POLL RESULTS: Are you the type of fag who falls in love with Straight Guys?

61% of You said, "Yes."

33% of You said, "No."

5% of You said, "Straight? More like "straight" to bed!

You're not the type of fag who Cock Blocks his Friends...

...but you are certainly entitled to be amused when such sorrowful events play out. The Germans have a word for getting pleasure from other people's misfortunes: schadenfreude. You heart the Germans, well the Post-WWII Germans, anyway. Adolf Hitler? Not so much.

So you and the Boy Luck Club go to this random birthday party last night and it's super fun. One of your friends with a Half-Share apparently knows the Host because they're neighbors on Fire Island, and, ironically, by the time you arrive at the party it feels just like Low Tea. It's a beautiful apartment full of wall-to-wall boys, all age-appropriate, all double-fisted with cocktails, and Kelly Clarkson is even playing. Nice.

However, none of this really matters. Smash cut to your hangover. When you finally pull yourself out of bed your email inbox is gleaming with good news from your flight attendant friend who allegedly hooked up with some cute boy, that you allegedly met, yet don't recall, even though the three of you allegedly shared a cab home. Anyway. Jet Blew took his Trick home where the two boys Flew the Friendly Skies all night long. However, this morning the Trick overslept and raced out of Jet Blew's apartment without leaving his number. You have your doubts about the so-called facts, but Jet Blew is rather distraught because he really thought he had a real connection with this boy.

You humor your friend, even though you yourself have often pulled the harried "I'm-Late-For-Work-Brunch-Funeral" exit in order to minimize the overwhelming embarrassment of a Coyote Ugly morning. So you forward Jet Blew's email to Half-Share who forwards it to the Party Host, and thanks to the ever-irritating Reply All button, you are kept apprise of each and every gory detail as the chain letter ping-pongs its way around the five boroughs throughout the day. You're actually okay with the flurry of emails clogging your inbox because they turn out to be a huge help in filling in the gaps of Blackout Barbie's evening without having to blow your cover.

You're busy OD'ing on Advil when you receive an email from Evite with a subject that reads: "Looking for Christopher..." The Evite was sent out to all 169 guests on the party mailing list and it reads as follows:

"One of our guests would like to get in touch with a boy he met last night named Gregory-- black t-shirt, jeans, goatee, originally from Pennsylvania, works at Louis Vuitton. Anyone know this lucky fellow?"

Your cell rings before you even finish reading the email and it's Jet Blew who is screaming bloody murder before you even get a chance to say Hello. "I just got fucking Cock-Blocked by Evite!" Jet Blew is absolutely mortified. You, however, begin to giggle uncontrollably with an extreme case of schadenfreude, which, by the way, ends up being an excellent hangover remedy. Anyway.

You're not the type of fag who Leaks Stories to Gossip Columnists…

...but you are definitely the type who lives by the Golden Gay Rule of Gossip: "If you don't have anything nice to say about someone, then come sit by me..."

Anyway. Months ago--actually, that bears repeating--months ago your Ex invited you to the premiere of the remake of Sleuth, starring Jude Law (Pavlonian drool) and That Other Old English Guy Who Irritates You As Much As Donald Sutherland Does. You accept his invitation even though spending an evening with your Ex can sometimes be tricky, mostly since you two were together since the Dawn of Gay Man. After your fourteen year relationship, unfinished arguments tend to resurface as quickly and mysteriously as the Loch Ness Monster. However, unlike an unexpected appearance by the legendary Nessie, when you boys begin bickering about some silly old drama older than the Spice Girls, nobody has the slightest interest in witnessing your crap. But, as usual, you digress.

So, months ago, you went to the Sleuth Premiere and suffered through every one of the 88 minutes that Jude Law wasn't on screen. Fast forward to the After Party. You were drinking a cocktail (surprise, surprise) and catching up with several old friends who you haven't seen since The Breakup, because, let's face it, they weren't really your friends. But that's when you turned around to get (surprise, surprise) another cocktail, you ran into one of your new friends. You were totally shocked to see him until you remembered that he's actually working the party because he's a gossip columnist. After Oooooohing and Ahhhhhhing over Jude for an appropriate amount of time, you started talking about the boys. You told Gossip Gurl all about your summer romance with the narcissistic TV News Reporter, but like a pair of White Pants, you dutifully retired him promptly after Labor Day. You tell Gossip Gurl all White Pant's irritating Pussies and how you could never get a wink of sleep when you spent the night because his two precious little nocturnal cat-nip whores would keep you up all night batting around pens and pencils that you would've dreamt about stabbing them with if you could've ever fallen asleep, blah-blah-blah...

