together, okay?" you respond by squeezing his large palm. Honestly, that's all you are craving at this particular moment. Kisses and intimacy from a complete stranger, with a healthy dose of possibility, of course.

Bald Boy's studio apartment is on one of those old fashioned West Village blocks with new fashioned prices. When you walk into the apartment you can instantly tell that it's not a rental. Nothing is cheap enough for a New York landlord: cardboard doors outfitted with fist-sized holes, windows that don't properly close and refrigerators that are so old they should be called ice-boxes. You should know since you are actually describing your own Home-Sweet-Hovel! But Bald Boy's apartment actually has walls that make right angles! Complete with appliances that have fancy features like ice-makers and self-cleaning ovens! Best of all, Bald Boy's confident yet soothing personality is easily perceptible from the way he has decorated the place. As usual, you immediately ask to use the bathroom, partly because you have to go, but mostly because you want to see how dirty it is. Bathrooms never lie. Although you don't inspect his medicine cabinet (that kind of intimacy is best saved for a second date), you are happy to find an immaculately clean salle de bains that smells like fresh fluffy towels instead of mildew. You also like that the bathroom isn't overflowing with product. You've found that boys who spend too much time worrying about how good they look, never seem to have time left over to worry about how good you feel.

You wash your hands and head into the bedroom where, in your absence, several candles have miraculously been lit. However you barely even notice them because you are magnetically drawn toward those piercing blue eyes. You and your kisses are quickly yanked into Bald Boy's bed and, although your clothes are just as quickly removed, Bald Boy whispers into your ear, "Let's keep our underwear on, okay?" And nobody is happier than you, except for maybe your Whiskey Dick. But you're thrilled to just lie in the candle-lit bed, soaking up Bald Boy's affectionate kisses while exploring everything not covered by his Calvin Klein briefs on his amazingly smooth swimmer's build.

Eventually your kisses turn into spooning and as you are falling asleep in Bald Boy's arms you have an overwhelming feeling of safety. Somehow in your last conscious thought before you doze off, you realize that tomorrow, when you wake up with a sobering hangover, somehow you know you won't regret your decision to spend the night. Perhaps that's how you've matured? Maybe it's not the one night stand that you have a problem with anymore? Possibly it's just the idea of having one with someone you'll regret waking up with?

And when Bald Boy's alarm goes off seemingly five minutes after he set it, you instantly realize that you were right. Instead of slumping off to his bathroom, Bald Boy hits his snooze button and pulls your arms around him into a tight hug. You kiss the back of his neck as you bathe in the warmth of his torso. The snooze button is pushed repeatedly, and the lack of sleep somehow acts as a double-negative as your combined exhaustion is somehow replaced with warm kisses. With tongue! In the morning! Without having ever brushed your teeth! You are in shock at all the rules you are breaking, but find yourself helpless to fight your morning hormones as you continue to grope each other until the last possible second when Bald Boy has to leave for work. Although the underwear never comes off, the poor guy doesn't even get a chance to take a shower before going to work. You inspect your bed-head as you gather up last night's outfit from the floor for your impending walk of shame while your follicularly challenged friend brushes his teeth. Although Bald Boy is the one spitting toothpaste from his mouth, you are the one who practically does the spit-take when he sticks his head out of the bathroom and asks you, "Would you like to come to the beach with me this weekend?" Although you find yourself to be completely and utterly stunned, even though you want to scream, "Yes!" you somehow find yourself yapping about some wine tasting party that you've been invited to on Saturday night. And that's when Bald Boy confidently tells you to "Blow it off." Anyway...

Are You One of Those Fags Who's Into Three-Ways?

34% of You said, "Not really. One boy is inevitably way cuter than the other and I'm not a big fan of the pity fuck."

32% of You said, "Yes! But only when I'm the Guest Star."

30% of You said, "Never! I'm strictly a One-on-One kind of boy."

