You're Not One of Those Fags Who's Into Water Sports...

...but somehow during your quest for packing tape you wind up in the water sports section of K-mart. You immediately get sucked into all the fabulous kids toys which now seem so gay that you begin to wonder if they sell them at The Blue Store in Chelsea. Of course there's a trusty old Slip 'N Slide, but it's a very slippery slope after that. You're especially drawn to both the Disco and Rainbow Fountains. But think of the wonderful 8-some that you could have on Fire Guyland if you purchased the Octopus Fun Float for your pool? Anyway. Eventually some disgruntled employee directs you to the correct aisle where you finally find some packing tape and head over to Express check out which takes forever and seems to be making all local stops.

When you finally get back to your Home Sweet Hovel, you begin the daunting task of packing up your shit for your impending move. It's more than a bit distressing, however, because, although the movers are coming on Monday, not only is your new place not ready for you to move in, but nobody has any idea of when it will ever be ready. And the best part is that no one but you seems to care about your impending homelessness. Anyway. You choose an invigorating packing playlist on your iPhone and you sing along as you place everything you own into little Fresh Direct boxes that you've been hoarding like a hibernating Hampster ever since you decided to move. You are a packing fiend of the fudge packing variety (which means everything is packed extremely well).

Only, as you pack, you begin to wonder if you might be getting sick because your throat begins to feel swollen. Although it doesn't hurt, you can feel the glands around your neck as if you are not only a gay variety fruit, but a very ripe one at that. And when you go to the bathroom and get a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, you are absolutely shocked. Even through your newly grown beard, you kind of look like a no-neck Barney Rubble. When he had the mumps. Of course your first thought is that you're dying. Of course. You always seem to be dying on a summer Saturday when all doctors are busy spending their hard earned co-pays on the golf course. All your recent whoring around has finally caught up to you and you are seroconverting from the neck down. You and your Lovely Lady Mumps will surely die homeless on the streets of New York (or perhaps a friend's uncomfortable, yet stylish couch), and you'll never get to enjoy the truly finer things in life, like decorating your new apartment. Nor will you ever know what it feels like to rule Eighth Avenue with a six-pack of washboard abs that you've always planned to locate some day beneath all of that Gay Fat that you've always intended to lose.

You do as much packing as you can handle, given your latest, dire prognosis, even though you know that tomorrow will be a lost day since it is Gay Pride and you and your Lovely Lady Mumps intend to be very proud. So you hop in the shower, neck first as your lymph nodes seem to be making all your Gland Entrances today, and you get ready to meet the BLC for some Pretoxication before a Pre-Pride Party. And honey, if you can somehow bring yourself to swallow, you definitely need a drink.

The Ritz is buzzing with lots of healthy-necked people, and your worst fears are realized when Half-Share asks, "What's wrong with you? You look awful." You explain about your mysteriously swollen jugular and after everybody touches your Lovely Lady Mumps they all have different diagnoses. Especially Fat Albert who assures you tenderly, "Of course you aren't seroconverting. You simply have some kind of aggressive throat cancer..."

Eventually you wind up at a friend-of-a-friend's Pre-Pride Party and you are Absolut(ly) thrilled to be self-medicating with some delicious Mandarin-flavored eliquzor. In fact you're feeling no pain as you're heading back to the bar until you find yourself literally bumping into a boy you dated last summer, but broke up with before Labor Day: White Pants. Although you have no hard feelings (actually you have no feelings at all) this boy is always so irritating and dramatic when you have the misfortune of running into him. At this point you'd much rather run over him, but you give him a big, dimpled smile and say, "Hey, how are you?" But White Pants is a TV reporter and he just stares at you so melodramatically that you feel like it's 9/11 and that your symmetrical neck lumps are the Twin Towers. There's this loooooooong, ridiculous pause which is so pregnant that you suddenly feel like you're at a Straight Pride party, and that's when White Pants eventually says, "I'm goooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooood," with about seven different syllables and five different irritating nuances. Then White Pants doesn't say another word. You briefly consider giving him a big infectious kiss on the lips, but ultimately decide that after all his weirdness, you have nothing more to say. So you just roll your eyes and head over to the bar where you, surprise-surprise, find a bunch of your closest friends. You quickly pour yourself a potent drink as you say a quick little prayer, "Are you there, Vodka? It's me, You!" Luckily Judy Blitz hears your plea and the Cranberry Sea parts so White Pants can model his summer wardrobe far away from you.

Unfortunately this is yet another party where everybody is just way too cute to commit to anything more than a schmoozy, yet vapid conversation, so you end up yapping with your friends all night. The highlight is when one of Half-Share's Fire Island housemates starts to bombard you with compliments like, "I used to hate you because you didn't have to have a real job, but now I'm very impressed with your blog. You're actually a very good writer." Even though it's been swollen shut for hours, somehow your jaw slackens and you are at a loss for words as the backhanded compliments start to pour in. "I actually liked you when we first met even though my boyfriend didn't at all. He thought you were shallow." Although you know that Backhand means well, it's perhaps the first time in your life that you are completely at a loss for words, so you actually just seek comfort in your Gay Cocktail as Backhand continues his barrage of friendly fire.

Eventually, when you can't take being on the Frontline anymore, Rice Queen rallies the troops and the Boy Luck Club hops into a cab and head downtown to the Meatpacking District for some dirty, Daniel Nardicio D-List Pride Party. Although the previously gay neighborhood has been overrun by Bridge & Tunnel Breeders, you are escorted from the street directly into a time-travelling elevator which quickly whisks you back to Village as it was during the sexual revolution of the '70s. Avec Meat, sans underwear. It becomes quickly obvious that you and your Lovely Lady Humps are no longer in Kansas. You actually see things that you've never seen before; even some things that you never wished to see. There's more Grade A meat in this building than back when they used to pack it here. Half of it is hanging out. Some of it's being sampled. Most of it is constantly being inspected. But all of it is completely shocking. In a good way. It makes the Fire Guyland Underwear Party seem more like a cute little Panty Party starring Doris Day. This party, however, features an entire cast of Whorish Gays. And you, of course, begin to make a Fruit Loop under the guise of looking for the bathroom. Only you never find the bathroom. Instead you wind up in some line which you assume is for the bathroom, only when you finally get a turn it's actually a pitch dark Janitor's Closet with no light and no window. As you pee in the dark you really, really hope that you're peeing in the sink and not on some dirty boy who has been rumored to be hiding amongst all the janitorial filth. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Fags Who Leads a Double Life...