But this conversation was months ago. Fast Forward to yesterday. You get a call from Gossip Gurl and you've long since forgotten about both Sleuth as well as the conversation. And you've definitely forgotten about White Pants and his Kitty Cunts. For God's sake, it's January and you're busy preparing your Resort Season wardrobe. Anyway. Gossip Gurl leaves you this cryptic message asking you to confirm the names of White Pant's Kitty Cunts. You gulp as you return the ominous call and Gossip Gurl states the obvious and informs you that it's a slow news day. Then he asks if White Pants is "out" at work? You tell him you're not sure, only because you don't want to be responsible for outing anybody (except for Wentworth Miller and Clay Aiken and Tom Cruise and Pink and Ryan Seacrest and Zack Efron.) Gossip Gurl promises you that it's a blind item so he'll only use the names of the Kitty Cunts but you ask him not to because you're worried it might hurt White Pants.

When you hang up, you instantly get this terrible, sinking feeling. So you decide to do the unthinkable. You call White Pants (even though it's well after Labor Day) and tell him what happened. He's such a narcissist that you're pretty sure he'll be Pleased as Punch, and as luck would have it, White Pants is absolutely thrilled. But with one condition, that the article doesn't "out" him. You tell him that Gossip Gurl has given you his word, but when the article comes out, the Kitty Litter hits the Fanzine.

White Pants calls and he's not happy with the Blind Item. At all:

"Which man-loving Fox personality might want to keep his cats off the bed during intimate moments? Because you know how the gays gossip about things like that."

You're a bit confused because you have no idea how anybody will ever realize that Gossip Gurl is talking about White Pants? But true narcissist's rarely live in any reality other than their own so you point out that Gossip Gurl has removed the names of the Kitty Cunts so nobody will figure out that White Pants is the "man-loving Fox personality" of today's molasses-ly slow news day. But White Pants ain't having it. He's pissed. He thinks that the whole world will know it's him and that Rupert Murdoch will not be pleased. You carefully remind him that you gave him the chance to pull the story and that he declined, but he still blames everything on you.

You feel terrible for about ten minutes until you notice the postings on PerezHilton.com and realize that since nobody has any idea who the hell White Pants actually is, they all think the "man-loving Fox personality" is either Wentworth Miller or Ryan Seacrest. And then, of course, you forward this link to White Pants because you know it will crush him when he realizes that he didn't get any of the press or attention from his own damn outing. Anyway.

You're not the type of fag who needs to have the Last Word...

...even though you blabbed your way through your twenties, now that you're in your thirties you've realized that most people don't really give a shit about you or what you have to say. All they really care about is that you give a shit about them and what they have to say. And let's face it, you pretty much don't care. Sometime during your fourteen year relationship you realized that some arguments just aren't worth having. You feel one way, he feels another. You know he's wrong. He thinks you're wrong. And neither of you really give a shit what the other says. Oh l'amour, l'amour! Toujours l'amour!

Anyway. You're about to quit Match.com because you fucking hate it. All it does is make you feel guilty about not contacting the boys that write or wink at you. So last week you went on to hide your profile, but after you logged on you decided to do one last search. Low and behold, you found a super cute newbie online dater named Remarkable. So you decided to take action and write him:

YOU: "So just as I'm about to go offline because I'm soooooooo over Match.com, I find you. I guess I'll keep my profile active long enough for you to check it out... I hope you like what you see as much as i did. Off to Long Island for New Years. Can you believe that? Personally I'm still a bit dumbfounded. Have a fun evening!"

You were short, sweet and to the point. And guess what? Remarkable wrote you back immediately, and it was a cute response to boot:

REMARKABLE: "I guess I just made Match.com another $40! You seem very interesting. I'm out the door myself to go to a New Year's Eve concert, so let's chat later."