2% of You said, "Of course! The only time my boyfriend and I have sex is when some other boy is sandwiched between us!"

Number of Fags Who Voted: 82

Greetings from...

...the Fire Island Pines Invasion!

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...

FAG POLE: Are You One of Those Fags Who Checks Out Other Boys Junk in the Locker Room?

59% of You said, "Sometimes. But I'm more classy than trashy, so never at the urinal!"

27% of You said, "Of course! When it comes to sampling my meats, I like to try before I buy."

13% of You said, "No! Some things are best left to the imagination. Besides I'm afraid I'll get caught and be bludgeoned to death by a dumbbell."

Number of Fags Who Voted: 74

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...

HEY YOU! You're Not One of Those Closeted Fags...

...but what happens when the boy you have a huge crush on is still living in a massive Walk-In and using, *gasp* Wire Hangers?

Hey You!

When is outing people OK? If you have a huge crush (he's obviously gay, mostly determined by his lack interest in women, both in real life and according to his Facebook profile and is deliciously cute and somewhat flirty), can you just pointedly ask him out despite being completely closeted to all his friends and family? He's 22 and graduated from college. And there's slim pickin's around these parts when it comes to dateable boys.

I don't want to embarrass him out of the closet, but I really want to get him into my bed. Help me!

Sincerely,
Closet Cleaner

Fagnote #1


Dear Closet Cleaner,

Outing people is never okay! Especially when it comes to outing a closeted Blah-Blah-Blogger who is terrified he'll never get another date if his dirty little secret is revealed to the world! Oh, wait, you weren't talking about me, you were talking about You! Sometimes I get a bit confused when I have to write in the First Person...

You bring up two very interesting points that I'd like to yap about. First of all you ask about Outing a boy. Personally I don't believe in outing anybody. Well that's not really true, as I think people in the public eye have a unique opportunity to change popular opinion on the gays. Or, more specifically, unpopular opinion. If Anderson Cooper and Wentworth Miller and Tom Cruise and Ricky Martin and Clay Gaykin and LesLo ever came out of their closets then the world would be a much gayer place! Not to mention that it would make it much easier for your twenty-two year old college grad to ditch the bitch and make the switch! However, outing someone is a very emotionally violent thing to do and probably has more to do with the "Outer's" shit than the "Outee's." Back in college when I was still in the closet (hard to imagine now!), if someone had outed me, not only would I have vehemently denied it (with a stuttering lisp...), I would've also instantly hated them. And, from my experience, it's always a bit tough to get boys into bed when they hate you. Hell, it's hard enough to get them into bed when they like you! So if your ultimate goal is really to get into his pants, then you might want to leave his Levi's on the hanger in his closet!

However, your letter doesn't sound like you really want to out this boy. It seems like you'd rather just go out with him, and, honestly, I think that's a great idea! If you don't make a big deal about his sexuality then I doubt it will turn into a big deal. Be a bit ambiguous when you ask him out and he won't know if you want to be friends or friends with benefits! Since you aren't closeted then I'm sure his head will be spinning over your offer. He might even proclaim his straightness at the time, but don't let a little case of "The Lady Doth Protest Too Much" deter you. All you have to say at that point is, "It's not like I was asking you out on a date..." and send that homophobic ball back into his court, er, closet. If he says "yes," then you'll have to judge the situation to see if it's cool to start feeling around for some mothballs. Honestly, if he agrees to go out then it wouldn't surprise me if he's the one who brings up the gay thing. In that case you could just act all surprised and, of course, be as supportive as a Jock Strap!

xoxo You!

PS-Think I'm full of shit? Got some better advice for the Closet Cleaner? Leave it for him in the form of a comment (see link below)!

Are you one of those Fags with a hairy gay dating problem that manscaping alone will not solve? Want to know how You would handle it? Send an email to: Hey_You [at] 2ndPerson [dot] net

You're Not One of Those Fags Who'd Marry His Beard...