...hell, everything about your life is single, single, single!  Seriously though, at twenty you came out to your parents after your college boyfriend dumped you (single, single, single!) and although you called them for emotional support, after you came out you wound up being the one who had to console your hysterical mother.  But from that moment on, you've pretty much lived one single, single, single solitary life where everybody knows that you're a big ol' fag.  However, what everybody doesn't know is that you're a big ol' fag with a Blah-Blah-Blog. 

Some people do know.  Your close friends.  Their close friends.  And so on.  And so on.  And so on.  If you could do it over you wouldn't have told anybody.  Not a soul.  But now you live in fear that eventually you're going to hurt someone who you really care about.  Like when you were dating Blonde Beard.  To this day you're not sure if he dumped you because he found out about the online chronicle of your dating life.  And honestly, this is probably why you can't seem to get over the hairy cheeked non-boyfriend.  The idea that you might have jeopardized your chance at a meaningful relationship because of your narcissistic online endeavor is really just too much to process.  Even three months after he left you crying your girlie little eyes out on the West 4th Street subway platform.  Cue the violins and grab yourself a hankie.  

Anyway.  Enough about Blonde Beard.  Back to you and your relatively new brown beard.  Tonight's a busy night.  You've got a fancy birthday dinner with the BLC at Cipriani Dolci.  In Grand Central Station of all places!  And then if the BLC feels up to it, you've been invited to yet another birthday party for yet another Blah-Blah-Blogger who somehow figured out who you were.  You have no idea how these Hardy Boys are solving the mystery of You!

As you're getting all dolled up for the fancy-schmancy dinner that you can't afford, you remember to check out Zee Blogger's evite to get the 411 on his birthday party.  Although you've already changed at least six times, as you pop your head out from an old, yet dressy blue Armani shirt from your fancier days, you can't help but sigh when you realize that Zee Blogger is having a, get this, Pink Party.  Ugh.  You're already running late and, let's face it, unlike Molly Ringwald, you are not so Pretty in Pink.   Eventually you decide that the Calvin Klein underwear you have on will have to do.  Although it used to be white, you ruined it while washing it with a red towel while doing a free load of laundry out on Fire Island.  Pink underwear is what you get for being cheap.  But you digress. Even though you're running late, now that you're looking at Zee Blogger's invitation, you suddenly get curious about who's on the guest list.  You are immediately thrilled to find your Internet Crush's name at the top of the list!  Of course he's also figured out who you are, however you've never actually met and your cheeks instantly flush at the idea of meeting your favorite Gay Movie Star in person!  It's all very exciting as you continue to scroll through the pages and pages of RSVP's (yes, Zee Blogger is that fabulous), but your heart literally stops on the third of five pages when you notice that, gasp, your Hobosexual Roommate's name on the fucking guest list!  Suddenly you have this paralyzing fear that you'll run into him and the BLC boys will start calling him the Hobosexual to his face!  Or worse, what if the Hobosexual asks Zee Blogger how exactly he knows you?  If they have a conversation you know that it will inevitably contain the term "Hobosexual!"  And if somehow neither of those doomsday scenarios play out, then surely your Internet Crush will out you after a few cocktails have been thrown down his neck.  After all, you've read about his drunken shenanigans on his blog.  Meanwhile, are there any gay boys who don't have a blog?

Although dinner at Cipriani Dolci is absolutely fantastic, you spend the entire meal sweating about filing for Chapter 11 after they swipe your credit card.  And if that's not bad enough, you are terrified that the BLC will end up wanting to go to Zee Pink Party where they will inevitably meet the Hobosexual!  So you end up doing what you always do when you're nervous.  You order a Stoli O' and Soda and boldly tell the waiter to "Keep 'em comin'!"  Inevitably this makes the check less affordable, but it will also make Zee Pink Partee much less awkward.  And, typically, it would also have the added benefit of making the sticker shock of the steep check more palatable when it finally arrives.  However, you are shocked into a state of girly giddiness when Fat Albert grabs the check and generously pays for all of you!  On his birthday!  Hell, had you known you were going to win Restaurant Lotto you would've ordered a flock of Grey Geese!  And an appetizer.  Made of Goose Liver, of course.

After the lovely dinner the BLC wants to go to Zee Pink Partee, so you make them promise, under no circumstances, that the word "Hobosexual" will ever fall from any of their bitchy tongues!  Even though, of course, you know they'll revel in torturing you all night long just because they love to see you squirm.  When you finally arrive, not only is everybody wearing pink, but everybody cheeks are flush pink because there is something wrong with the air conditioning.  Apparently there are just too damn many Hot Boys at Zee Pink Partee and the A/C just can't handle it.  So you and your blue pit stains begin to mingle amongst the pinks as you wait in fear for the Hobosexual to jump off his freight train, complete with his bindle hanging from a stick, which, after learning his Internet nickname, he will certainly beat you to a pulp with. 

Maybe it's because you're trembling with fear, or maybe it's because everybody is just way too cute, or possibly it's because it's about seven degrees hotter than hell in Zee apartment (and you're talking Celsius), but you don't really talk to anybody other than a boy you went on a Revenge Date with who's name you can't remember.  However, Zee Blogger is glad to see you, and you wish him a Happy Birthday and compliment his beautiful apartment which is like a little slice of Hell('s Kitchen).  Of course you ask about your Internet Crush, but Zee Blogger says he came early and has already left.  What's up with that?  And although you practically have to bite your tongue not to ask about the Hobosexual, you decide it's best to keep your big mouth shut and just live your rocky double life while sipping on your double Absolut on the rocks.  Anyway...

You're Not One of Those S&M Fags...

...so unfortunately you have absolutely no idea what to wear to Folsom Street East. Not to mention the wardrobe dilemma over what to wear to the Leather Brunch that Rice Queen #2 is throwing beforehand. But after a quick text-blast, you are assured that cargo shorts and a tank-top is perfectly acceptable as long as you remove the tank upon arrival. Although you'll later worry about the ramifications of which back pocket to hang the tank from, for know you can certainly live with this relatively simple outfit choice.