Nice. So you respond with a cute, but snarky:

YOU: "Do you come with a money back guarantee? ;-) Have a Remarkable New Year's Eve!"

And that's the end of that. Nothing. Nada. Did Remarkable get trampled to death at his Concert? Is his Cable Modem on the fritz? Did he decide to date your Straight Boyfriend instead of you? You wouldn't know because Remarkable never writes you back. Irritating, but typical. Meanwhile the annoying winks and emails from fat old men wearing Gap denim jean shorts circa 1994 keep pouring in. You wait as long as you can, but you really want to shut down your Match.com account. Only you're torn because if you turn it off he won't be able to contact you and you'd really like to meet this guy and . Ugh. Talk about Sophie's Choice.

But after your whole Straight Boyfriend debacle, you decide that it's time to take action. You come home a bit drunk (Okay, a lot drunk... What? Is that a crime? It's not like you're running the free world.) and you decide to write back ol' Remarkable. It's been five days of no reply, and that's just plain excessive. You keep it short and simple, because you're pretty sure that He's Just Not That Into You:

YOU (FIVE DAYS LATER): "Are you really not gonna write me back? Was I that scary? Too bad."

In hindsight you realize that it might have come out a wee bit needy, but whatever. Cut yourself some slack. You were drunk. But look what ends up in your Inbox, almost instantaneously:

REMARKABLE: "No, I wasn't planning on not writing you back, I've just been busy. But if you are coming to this with such a level of intensity and expectation, then perhaps it's best I don't..."

But ya did, Blanche! Ya did write me back! You are shocked. What is the fucking point of this? "Such a level of intensity and expectation"?? Please! Although you are sure you could show him intensity and expectation in sixteen different emails that, luckily, you only compose in your head, you end up taking the advice that Remarkafuck should have taken himself, and you don't write him back. After all, you just learned everything you need to know about Remarkfuck and you didn't even have to suffer through a round of drinks. Remarkable? Not so much. Note to self: cancel Match.com. Anyway.

You're not the type of fag who falls in love with Straight Guys...

...but your Straight Boyfriend is just too damn Bisexy. This is one Straight Guy who needs no help from the Fab Five; he's just way too good-looking to be straight. Not to mention too nice. And too thoughtful. Unlike the gay boys you date, this one actually calls when he says he's going to: sometimes just to chat. As usual, you begin to have one of your silly Happily Ever After fantasies while you imagine dropping your Maiden Name so you can become "Mrs. Straight Boyfriend." Sigh.

Of course you are highly aware of your insane feelings so you definitely reel them in when you guys hang out because you know you are Just Friends. Without benefits. You definitely value the friendship and so far you haven't done or said anything stupid to muck it up. However, you don't have a problem cock-blocking the endless array of girls that fawn over him. Once you even told some girl she should "Get in line!" when she was yapping about how she wanted to date him. Since you can't have him, then why should some lame old girl? Yet recently things have gotten a bit murky. It's almost as if your Straight Boyfriend has developed some sort of Man Crush on you. Sometimes in a group conversation you catch him just staring at you, even though you're not the one who's speaking. And lately, since you've upped your time at the gym, he's actually been complimenting your hard work. Specifically your shoulders. Sigh.

Anyway. It's his birthday and that definitely takes precedence over drinks at Vlada, although you do manage to meet your BFF for a Gay Cocktail or three before you meet the Straight Posse to go bowling at, gasp, Port Authority. (Okay, maybe your Straight Boyfriend could use a Queer Eye Culture lesson from that irritating, faux-hawk-wearing, less-than-Fab Fifth Wheel, Jai Rodriguez. But you digress.)

Bowling is actually a hoot and, even though you'll deny it to the grave, you're actually pretty damn good. Shots are bought, pitchers of beer abound, and a drunken good time is had by all. After bowling, the party moves on to some unremarkable straight bar in some unremarkable straight part of town and more drinks are imbibed. One by one, the Straight Posse begins to dissipate, and before you know it, it's just you and your Straight Boyfriend. Sigh. The two of you chat until Last Call, and, as usual, you are absolutely shocked that it is 4am! How on earth does that keep happening to you? Anyway.