...but, as long as he kept it nice and trim, you wouldn't mind marrying a boy with a beard. Of course he'd have to clean up the bathroom sink after trimming those pesky whiskers, because, as opposed to the good kind of dirty, that particular kind of follicle filth is completely unacceptable! Speaking of scruff, after a lovely beach weekend at the Jersey Shore with nary a razor to be found, you return with a serious case of five o'clock shadow. Although this is usually a good look for you, you are slightly disturbed by the gray bits of salt that are pushing their way through your pepper! Some people think it looks distinguished. You, however, would prefer if it was extinguished. You are much to immature to look like a Daddy! But you're even lazier than you are vain, so you choose to remain in denial about your Aging Whiskers and instead meet your friends for a shot of some nicely Aged Whiskey at Niso's.

It's a gorgeous afternoon and after gorging and O.D.ing on children in Straighty McStraightville, NJ, you are definitely ready for a Gay Cocktail! Half-Share is back early from Fire Island and tells you that he'd love to join you but he's waiting to hear back about dinner plans with a boy he's been dating, so you tell Half-Share to bring his new Boy Toy along (after all, you're very curious to meet him). Rice Queen decides to join you for this impromptu Eighth Avenue Inquisition and, after ordering your first round, you all head outside with your elbows out in order to claim some serious Sidewalk Real Estate (location, location, location!) in order to watch the Chelsea Boys parading down the Avenue during their weekly stroll back from Sunday Ab(ternoon) Services at David Barton.

However, on your way outside, you wind up getting segued by some drunks who are very curious about your CBGB T-shirt. You assume they, obviously, must be from out of town as they start tapping on your chest and ask you what the letters stand for. Now, although you bought the damn shirt at Bloomingdale's, the famous club used to be right down the street from you so you really should know what the acronym stands for. But you stutter, "Country Blue Grass...?" And that's when the whole drunken group starts throwing their two clever cents in, "Cute Boy, Good Bottom!" Although you are way too sober for this invasive conversation, for some reason you engage the Drunk Boy and his Buxom Beard and you say, "Just good? Not great?" and then you give the Drunk Boy a wink as you attempt to make a quick exit. Only they don't let you go. They begin to rub your scruff and grab at your shirt as they attempt to pull it up in order to get a look at your abs(olutely off-limit belly). You kind of hate this kind of unwelcome groping (especially since you ate like a pig this weekend), so you reflexively pull your hem back down toward the floor and decisively tell the Drunk Boy, "Not cool," partly because it isn't cool, but mostly because he isn't hot. He backs off and tells you that he hates it when people touch him, too, and although you don't mean to be nasty, your intentions seem a bit debatable when you say, "Don't worry. I wasn't planning on touching you." You quickly flash your dimples and briefly consider amending your sentence by adding, Without your permission... But he's so drunk and completely not your type so you just let it go and walk outside.

You apologize for your tardiness when you finally meet your Gay Posse on the makeshift patio, and you are curious as to when Half-Share's new Boy Toy will be joining you? "He's not coming," explains Half-Share. "Apparently he made other dinner plans between our first and last text message." You are very surprised and are smelling a bit of lame play. Oops, you meant to write, game. You ask, "How long between texts?" And when Half-Share informs you, "Almost a half hour," you all collectively shake your heads and sip your Gay Cocktails in unison. You can tell Half-Share is upset when he retorts, "This is when the Scorpio in me comes out and he ain't gonna know what hit him." Scorpios don't get mad. They get even!