You can also live with the Bloody Marys that Rice Queen #2 plies you with at his Leather Brunch. In fact, he even supplies you a leather band to wear around your bicep (one of his extras, apparently). All your friends instantly begin to tease you because (although you had no idea) you somehow instinctively put the band around the arm that signifies you are a big ol' bottom. Whatever. Lately you've feeling a bit fucked in general so you just let the leather band stay put and head over to 28th Street with your Gay Posse.

As directed, you take off your tank-top as you enter the fairy fair, and you instantly feel kind of feel like Dorothy in that "Toto, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore," kind of way. But it's certainly fun and all the S&M Boys seem to be thoroughly enjoying themselves. As you wander through the Levi & Leather crowd, you begin to wonder what everybody does for a living? Like the shirtless boy strutting around with bloody welt marks whipped into his back? Does he serve Tall Non-Fat Lattes with whipped cream at Starbucks? Or how about the man sloshing around in head-to-toe rubber with a urinal built into his suit. Perhaps he's an Art Director at Grey Advertising for the Kohler account? The funny thing is that a lot of these guys all seem to be coupled up. All these S&M cast iron pots seem to have found a lid that they are happy to be smacked around with. And that's when the collective pot seemingly begins to boil over as the skies open up and it suddenly begins to pour. It's amusing to watch the half-naked S&M boys (some fully naked) as they race into the Eagle for cover, almost as if a few raindrops will cause them to melt. Perhaps, more likely, it will ruin all their leather. The Rubber Boys, however, seem much less concerned by the sudden change in weather.

The Eagle winds up being a hoot and you end up catching some freebie XXL t-shirt that gets thrown your way. Luckily you're much too small for it and you wind up offering it to some of the shirtless Bears who seem to be jealous of your sudden swag. You give it away to one of the more eager Cubs and order a beer, only before you ever finish the beer the Shirtless Cub politely returns the shirt to you with a quick "Thanks," and you are completely non-plussed when you realize that the Cub just wanted to borrow it momentarily to use as a cum rag. Seriously.

At this point, the rain has stopped and you're definitely done schmoozing with spooogers, so you head down the stairs of the Eagle and walk out onto the street. Almost instantly you run into the Advanced Ski Fag who you made out with last winter and then decided not to pursue because, after all, you were going on the same week-long ski trip. If it ended awkwardly then that could have turned out to be one damn longue semaine en France. But you've actually thought about this boy several times since the trip. You've actually wondered if he could be the type of boy that you could actually date? He's funny. He's smart. He likes to ski. He's cute. And your one big worry seems to have removed itself in the form of his shirt, because the Advanced Ski Fag is shirtless and, although he's not a gym bunny, the goods are not too shabby. A bit Gay Fat, perhaps, but nothing tragic like Man Boobs.

After all that leather, the two of you seem to be craving some red meat, so you catch up at Hell's Kitchen and yap about your Ski Trip last February. The Advanced Ski Fag tells you about how he didn't have that great a trip. You admit, that even though you won the damn vacation, that everybody seemed a bit cold and distant. You're not sure if it's the conversation or the beer, but suddenly your dinner has a definite date quality and you're not at all unhappy about it. And, surprise-surprise, when you wind up back at the Advanced Ski Fag's apartment (which is absolutely gorgeous) you find yourself being overwhelmed by an unusual and uncomfortable feeling, because you are actually comfortable. So comfortable, in fact, that you could actually see yourself Dwelling happily ever after in his apartment.

You accept when the Advanced Ski Fag offers you a glass of water, even though you never touch the stuff (it's your personal version of water conservation), and the kissing begins after a sobering mouthful of the non-vodka. Unfortunately it ain't as good as the apartment. At all. And as if that's not tragic enough, even though you never asked, the conversation somehow segues into the Advanced Ski Fag's sexual problems. Or perhaps it's something colon-related that seems to infringe upon his sex life? Regardless you attempt to tune it out even though you feel a dire need to tell him that it's this actual conversation which is ultimately infringing upon his sex life. Eventually you let him pull you out of the unfortunate T.M.I. moment and into his beautifully decorated bedroom. Unfortunately things don't improve in the boudoir. The underwear never comes off, but that probably has more to do with a double-whammy of Whisky Dick than anything else. Or at least this is what you tell the Advanced Ski Fag when you suddenly find yourself overcome with a headache that was obviously water-induced. You get up, get dressed, and the Advanced Ski Fag walks you to the door and hands you two Advil and your unfinished glass of non-vodka. You give him a quick peck goodbye as you pointedly reattach the leather strap to your other bicep, because, let's face it, the last look was not working for you. Anyway...

What Was Your Gay Anthem for Summer 2008?

26% of You said, "Break The Ice" by Britney Spears.

15% of You said, "When I Grow Up" by The Pussycat Dolls.

14% of You said, "I Kissed A Girl" by Katy Perry.

12% of You said, "American Boy" by Estelle.

10% of You said, "Disturbia" by Rihanna.

8% of You said, "See You Again" by Miley Cyrus.

5% of You said, "Give It To Me" by Madonna.

5% of You said, "Mercy" by Duffy.

2% of You said, "Into The Nightlife" by Cindi Lauper.

Number of Fags Who Voted: 119

Was your summer anthem not one of the choices? Sorry! Be sure to post a comment to let us all know what got you dancing on the table tops this summer!

PLEASE NOTE: This poll is probably a bit biased because of an over-zealous Britney fan who was soliciting votes.

Greetings from...

...the US Open.

It's Williams vs. Williams. But you're really hoping Vanessa wins.  ;-)

xoxo You!

You're Not One of Those Fags Who's Afraid of Commitment...

...after all, you were in a relationship that lasted over a decade! And now you love looking for your next one. Even if sometimes the trivial pursuit sometimes seems like searching for a needle in a haystack. The good news is that you're in New York and there's a lot of gay hay to roll around in. Anyway. You are in complete shock as you sit in your Gal Pal's office and listen as she tells you about how The Most Hated Man In New York just broke up with her! Although you try to be a good friend and listen, you can't help but begin to wonder if being afraid to commit has less to do with being a gay man and more to do with being a man. After all, these two Hets are practically made for each other! They've been together for about six months now, and, out of all the relationships you've witnessed (including your own), theirs is the one relationship that you actually want to emulate. You watched as they fell in love and you were so jealous of their excitement for each other that you even reveled in listening to all the detailed heterosexual minutia of their romantic courtship. You watched as their lives slowly shifted from Single to Coupledom, and somehow this transformation seemed both natural and desirable. Instead of becoming some scary Mr. & Mrs. Stepford version of themselves, they each remained true to who they were, yet just became a better version of themselves if that makes sense. Happier. You watched, not even from afar, during every step of the way and after each relationship milestone you found yourself wishing, "That's what I want."