You imagine the bouncer pronouncing you Mr. and Mrs. Straight Boyfriend and showering you with fistfuls of rice as he kicks you to the curb. The two of you stumble toward your respective subways, only when you get to the F train, your conversation somehow continues. It's like you're on a really good date and neither of you want it to end. So you just continue to blah-blah-blah on the street until your drunken Diarrhea of the Mouth sets in. It's like some horrifying Chick Flick as your your innermost desires begin to pour out of your liquor-lubricated lips. You actually feel yourself begin to gag as you tell your Straight Boyfriend how you really feel. You go on and on and explain that he's exactly the type of guy you could fall for, yadda-yadda-yadda. It's so quiet when you finally finish your endless gay manifesto that you actually hear crickets. Crickets in New York Fucking City. Your Straight Boyfriend, the one who hasn't shut up all night, is suddenly speechless, however his expression says it all. You are so getting dumped.

Eventually the uncomfortable silence is broken by a Connecticut-plated BMW when some P-Unit Greenwich Prep School Brat yells, "Get a room!" out his window. See! Even his fellow Straight Guys mistake him for being gay! But that's when your Straight Boyfriend mumbles, "Um. I gotta get home, dude. I'll give you a call tomorrow, buddy." The fact that you've actually been called "dude" and "buddy," practically in the same sentence, makes you realize the severity of the situation. At this point you can only pray that your Ex-Straight Boyfriend is so drunk that he becomes Blackout Barbie and wakes up with no memory of the entire humiliating conversation. Or even better, that you do. Anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You're not the type of fag who's parents belong to PFLAG...

...but you've always had a good relationship. Please note the past tense. You came out to them at twenty when you were away at school after your first love dumped you. You had never felt so sad and alone in your life, so you called them after a sleepless night when you couldn't even cry yourself to sleep because you were too busy weeping and hyperventilating. When your mom answered and you told her that your boyfriend just broke up with you, you ended up having to console your hysterical mother instead of the other way around.

But you're in your thirties now and they loved your ex-boyfriend as if he were family. However, now that the Ex is gone they have absolutely no interest in your single gay life. And even though you have no problem airing your dirty, spooge-stained laundry here in this narcissistic blog, the last thing you want to do is chat with your parents about the nice boy you met at The Cock on New Year's Eve Eve.

But you digress. Before you ended up at The Cock on Sunday, you went to an Open House in *gasp* Brooklyn to check out a cute studio that you could barely afford yet instantly fell in love with. Although you actually can afford it because your Apple stock has gone through the roof (thanks to the iPhone), but you're worried about throwing all your iPods into one Playlist. You even tried giving the nice gay suit at the B of (g)A(y) a big, dimpled smile. However, he seemed much more concerned with the fact that you wrote down "Starving Writer" under Occupation on the mortgage application and denied you, yet somehow had the gall to ask for your number. Of course, you denied him, but that was mostly because he was far from starving. Whatever. You know you still have pretty good credit with the Bank of Mom and Dad. So you call.

You've never asked your parents for anything. Ever. So you tell them all about the cute condo and about how the bank won't give you a mortgage and about how you don't want to use every penny you have to buy a place. You explain that if they co-signed the Mortgage then you could stop living like a hobosexual and that they'd never have to pay a cent. You tell them how excited you are about this place and that if they came to see it they would understand. For a second it feels like all the stars in the youniverse are aligned because your parents are making their winter migration to Florida tomorrow morning. So you wind up asking them to make a detour off the New Jersey Turnpike so they can come see the luxury post-stamp and help you make the biggest decision you've ever made.

After a bit of coercing you realize that it'd be easier to sway George W. into supporting Gay Marriage. You are crushed. You ask your father how many times he's come to visit you over the past three years, and when he doesn't answer you tell him, "Zero!" And then you ask him how many times he's gone to visit his other son? His other son who never bothers to call and wish your parents Happy Birthday? His other son who declined to go on an all-paid cruise to celebrate their 50th Anniversary because he didn't like cruises. His other son who uses your parents for a personal baby-sitting service because he's too cheap to hire a sitter? His other son who bled them dry on his path to a Harvard Doctorate degree in Education and then became an unemployed Mr. Mom who home school's his daughter who still can't read? Your father remains silent so you answer your own question again, "You've visited them dozens of times!"