Although you pride yourself in not Playing by the Rules, lately, since nothing seems to be going your way, you've begun to wonder if that could be a mistake? Hell, three and a half years after breaking up with The Ex, you are still single. Lately you've begun to wonder if it is even possible for two gay men in their thirties to have a relationship? Even though everybody you meet tells you they're looking for relationships, nobody seems to act like they are. Is it really that hard? If you really like a boy, then shouldn't you be able to wait a half-hour before going ahead and making other dinner plans? And if you don't really like a boy then why the hell are you attempting to make dinner plans with him in the first place? It's all so confusing and disheartening that find yourself asking your friends, "Why does it have to be so hard to have any sort of relationship in New York?" Half-Share gives the stock answer that you've heard a hundred times before, "Too many shiny objects!" Although you know that sexy gay boys in NYC are a dime a dozen, is everybody really so A.D.D. that they have no idea when they stumble upon an extremely rare and collectible Indian Head Penny? The problem with this theory, however, is that everybody, of course, thinks of themselves as the elusive Indian Head Penny. Even you. Especially you.

Although none of you has an answer for this Gay Boy conundrum, you all are quick to recognize the value of the most rarest of finds in Manhattan: delicious and cheap Chinese food! So you pay your Niso's tab and rush over to Grand Sichuan. Although Half-Share seems to already be over his lame Boy Toy, you can't seem to let go of the conversation and are like a skipping record as you skip past Billy's Bakery on Ninth Avenue. When you shut up long enough to realize that your friends have made a pit stop to chat with someone, you can actually feel the cupcakes adhering to your gut by osmosis. You take deep chocolate breaths while feigning interest in whoever they've stopped to greet. Only you are in shock when Half-Share introduces you to the Cupcake eating a cupcake who turns out to be the Boy Toy! And he's, get this, sharing a cupcake with a much younger, very Shiny Object, who has, get this, a sexy beard. The whole charade is so obviously a date that it pains you to be introduced to the Boy Toys' Beard, mostly because you have to watch your own friend push a pained smile through his own irritated face as he shakes the Cupcake's hand. The whole thing is all so wrong.

You and Rice Queen immediately try to console Half-Share as you walk toward the restaurant, but, surprisingly, Half-Share seems more annoyed than upset. His reaction confuses you, but it can't help but make you wonder, Has this kind of lame gay boy behavior become so pervasive and acceptable in our community that it's merely perceived as annoying? And then, to add insult to injury, that's when Half-Share's phone beeps with a text from his Lame Game Playing Boy Toy, which instantly causes him to guffaw: "Dinner might be difficult this week, but we'll figure it out." Half-Share, of course, doesn't respond. But nobody makes any comment at all, mostly because you're all speechless as you watch the hottest guy walking down Ninth Avenue hand-in-hand with, get this, the The Bearded Lady. And it's at that very moment that you decide you are going on strike and not shaving until you become someone else's Beard! Anyway...

FAG POLE: Are you one of those Fags who would get down on your knees and ask your partner, "Will you marry me ... in California?"

44% of You said, "Yes! But mostly so we can register for gifts at Restoration Hardware and vacation in Palm Springs."

27% of You said, "Marriage? Please! I can't even keep a boyfriend longer than a season of Project Runway."

23% of You said, "Maybe. But my boyfriend better be the one getting down on his knees. And the ring better be big enough for me to say yes."

5% of You said, "No way! Marriage is for Breeders. And when I decide to kick my freeloading boyfriend to the curb I don't want to have to pay alimony!"

Number of Fags Who Voted: 77

This Poll is dedicated to California Shane and his Fiancé who are engaged to be married in early October! Congratulations and, of course, LMFAO! ;-)

IMPORTANT: Governor Patterson has said that NY will recognize same-sex marriages from other states and countries. He's doing a poll on whether people support it. Take 15 seconds to lodge your support... Call 1-518-474-8390. You will talk to a live person from the Governor's office during business hours and you can leave a phone message after that. Simply say "I support the Governor's directive on same sex marriage," then give them your 5 digit (New York) zip code!

Greetings from...

Folsom Street East!

Greetings from...

Folsom Street East!

ASK YOURSELF: You're Not One of Those Fags Who Plays Footsie on the Subway...

...so why is it that Straight Guys are always spreading their legs as wide as a Whore in Labor, while rubbing their knees up against yours?