Only now, a measly six months later, completely out of Left Field, your Gal Pal is attempting to explain exactly why they broke up. Only nothing she says is making any sense. At all. In fact it's so frustrating that you almost begin to cry! But ultimately you realize that her explanations don't make any sense to you because they don't make any sense to her. As far as you can deduce the The Most Hated Man In New York is nothing more than a typical New York commitment-phobe. Obviously another reason to hate him... Everything was going swimmingly and then BAM! Faster than you can say "Cold Feet," this boy is out shopping for leg warmers and wool socks.

Luckily you don't have this typical male phobia. However, when you really think about it, it's certainly has been a while since you've been in a substantial relationship. Like years. Years! You begin to worry that somewhere along your Mary way, you've actually become unable to commit to having any sort of relationship. But doesn't that seem preposterous?! After all, falling in love is what you want more than anything out of life. Isn't it? Or perhaps, gasp, you're just in such a state of denial that you can't even realize that you are sabotaging yourself? Or even worse, maybe you've just become one of those fucked-up boys who refuses to be a member of any club that will have you? After all, there have been plenty of boys along the way who have definitely wanted to pursue something with you, yet ultimately you weren't all that interested. On the other hand, the boys that you are interested in seem to have the one similar trait of being rather uninterested in you. It's like some giant gay pyramid scheme where everybody is looking for some sucker who isn't selling the same bullshit that you are. The only problem with pyramid schemes is that eventually there is nobody left to buy anything. And at this very moment even you're feeling a bit skeptical about the bullshit you're trying to sell yourself about your stand on commitment.

Before you head back into the writing room to get some work done, you assure your Gal Pal that The Most Hated Man In New York is just having cold feet and you wouldn't be surprised if he emerges from his funk feeling more confident than ever. Even though you don't say it, you are definitely imagining him on his knees with Tiffany Box. And as usual, you'll be her Bridesmaid because you're never the Bride. However, when you finally get back to that blinking cursor on your laptop's screen, instead of writing you suddenly find yourself with this uncontrollable urge to look up Blonde Beard on Match.com. After all, even though things weren't perfect, he's the one boy who you really did find yourself falling for. You, of course, remember his Username and even though you know it's a huge mistake you suddenly find yourself clicking that little "Go" button to conduct the search. And as you predicted, Blonde Beard's profile is definitely there. Just like it was when you first saw his follicled face last January. You just stare at his profile photos for a moment and wonder if perhaps Blonde Beard just got cold feet? But then the masochist in you forces yourself to read his whole damn profile. You're like some gay Eve snacking on the forbidden fruit as you devour all the words about the type of man who Blonde Beard would be willing to commit to. Although the words ultimately make you feel a bit queasy, you attempt to console yourself since his words are just that: words. But this doesn't make you feel any better. At all. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those "Wham-Bam-Thank-You-Sam" Type of Fags

...but that's pretty much how you left it with Baby Daddy after the whole "You want to fuck that Muscle Boy, don't you?" incident. Of course you ended up fucking that Muscle Boy, but even though you'd really like to date a funny boy, you kind of assumed that you'd be laughing with him, not at him. You and Baby Daddy texted back and forth a few times afterwards, but nothing ever came of it. In fact, Baby Daddy was the one who ultimately let the ball drop. Although you're not really sure why exactly he disappeared, you're definitely not worrying about it. Hell, it's summer and there are boys in Speedos to oggle!

Speaking of which, it's an absolutely gorgeous day so you and your BFF take the train to Jones Beach to work on your tan lines. And the boys are even more gorgeous than the weather. There's this one Hispanic boy in particular that has definitely caught your eye, and although your taste in men rarely overlaps, you and your BFF are literally about to wrestle over him. Luckily it's a moot point because the Hot Papi is there with his boyfriend and, get this, their two kids! Talk about a dick deflator. The kids, however, are extremely well behaved, and, you have to admit, it's pretty damn hot watching him be a Papi. You and your BFF spend the afternoon concocting an entire back-story for the two Gay Daddies. Since one of the boys is white and the other Latino, you decide that they must have each used the same white surrogate mother so that the boys are technically half-brothers. Your back-stories, of course, quickly morph into fantasies where the Hot Papi leaves his hubby after falling helplessly and hopelessly in love with either of you. Preferably you.

Both of you are still eyeing the Hot Papi when you are packing up your stuff to head back to the city, when suddenly, almost as if your fantasy has willed it to happen, Hot Papi walks over to you and says, "Hey, isn't your name [INSERT YOUR NAME HERE]?" and you are absolutely stunned because Hot Papi is right! You say, "Yeah," but it's obvious that you are confused and can't place him, even though you honestly can't imagine ever forgetting a face as sexy and handsome as his. However, Hot Papi goes on to explain that he met you at G the night you met Baby Daddy. You remember meeting a bunch of Baby Daddy's friends, but you were pretty hyper-focused on Baby Daddy that night so you cut yourself some slack for not remembering Hot Papi. You're also pretty sure that Hot Papi looks better in a skimpy Speedo than he did fully clothed that night at G. Anyway. You and Hot Papi quickly start yapping about Baby Daddy and so you ask how he's doing. Hot Papi informs you that Baby Daddy was actually supposed to be at the beach today, too, but that his daughter refused to go. You want to ask if all the Gay Daddies belong to some secret club but instead you say, "Tell Baby Daddy I said, 'Hi'," and Hot Papi promises you that he will indeed.