That's when he finally chimes in and reminds you that these are two totally different situations. "Your brother lives an hour and fifteen minutes from us, and plus there's the grandchildren factor." You laugh because you know these children and they are far from grand. And then you break it down and realize exactly why your two situations are different. You are the gay son and your poor excuse for a brother is the straight one. You realize that in your parents' eyes, that's all that really matters.

You feel the way you did when you were a kid: left out, different, less-than. It doesn't matter that you're in your thirties; you're still about to cry as if you were eight. So you tell him to have a safe trip to Florida and then hang up because there is really nothing left to say. Anyway.

You are not the type of fag who makes New Year's Resolutions...

...but honey, you got fat over the holidays. Not straight-fat, God no! But gay-fat. Definitely gay-fat.

But it's a New Year and your hangover is finally gone, so you pull it together long enough to get your gay-fat ass to the gym. But as soon as you walk in you realize that something is very, very wrong. You always workout during the Hooker/Actor hour, when all the real people with real jobs won't get in your way. Not to mention the fact that the Hooker/Actors are much cuter than this motley crew.

That's when it hits you. The gym is crawling with Resolutionaries who are in your way and making you wait for every machine, every free weight and every water fountain. You get so annoyed that you decide to do some cardio but quickly give up when someone points out the sign-up sheet for the treadmill. You get so irritated that you cut your workout short and head back into the locker room, where no one is either gay-cute or straight-cute. At all. Anyway.

You're not the type of fag who Hates Children...

...but you're also not the type of Uncle who likes his nieces and nephews just because you're related. Would it kill your brother and sister-in-law to say "no" once in a while? Apparently, it would.

After a grueling four hour drive to IDon'tLoVermont, you schlep through the door with your luggage, skis, and bags full of Christmas presents for the ungrateful brats. God forbid someone should help you, or pause the Tivo long enough to say "Hello," but you no longer have unrealistic expectations. Having no expectations from your brother's family seems to lessen the appalling reality of your non-existent relationship with your closest non-relative (thank God you were adopted.) However, even with no expectations you are completely floored when your six year-old niece glares at you as you and your crap waddle through the kitchen. Satan's Spawn looks up at you and the first words out of her mouth are, "I hate you! You're stupid!" Your jaw drops along with your roller bag and both hit the floor as Satan's Mommy asks from the couch, "Honey, what did you just say?" in a tone that's way too sing-songy for a child that needs to be smacked. But you are completely unprepared for her half-assed (yet parentally accepted) response: "I was just talking to my music box..."

Her fucking music box? In the words of Nell Carter (R.I.P.) Gimme a (fucking) Break. Everybody believes the little bitch and as far as you're concerned, it's war. But first things first, so you make yourself a cocktail. Anyway.

You're not the type of fag who Likes to Shop...

...especially when it's for other people. When it comes to the Holidaze, you buy everything you can online. Hell, you haven't even set foot into a grocery store since Fresh Direct began their beta test, but that has more to do with the fact that they'll carry cases of Diet Pepsi up six flights of stairs and aren't allowed to complain when you give them a "nominal" tip.

But you digress. Of course you leave all your Christmakah shopping to the weekend before Christmas, and, as usual, so does everybody else. So you and your hangover are schlepping around the city to buy lousy gifts for lousy people who you don't even like. People like your brother. And your evil niece. Over Thanks4nothing-giving your niece came up with a new nickname for you (her only uncle without a police record) and she called you "Doorknob!" all weekend long in the most derogatory, venomous way that her six-year-old vocabulary could muster. So, being the good uncle that you are, you decide to swing by Home Depot to pick up a doorknob for the little biatch.