Why on earth do You think this is?

Please answer by commenting to this post (see link below) so all of us can get to the bottom of this horrible gay injustice!

Here's what some of You have been saying:

Shane said...
Because its so freakin [hot] on the subway, their balls are stuck to their leg, so they spread em to air em out. this would be my guess. June 22, 2008 10:14 AM

Jesse Archer said...
Breeders want to take up as much space as possible. A bigger spread attracts a more fertile female. I'm sure it's all very darwinian. Hence the reason I always cross my legs. June 22, 2008 11:41 AM

You're Not One of Those New Jersey Fags...

...but you are definitely a Beach Ho, so when your Gal Pal invites you to her Mom's shore house for Memorial Day weekend, you pull your best gold chain out of retirement and pack up the Bitchen Camero with the rest of your Bada Bling and head down to Seaside Park. The traffic is, predictably, horrendous, and you are trapped in the back of the Overly Affectionate Straight Couple's Bitchen Camero with a large dog named Mr. President who you'd definitely like to impeach since he is hogging more than his share of the bench seat.

As you approach Exit 100 of the Garden State Parking Lot, your Gal Pal turns down her new favorite song "Paper Planes" by M.I.A. from her blown out speakers. Then she casually informs you that her Niece and Nephew will be joining you for the weekend. And suddenly you put a pretend to put a gun to your head while you sing along with the song, "All you wanna do is go Bang, Bang, Bang!" as if you're the Child Catcher from Chitty Chitty Bang, Bang Bang! Now it's not that you hate children, per se, in fact, way back when you were a little boy some of your dearest friends were actually children. But now that you are thirtysomething you find them to be, shall we say, a bit irritating. Now it's not like you hate all children, actually it's mostly the ones you are related to that you can't stand. But you digress. You are in a bit of shock as you utter, "Babies?" with more than a bit of disdain. "No, no, no!" your Gal Pal assures you. "My niece is six and my nephew is thirteen. But he's troubled." "Oh good," you say as you imagine your lifeless, body hanging from a fence along the boardwalk à la Matthew Sheppard. "I hear troubled teenage boys love the gays."

But the kids actually turn out to be cute and the six year old girl is this adorable Mini Pink Fluffy Thing who is so mature that you wouldn't be surprised if she told you she had scheduled her first boob job for next week. She makes you watch Hannah Montana and then flits around the house, walking with her arms up in the air as if she's eliciting applause while giving dramatic sighs every time somebody changes the conversation to a subject other than her. You absolutely love this Little Drag Queen In Progress and, later on at the beach, you spend the afternoon building her elaborate Gay Sand Castles, which, of course, the Troubled Teen knocks down. Actually the Troubled Teen isn't too terrible either, at least not when he's properly medicated. Anyway.

After a delicious barbecue you all decide to take the kids to the boardwalk, mostly so you can beat their asses in Skee-Ball, which, of course, you do. You basque in the pleasure of whipping two whipper snappers, and tease them about how bad they are until they're almost at the point of tears, before you end up bribing their frowns away with the wad of Skee-Ball tickets that you won. When you leave the arcade you notice that the social scene has dramatically changed. The boardwalk has become overrun with Seventeen Year Old Thugs with Pen-Line Jaw Beards. These Future Ex-Cons strut along with their Candy Cotton-eating Ho's who seem to have missed the memo that skintight Lycra went out of style along with David Lee Roth. Only these girls actually look like they may have actually eaten David Lee Roth, because they all have a disturbing Muffin-Top effect where their exposed bellies ooze out in the space between their Lycra and their low-cut jeans. Welcome to Senior Week on the Jersey Shore! Which does nothing but making you feel like a Senior Citizen living in fear of being mugged. You grab the kids and drag them home, stopping only briefly to ride the Go-Karts with a few overly made-up Go-Go-Tarts.