On the train back to the city, your BFF can't get over the fact that you had met the Hot Papi before and forgotten him, so he informs you that you have been disqualified, and he has won the the Hot Papi game of Fantasy Boyfriend by default. You reluctantly agree, but then decide to text Baby Daddy about the bizarre beach incident, just to see what will happen. You write, "You missed a beautiful day at the beach today. The weather wasn’t too bad either ;-)" and you get a response almost immediately, "I was supposed to go today but my daughter didn’t want to go. Next time I guess. Hope u had fun." Which is a lame blow-off and you know you should just let it go, but you decide to continue to taunt Baby Daddy with, "Your Hot Papi friend already told me. Too bad. It would’ve been nice to see you in a skimpy Speedo ;-) On my way back to the city now." He returns with a vague response full of zero questions, “LOL. Maybe go in a couple of weeks. Should be fun," so you decide to finally drop it. You really don't know why, but it's obvious that Baby Daddy is as just-not-that-into-you as you are just-not-that-into-him! But then you wind up receiving another post-blow-off text which really surprises you, but when you pull out your phone you realize that it's not actually from Baby Daddy. It's from the Portuguese Brazilian From London, who has, once again, commuted back to New York and is wondering if you'd like to get together tonight. Christ! Your Saturday night is starting to look like it's suddenly about to get redeemed.

Later on, after a few drinks at Duplex with the San Francisco Treat and Rice Queens I through III, you head up to Vlada to meet the Portuguese Brazilian From London. However, he's late, which is annoying since he picked the place and the time, but you kill some time yapping with Vlada's big bull dyke bouncer, aptly named Tonka until the Portuguese Brazilian From London shows up and, although it's been months since you've seen him, you quickly remember why you liked him so much. Hell, he's smart, funny and handsome! What's not to like? Oh yeah, the fact that he lives in London and has a New York boyfriend suddenly come to mind... However, the two of you end up having such a fun time flirting and chatting that you begin to get a bit melancholy. Why does it have to be so fucking hard to meet a great guy? And when you do finally meet one, why does he have to be so fucking unavailable? Your catches always turn out to be more like Catch 22's, and you almost decide to call it a night and head back to your Home-Sweet-Hovel to huddle over some Häagen-Sweet-Daz, but then something magical happens. The Portuguese Brazilian From London makes you laugh. The fact that he can make you giddy during your Pity Party ultimately pulls you out of your funk, and before you know it, the two of you are in a cab headed to your place.

You're a bit terrified that your Hobosexual roommate will be up watching Sex and the City reruns, but luckily the coast is clear and the two of you end up making your own lost episode of Sex in the City. You, of course, are playing Carrie, and, luckily, the Portuguese Brazilian From London, winds up playing a dual role of Mr. Big combined with dirty old Samantha. However, as soon as it's over, before you can even grab a Kleenex from the tissue box, the Portuguese Brazilian From London is literally pulling up his pants and tightening his belt. You feel ridiculous wiping cum off your chest while this man is, most likely, coming up with excuses to tell his New York boyfriend about why he's getting home so late. Even though the whole thing suddenly feels ridiculous, you walk the Portuguese Brazilian From London to the door, lock it, and then hop in the shower because you suddenly feel like that dirty old Kleenex you just used up and threw away. Anyway...

What do you do when you finally meet Mr. Abs and then realize that you're just not that into him?

54% of You said, "I eventually dump Mr. Abs in order to regain my self-respect. But I don't erase his number just in case I need to give him a booty call from time to time."

27% of You said, "I suck it up (so to speak), and humor him when he tells me that Jane Austen was a fabulous interior designer."

17% of You said, "I suffer through his Saturday morning cartoon obsession until I eventually meet Mr. Abs(olutely Fabulous) and dump his ass."

Number of Fags Who Voted: 110

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

...but you don't have a problem stretching the truth to spare somebody else's feelings. You're just a nice guy in that lying sort of way. Although you tend to be a bit naive when it comes to other people lying to you for similar reasons. However, when you're left feeling confused by something a boy told you, you're usually pretty confident that the truth has been stretched to accommodate your volatile emotions. This is what you're thinking about as you make your way over to meet the Massssculine Man for a date. Why on earth did he just disappear after a bathroom break when you were having such a good conversation? You're a bit wary that he'll dole out some bullshit when you ask him this question, but the fact that he invited you out to dinner after his post-bathroom Houdini act at Low Tea leaves you feeling more than a bit confused. However, you decided that drinks would be a bit more casual, so you joked about how you'd somehow break out of Betty Ford to come meet him at Eastern Bloc for a cocktail. And now, surprise-surprise, you're running late and your iPhone is ringing and even though you're 99% positive that it's the Massssculine Man calling, you have a strict policy of not answering numbers that you don't recognize, so instead of picking up the call, you just pick up the pace and ban the foreign number to voicemail.

You, of course, immediately check the message and a massive sense of relief takes over when you realize that the message is, indeed, not from the Massssculine Man, yet from the hairy Chia Pet you met on Fire Island. Although you feel like you've dodged a bullet that was doused in Rogaine, his message is actually extremely sweet and complimentary and exactly the kind of message that you'd love to receive from the right guy. The Chia Pet was definitely the wrong guy. And not because he was too hairy. There are lasers to deal with hairy. However, not feeling any passion at all? Not so much. That particular laser has yet to be invented.

When you finally get to Eastern Bloc the place is completely dead. The Massssculine Man is sitting at the bar chatting it up with the bartender and when you walk inside they both turn toward you and a big toothy smile takes over the Massssculine Man's face. Which is really nice. You walk over and say hello, and since he's already drinking a Jack & Ginger you turn to the bartender to order yourself a cocktail to catch up. Only the bartender is way too busy yapping to the Massssculine Man. Actually the two of them are all wrapped up in some conversation that seems to be so engaging that you begin to wonder if you're intruding? They obviously know each other, really, really well, and you begin to wonder how often the Massssculine Man hangs out at Eastern Bloc? Eventually during a lull in their conversation and you finally get your order in which, thankfully, has the fringe benefit of sending the bartender away to make your drink.

When your conversation eventually segues into Fire Guyland, you immediately begin to tease him about disappearing after he went to the bathroom during Low Tea. You even go as far as to tell him how you waited and waited in the same exact spot for his return. But ultimately you assumed that he wasn't interested. And then you brace yourself for a big fat lie. The Massssculine Man is actually very confused. He informs you that when he did return that you were surrounded by a group of friends and he didn't want to interrupt. You are actually shocked by his excuse. If he is telling the truth (and you're pretty sure that he is), then he must be so insanely timid that he'd rather ditch you than risk a moment of minimal awkwardness? Images of Blonde Beard start shyly dancing through your head (in the shadows of course). You begin to wonder how a man can live on this earth for over thirty years and yet still somehow be so uncomfortable in his own skin that he's scared to interrupt some dumb drunken conversation? And this, my friend, is your first red flag.