You're schlepping your shopping bags down 23rd Street when you recognize a familiar face headed your way. Your first instinct is to smile even before you realize that it's your old Boyfriendster from years ago before everybody migrated from Friendster to MySpace; and long before everybody abandoned MySpace for the ubiquitous Facebook. You're still happy to see the Boyfriendster (even though he's the one who dumped you, over the phone no less) and you give him a big, dimpled, friendsterly, "Hey!" as he catches your eye and mouths an inaudible "hi." His eyes dart down to the sidewalk with copious amounts of embarrassment as he passes by. Just like that.

You stop in your tracks and literally do a double-take because you've never been so dissed before! You almost scream out, "You can't even say hello? You're the one who dumped me!" but he probably wouldn't even notice because he's practically got his eyes closed and his fingers in his ears in order to avoid you. So you just stare at him as he shuffles down the street, away from you, whispering into his friend's ear as he leaves you in an even shittier mood than when you began your shopping.

But that's when the boy next to your ex-Boyfriendster slowly turns back around and stares at you and everything begins to make sense. Suddenly you realize that you've actually slept with the Boyfriendster's boyfriend. You chuckle to yourself because you realize that you have become Chelsea's version of Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon. But since you're only One Degree of Separation, you're more of a Lucky Pierre. Anyway.

You're not the type of fag who hearts a Drag Queen...

...but you are gay, after all, so avoiding them ends up being extremely difficult. As far as you're concerned, lipsynching, in and of itself, is not a talent. Nor is lipsticking. But Miss Richfield 1981 is not your typical, tired old run-of-the-mill D.Q. Oh no, no, no. Miss Richfield 1981 is a Drag Goddess. And you are her groupie. So you and your friends go to see her Christmas Show and, as usual, she has you in tears from start to finish. And we're talking the good kind of tears, not the "I'd-rather-be-slitting-my-wrist" kind of tears that a typical performance by Shequida can induce.

Anyway. A good time is had by all and afterwards everybody is hungry so you end up going to get a bite at HK since it's around the corner from the Zipper Theater. Your poor ass orders a $9.95 hamburger and an $8 glass of swill (of course it's a gay burger sans bun, and you substitute salad for the pommes-frites, bien sur.) However, when the bill is split, somehow you're expected to cough up $45, obviously to subsidize someone's three course meal which included the $25 fish special along with appetizers, desserts F.T.T. (For The Table) and a steady stream of elaborate cocktails that you couldn't even pronounce. But you digress.

After the sticker-shock from the meal wears off, you get a text from your B.F.F. who's out having gay cocktails at The Ritz. And, more importantly, he tells you, "You should come. It's cute." You inform your friends about the cuteness factor and you all decide to grab a drink. In fact, you're almost there when your B.F.F. sends another text that says, "The Writer is here..." and your heart instantly drops. Or perhaps that was your hamburger? Whatever it is, you know it ain't good because what it means is that you're obviously still hung up over The Writer.

You met him on Connexion in September and had a week-long whirlwind romance that actually had you telling your friends idiotic things like, "I think I'm falling in love," and "I think this is the one." Your friends, of course, just rolled their eyes as if you were the little boy who cried wolf. Anyway. After one blissful week, The Writer went on a business trip, and you went away on a two-week vacation to South America before he got back. So instead of whoring around in Rio de Janiero and Buenos Aires, you pined away for The Writer and couldn't wait to get back. The whole thing, of course, imploded before you even got over your jet-lag, and it actually left you quite heart-broken. And now, two months later, you're about to run into him.

You freak out and think about bailing, but then you ask yourself, "What would Miss Richfield 1981 do?" You realize that she would face her demons and belittle them cleverly along the way so you decide to go through with it. After all, you know that you're gonna run into The Writer at some point, and at least this way you can be mentally prepared so you won't break into tears and run out of the bar with mascara dripping down your flushed cheeks.

You see The Writer as soon as you walk in the bar. And he's with someone. Of course. Your friend orders drinks and then everybody wants to do a Fruit Loop so you follow them toward the back. It's packed and The Writer is leaning against the wall and, of course, traffic stops as soon as you are standing in smack in front of him. You want to let him get a whiff of what he's missing out on, but now you feel like a fool, so you turn toward him, nonchalantly of course, and when you catch eyes you say, "Hey." Just like that. Emotionless. No smile, no dimples, no nothing. Even though you're dying inside your face exposes only indifference. The Writer says, "Hello," and then asks if you are going home which you deem to be a ridiculous question. "No," you tell him as you raise your brand new cocktail, "I just got here." Your subtext reeks of "Duh," as the crowd begins to push you toward the back. Someone else starts chatting with you even though you don't hear a word he says because you are too busy wondering how, after all these years, you could have fallen in love with the wrong person. And then you sip your gay cocktail as you wonder how many more years will have to pass before you can fall in love with the right person while you scout the crowded bar for someone way cuter than The Writer who you can have a locationship with tonight. Anyway.