When you get back to the house you immediately send the overly-sugared children back to their grandmother, and that's when the Overly Affectionate Straight Couple begins to fake some yawns. You can't help but think to yourself, Is this what it feels like to be straight? 10pm Yawns after a day of Medicated Children and Pin-Line Jaw Beards? What is wrong with these people? And why aren't they having Gay Cocktails? However, there is only one problem to your conundrum. You are at least forty-five minutes away from the nearest Gay Bar! Not to mention the fact that you have no car! After a brief panic attack, your Gal Pal's boyfriend, The Most Hated Man In New York, generously offers you his jalopy so you can drag your ass up to Asbury Park to get your long overdue daily dose of Gay.

Driving the Bitchen Camero is a chore in itself, but you are happy to have access to it. Until, halfway to Asbury, you realize that you'll have to drive the damn thing home! How on earth are you supposed to do that? All this pesky driving is already interfering with your drinking and you haven't even had your first Gay Cocktail yet! Anyway. You park next to the Empress Hotel and make your way over to Paradise, which, unfortunately for you, will obviously be more of a Dry Desert than a Cocktail Infused Oasis. You do allow yourself to order a Bud Light, and as you are paying for it the DJ puts on some incredible Shep Pettibone-esque mega-mix of "Don't Stop the Music." You quickly pay the bartender and race over to the dance floor where, of course, you jump up on the stage and start dancing because that's exactly the type of exhibitionist you are. You'll show these Jersey Boys how we do it in New York! Only when you look around, there aren't that many Jersey Boys. The club that you just spent forty-five minutes driving to, the same one that you can't drink in because you have to drive forty-five minutes back, is practically empty!

After paying your respects to Rhianna, you do a quick Fruit Loop around the sprawling club and check out the Pool Area. The Sunday crowd is definitely not so cute. At all. Except for one boy who quickly catches your eye and actually says, "Hello," as you pass by. Suddenly your sober evening doesn't seem like such a bust, until the cute boy asks you in a familiar accent, "What are you doing down here?" Your mind begins to race as you try to place him! Suddenly he looks familiar, but you can't remember from where! You have some quick chit-chat while studying his face for clues. His current haircut is rather tragic, and you are sure that's what's throwing you off. But when he mentions that he is at the shore visiting some friends of his who are also from Venezuela, you instantly remember who he is. You actually met this boy at a gay bar in Dublin last summer, and you hooked up once in New York. Although he was incredibly sexy, he was rather rude to your friends and you felt like something was a little bit off. Of course you slept with him anyway, but you never called him back. Cut to 2008 in Asbury Park with a tragic haircut. The Vengeful Venezuelan tells you to come and hang out by the pool with his friends, but you tell him that you're gonna grab another beer and excuse yourself while making a mental note to avoid The Pool area as if it was quarantined.

That's when you stumble upon another room which is playing '80s New Wave which, of course, draws you in like a Star Trek Tractor Beam. You actually do wind up ordering one more Bud Light (you wouldn't want to break your word to the Vengeful Venezuelan...) and you sit down on a couch while scanning the room for cute boys whom you haven't slept with. Unfortunately there aren't any. So you just pick up some random New Jersey Gay Rag and start flipping through it. You are instantly drawn to a review of your Internet Crush's movie, A Four Letter Word, and you are instantly up in arms because, although it was a fantastic little film, this Critical Jersey Queen has given it a bad review! You seek solace in the fact that the Jersey Queen can't write for shit, and is obviously unable to grasp the deep nuances of the magic, infectious sparkle that is Jesse Archer. That's when some Big Boy sits down next to you on the couch with his even Bigger Boyfriend and they start chatting you up even though the bad review has thoroughly upset you and has left you feeling quite unsocial. The Big Boy asks you, "Is there any place better than this on Sunday nights?" And you look over at the Big Boy rather quizzically and say, half joking, but mostly not, while doing your best Tony Soprano, "Do I look like I'm from Jersey?" And that's when the Big Boy actually says, "Yes." Anyway...