Your second red flag is actually a deep Soviet red, complete with a hammer and sickle. It arrives in the form of the Eastern Bloc bartender who plows you with so much free vodka that you get hammered and begin to worry that you might actually feel a little bit sick(le). Ordinarily this would be a good thing, but things are beginning to get a bit messy. And somehow, given all the free drinks, the Massssculine Man still doesn't seem the least bit intoxicated. When you slur about how you haven't had dinner yet, the Massssculine Man actually informs you that he never has dinner! Ever! Which definitely explains his 8-pack abs, yet does nothing but leave you wondering if this boy might have a bit of a drinking problem? And you, my friend, don't want to get mixed up in that kind of a situation. The last thing you want to be is someone else's sober driver!

Suddenly a boy who went to school with the Massssculine Man interrupts your conversation to say hi. They start talking about a recent evening on Fire Guyland where the friend was all "cracked out" and waited an hour and a half in the rain for a Water Taxi to the Grove. Not just a shy alcoholic, you think to yourself. But a crackhead to boot. But you're jumping ahead of yourself. It's not like you have to marry this boy, but it might be nice to get a kiss before he disappears into the bathroom, never to be heard from again. And somehow when you look at your watch it is now 1am so you inform the Massssculine Man that you really must get going. You walk to the corner of First & 1st together, but it ends up being one of those lingering goodbyes where eventually you get so frustrated that you wind up pushing him up against the brick building to make-out with him. The kisses are actually verrrry nice, and you're extremely turned on until your front teeth end up clinking and ruin the mood. For some reason it's the sexual equivalent of fingernails down the chalkboard and you absolutely hate it. So you readjust your boys and say goodnight before heading home.

However, before you go to bed you notice the Chia Pet's business card on your nightstand and, since you know that you don't want to go out with him again, you decide to send him a quick email instead of suffering through a phone call. "glad you survived the pines. i am always so exhausted after spending the weekend out there that i feel like i need a vacation! anyway, although i really enjoyed hanging out with you i'm actually just coming out of a mini-relationship thing (okay, fine, i was dumped...) and am kind of steering clear of the whole dating scene for a while until i get my head clear. i hope you understand. and honestly, that's why i didn't want to spend the night." And although there ain't nothing all that honest about it, it somehow seems nicer than responding to his super sweet phone call with something as blunt as, "Sorry, I'm just not that into you." Anyway...

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

...but you do find yourself green with envy when your Straight Boyfriend starts doing the "we" thing. Sometime during the last few months he progressed from being a sad and lonely "I" to being a happily-ever-after "We." You haven't seen much of your Straight Boyfriend since he moved over to the Darkside and became a "We," but tonight you both left work early in order to catch up over some cheap drinks and free happy hour food at Spain. Although you want to smack him each time he talks about himself plurally, you end up being the one who needs to be smacked out of your state of shock when your Straight Boyfriend informs you, "We're actually moving in together." Although you're happy for your Straight Boyfriend (after all, it's Mrs. Oui who you're jealous of!), you find yourself wondering if you'll ever meet someone who you can have a relationship that actually lasts longer than your monthly Metrocard? Is this really too much to ask for out of life? Time seems to be tick-tick-ticking away and somehow you're still kick-kick-kicking yourself because you seem to be just about as far away from your "We" goal as ever.

Luckily your jealous moment of silence is interrupted by an older gent sitting next to your Straight Boyfriend as he literally falls from his bar stool and does a Long Island Iced-Tea plunge onto the bar floor. Although your chivalrous Straight Boyfriend hops to the gent's rescue, you can't help but break into hysterics because you had been watching the drunk gent talk to an imaginary pink elephant for the past twenty minutes before reaching his tipping point. The Gin & Tonic Gent dusts himself off and goes right back to his G & T, which, somehow, never spilt a drop.

That's when Mrs. Oui shows up with a friend of hers, and you force a grimaced smile as you say, "Congratulations, I just heard the big news." Mrs. Oui thanks you and then begins doing the "We" thing while you begin to wonder how your Boys Night Out suddenly turned into a We Night Out? Had you known you probably would have stayed at home alone and played your Hobosexual Roommate's Nintendo Wii instead. Things get worse when, out of nowhere, Mrs. Oui's annoying friend starts to fondle your chest. She's drunk as a skunk and starts saying things like, "It's such a shame that you have to be gay. What a waste." Even though you know that nothing good will come from any response at all, you can't help but say, "Actually, it's not a shame at all. In fact, I'm pretty fucking ecstatic about it." And then, for some unknown, yet completely irritating reason, Drunk Girl begins to hurl bar peanuts at you. One by one they irritatingly hit your chest and you just stare at Hurl Girl with disgust as she continues to toss free salty bar snacks at you. When you realize that Hurl Girl is never going to stop you decide to go to the one place where you can escape her Chick Fit and you announce, "I'm going to the men's room," even though you don't even have to pee.

In the bathroom you, of course, send out an email blast to all your Blackberry Boys in search of a rescue ring! Then you kill some more time by checking your email. Luckily there's actually a Connexion message so you log on to see if perhaps your future "We" has just contacted you. You are in absolute shock when you realize that the boy who has just written you is the same boy who dissed you last weekend on Fire Guyland! The Massssculine Man says, "how's it going? nice meeting you over the weekend, hope you had a good one. i'm back to civilization and i think my liver is happy about it. hit me up sometime if you feel like grabbing a bite to eat in the neighborhood (before you move). in the meantime, i'm prepping a list of hard-hitting questions. hope all is well and that you enjoyed the rest of you weekend." You're in shock because you were sure that the Massssculine Man had absolutely no interest in you! It's definitely another big gay conundrum, but you and your A.D.D. are quickly sidetracked when you receive a text from Rice Queen telling you to meet him and the San Francisco Treat at Beige. When you return to the bar, you tell the "We's" that you've got to go but not before you tell Hurl Girl, "You know, I've been thinking and I don't think it's at all a shame that you're straight." And then you throw a few peanuts that quickly disappear into her heaving cleavage before you race out the door and hail a cab.

Beige is packed with boys who don't think it's a shame that you're gay, and you grab a cocktail and start chatting with your Gay Posse and their friends. Everything is going swimmingly (mostly because nobody is throwing anything) until one of the Rice Queen's friends suddenly flings a completely shocking, "I love your blog" at you. You stammer before finally saying a simple, "Thanks," and then you sneak Rice Queen a dirty look but he just shrugs in a confused manner which makes you wonder who told this boy about your Blah-Blah-Blog?

Your paranoia takes you on a Fruit Loop of the busy boy bar and you wind up chatting with some awesome-looking Aussies. It quickly becomes apparent that they are much younger than you, but you stumble through the conversation with a few key phrases that you've learned in order to make you presentable to the Flip-Flop generation. For a while it actually seems like the Awesome Aussie is interested in you. You're completely flabbergasted and flattered, until he asks the dreaded question, "How old are you?" You can't help but notice his shock at the number you dole out, and his surprise is quickly replaced with disinterest. Suddenly you're insanely jealous of the Awesome Aussie and his youth. Obviously he has no interest in being your "We." So you cut your losses and end up running into a Ski Fag from your Chamonix trip and his long, beautiful blonde hair. Sampson gives you a big hug and the two of you start yapping about the ski trip last February. You're actually a bit surprised when Sampson tells you that it was the best trip that he had ever taken. You prompt him to qualify his statement by asking, "You mean because of the amazing skiing?" To which he responds, "What skiing? I was having too much fun getting to know everybody!" Now you're not usually someone who holds his cards close to his chest, but you find yourself feeling a bit cautious as you admit, "I dunno. I kind of thought some boys were a bit cold or something." And Sampson informs you, "That's because you won the trip and isolated yourselves." Isolated yourself? Is Sampson kidding? It's kind of hard to isolate yourself when everybody's busy doing it for you! But you continue to probe, "What does winning the trip have to do with anything?" And everything clicks when Sampson says, "Everybody who paid thought that they were subsidizing your free trip." Although you know that the trip was paid for by corporate sponsors, suddenly you realize why everybody was so cold. They were just jealous!

You say your goodbyes and continue along your Fruit Loop until you finally complete a full lap and return to your Gay Posse. Rice Queen quickly pulls you over to him and informs you that your blog fan actually had no idea who you were because he mistook you for Andy Towle, who, of course, you are insanely jealous of both him and his wildly successful blog. Anyway...

FAG POLE: Are you the kind of fag who meets his boyfriends...

35% of You said, "What boys? My life consists of Fag Hags and Straight Boyfriends!"

22% of You said, "Online. I give good email!"

20% of You said, "At a bar. I need a little social lubrication before I pull out the lube!"

20% of You said, "At work or school. I'm much too busy for a social life!"

1% of You said, "At the gym. I like to check out the merchandise in the locker room before taking it home!"

Number of Fags Who Voted: 105

You're Not One of Those Muscle Boy Fags...

...but you definitely work out. Sometimes you wonder what would happen if you didn't. Would your gay card suddenly be revoked, forcing you to hang out in, gasp, straight bars? You shudder at the thought of fighting your way past those big leather girl purses (what do they keep in them anyway? Small children?) as you attempted to make you way to the bar for an overpriced, under-liquored straight cocktail. You take your drinks strong. Just like your men. Anyway.

You're on the way to the gym to get in a quick workout before you meet your Baby Daddy for a date. He told you to meet him at his apartment, which makes the whole thing seem a bit more like a hook-up than a date, but whatever. After your recent anti-climatic date with Bald Boy you definitely won't be turning down any before-dinner sex. In fact, it actually sounds like a lovely appetizer. But several blocks from the gym you wind up getting an urgent text from the Rice Queens who are having Happy Hour drinks at G. Well, perhaps it isn't really urgent, but it's definitely more urgent (not to mention more fun) than the gym, so you make a detour down 19th Street.

G is, as usual, packed and you tell yourself that you'll only have one drink before your date because you don't want to show up to your date all sloppy. Unfortunately you slurp the first cocktail down so fast that you deem it necessary to take a poll. You ask your friends what they would think of a boy they were interested in showed up on a date a little liquored up? But that's when the Rice Queens ask you in unison, "It depends more on how interested you are in him?" And before you can answer, "Well, he's not very funny," you find yourself ordering another Stoli O' and Soda from the Red Bearded Bartender who you secretly have a crush on.

Eventually you stumble uptown to Hell's Kitchen and buzz Baby Daddy's doorbell. He instantly grants you access and you have a déjà vu moment as you make your way up the stairwell. The building looks vaguely familiar, but in a very hazy "I-don't-really-remember-hooking-up-here" kind of way. But you are relieved when Baby Daddy opens his door because there's nothing at all hazy about him or all his muscle-y glory.

Unfortunately there is no appetizer sex, and the two of you head over to etcetera etcetera on 44th for actual appetizers. You've actually been to this restaurant once before for a New Year's Party, but let's face it, it was open bar and you have absolutely no memory of how the food was. But Baby Daddy knows the owner and informs you that he gets a discount. And you, my friend, love yourself a discount! When you walk in the door Baby Daddy seems to know everybody at the front bar and they all ask him random things about his kids. You immediately think about your recent grumpy run-in with a Children International sidewalk solicitor when you told him to, "Fuck the children!" and you begin to wonder what kind of evil stepmother you would make to Baby Daddy's kids? They would definitely need some character building chores that kept them out of the house. Like scraping the gum spots off of a Times Square sidewalk or something time-consuming like that. But you digress.

Dinner turns out to be delicious and Baby Daddy orders a big ol' Martini in order to catch up to you blood alcohol level. But even with the liquor the conversation is just okay. He's a very interesting person, but in the kind of way that you're sure he'd probably be much more interesting to anybody other than you. But he's sweet. Not to mention hot. Just not so funny. At all. You even go so far as to set yourself up to be the brunt of a joke. Several times. But Baby Daddy never takes the bad sitcom bait. However, nervous laughter begins to pour out of you when a pair of random hands cover up your eyes from behind and a heavily-accented man whispers into your ear, "How about after dinner I put you in my sling and have my way with you." You are in absolute shock! Your heart pounds as you wonder how exactly you're going to explain the obviously embarrassing situation to Baby Daddy when the Date Terrorist removes his hands. The threat level immediately rises to Red when the Date Terrorist finally reveals himself and you don't even recognize him! Oy vey, this ain't gonna be good! However, when Baby Daddy finally introduces the Date Terrorist to you as his friend who owns the restaurant you instantly breathe a sigh of relief because you realize you've never met him before.

When you finally recover from your near heart-attack, you're actually a bit sad because this is exactly the type of crazy silly thing that you wish Baby Daddy would do to make you laugh. Or anybody you were dating for that matter. Unfortunately this embarrassing moment is the highlight of your date until, of course, you split the discounted check and head back to Baby Daddy's for some much deserved dessert. Things progress pretty quickly and before you know it the two of you are rolling around Baby Daddy's bed in a naked frenzy. And although his arms are the size of your thighs, Baby Daddy jumps up on top of your crotch and starts to grind back and forth. That's when Baby Daddy looks deep into your eyes and says with all seriousness, "You want to fuck that Muscle Boy, don't you?" And right then and there you realize that Baby Daddy is actually very funny. Anyway...

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

...you're just a poor starving writer (who's hungry, yet needs to diet). Well, maybe you are a little cheap. Okay, okay already! A lot cheap. So when you're walking along 23rd Street on your way to meet Bald Boy to go see Iron Man, you quickly hold your phone up to your ear when you notice one of those irritating do-gooder suburban kids who is canvassing for "INSERT GOOD CAUSE HERE." Usually the mock-phone call is enough to deter these Post-Giuliani Sidewalk Solicitors (who are even more common than Pre-Giuliani Homeless People), but this Connecticut Kid ain't having it. He actually has the gall to interrupt your fake phone call! You feign annoyance as you ask your fake friend to hold on, and when the Connecticut Kid asks if you have a moment for "INSERT GOOD CAUSE HERE" you say, "Sorry, I'm my own favorite charity." But Connecticut Kid is persistent and when he starts yapping about how Children International could really use your financial support you actually find yourself saying, "Oh, fuck the children!" And although you are kidding (sort of), the Connecticut Kid is not at all amused. But you are late for your date so you just smile and say, "J/K" because you don't actually have the time nor the patience to say the words "Just Kidding."

You're only five minutes late but Bald Boy is standing outside the Chelsea Clearview and he looks kind of amazing. Even with his, ahem, shortcomings, he's really a fantastically attractive man and you were willing to give it another chance when he asked you out. Who knows? Maybe this time he'll make you laugh. You kiss hello and are kind of surprised when Bald Boy directs you to the ticket line because if you were the early one even your cheap ass would have picked up two tickets while you were waiting. And when Bald Boy finally gets up to the ticket window you quickly fumble through your wallet to hand him some money, but you're taken aback when Bald Boy says, "One please." It's just a bit weird. You begin to wonder if you're on a date or if you are now officially just friends? But you go ahead and buy yourself a ticket and head into the theater. Anyway.

Bald Boy orders popcorn and a soda, and since you're not having dinner until after the movie you realize that you should probably eat something, too. So when the Concession Stand Hoodlum holds up the next size popcorn and asks, "Would you like the larger size for fifty cents more?" you ask Bald Boy if he'd like to Supersize the popcorn and share it (even though there are other things about him that you'd rather Supersize). Bald Boy says sure, and then pulls out exactly half of the cash register's total (apparently you are subsidizing the cost of his soda, too?) and that's when you begin to count up all the properties that Bald Boy owns (1. Studio in the West Village, 2. Beach House in Ocean Grove, 3. Rental Property in Ocean Grove...) and suddenly it becomes very clear how he can afford all those mortgages.

The movie turns out to be fantastic and the popcorn hits the spot! You begin to wonder if maybe you were just a bit grouchy because you were so hungry? So you decide to give Bald Boy the benefit of the doubt and suddenly you think it might be nice to hold his hand. You put your arm up onto the shared armrest and not-so-accidentally brush your arm against his. Bald Boy obviously notices because he turns his head and looks right at you in the middle of the scene. You smile because you feel a bit silly, but you'd still like to get in some hand-holding before the movie ends. But Bald Boy literally just moves his arm away and digs back into the popcorn that you got stuck holding. You are left remembering how nice it was to go to the movies with Blonde Beard and how you would sink down into your seats and hold hands and rub shoulders from the previews to the closing credits. Sigh.

After the movie the temperature outside has dropped considerably and you're kind of happy because this has obviously prompted the Children's International Solicitor to go home to Greenwich where he can worry about the suburban children who are in dire need of a new Nanny to drive them from Piano to Karate. Since you're both starving, you decide to walk down Eighth Avenue to grab a quick bite at Vynl. You chat while waiting for your dinner and quickly become highly aware that you're the one doing all the talking. But Bald Boy is the one busy asking all the questions. Although you know you should be asking questions in return, you don't really have any great desire to do much probing. And that's exactly when you realize that you're really just not that into Bald Boy. It's not like you like to hear yourself talk, but it just seems easier to fill the void with your chatter than to come up with reasons to listen to his chatter.

When the check comes you, surprise-surprise, split the bill exactly down the middle. Then, since it's chilly, you head to the 14th Street Subway entrance and as you're about to descend into the A-C-E station, a confused Bald Boy asks you, "Aren't you going to take the F home?" You actually say, "Huh?" because as far as you were concerned this dud of a date was, at the very least, going to end with you getting laid. But you quickly cover yourself and say, "I can take the E and switch at West 4th," but then you go on to add in a frisky manner, "but I assumed I would come over to your place?" Bald Boy tells you that it's late and that he's really tired. This is ultimately extremely annoying because he's the one who picked the movie time as well as chose to eat afterwards. Hell, he's the one who asked you out in the first place! So when the train arrives at West 4th you say your goodbyes and, once again, you find yourself standing on the platform at the end of yet another relationship (if you can even call it that). Luckily this time you aren't crying uncontrollably while you wait for the F train to take you back to your Home Sweet Hovel so your cheap ass can jerk off to some free porn on Xtube. Anyway...