You're not the type of fag who Sneak Dates...

...but sometimes, even with the best of intentions, you find yourself in a state of dating-overlap. It's not like you intend to juggle boys, it's just that sometimes your relationships tend to be in different stages of their dating-lifespans. Anyway.

Last week when you and the Boy Luck Club crashed a Random Christmas Party your only ulterior motive was a night full of free booze. The host's apartment was decorated super cute (as were his guests) and although the decor didn't involve any mistletoe, kisses were definitely invoked due to a plethora of Absolut-a-toe. Things with The Cuddler seemed to be wrapping up so you didn't even think twice when the Cello-Playing Corporate Lawyer started chatting you up. He was cute, funny and so tall that he made you feel like your own little mini-you. It was nice to feel so petite, especially since you've been feeling like a holiday-heffer. So you went home with him. Is that so terrible? One simple ho-ho-hookup does not a Holiday-Ho make. Especially when the Ho in question has Whiskey Dick.

It was nice. You and The Cellist exchanged numbers and he actually calls. So you set up a dinner date and meet at Bombay Talkie. Luckily, you two have enough talkie of your own to get through the dinner, this time without the Absolut-a-toe. When you finish you decide to head back to his place. The Cellist is about to hail a cab, but it's such a nice night that you suggest walking up Ninth Avenue. The streets are bustling and you're yapping about something or other when you look up and notice a large Hellsea Boy Posse smack in front of you. One of the boys catches your eye, possibly because he's cute, or more probably because he's staring at you. Your eyes lock for a moment and that's when you realize that you've met this Hellsea Boy before. You're trying to place him when he totally gives you the Evil Eye. The Cellist is still blah-blah-blahing about something to which you are no longer paying attention because now you are racing through the Ghosts of Boyfriends Past in a vain attempt to recocknize Evil Eye Boy.

And that's when it bitch-slaps you like an angry Drag Queen. You never slept with Evil Eye Boy. However, you do know him because The Cuddler introduced you on Saturday night at the xxx-mas Party. Although you have a nasty habit of forgetting everybody, you were uncharacteristically sober that evening and you remember this boy in particular. You remember him because he was so officious about how great it was to finally meet you; how he had heard so so so much about you. Yadda-yadda-yadda.

Evil Eye Boy passes and neither of you say hello because you both know that you're so busted. But then your mind starts playing party-tricks and you begin to wonder if The Cuddler might have been part of the Hellsea Boy Posse? Did he catch you on your Sneak Date, too? Should you turn around? You decide it's better not to look back because that somehow seems more incriminating. Ugh. So you just keep walking up Ninth Avenue and curse yourself for not taking a fucking cab.

Later on, afterwards, when you're trying to fall asleep next to The Cellist who's lying so far away from you that you feel like two straight guys separated by an empty homoseat in a movie theater, later on, you can't stop thinking about The Cuddler. More specifically, you find yourself wishing you were sleeping in his bed instead. Anyway.

You're not the type of fag who Plays Games...

...but you are usually well aware when you're being played. Over the years you've developed a few dating Do's and Dont's that have served you well:

1. Be sure your words and your actions send out similar messages.
2. Say what you mean, mean what you say, and try not to be mean when you say it.
3. And never ever play games.

But sometimes, especially when it comes to dating boys, things can get a bit hairy. But isn't that why God invented Laser Hair Reduction? Anyway.

Today is The Cuddler's birthday and you've put a lot of thought into it how to approach this delicate dating dilemma. You want to wish him a happy birthday, but since you fear your time together is nearing its conclusion, you definitely don't want to come off as an over-zealous well-wisher. Since you don't see this relationship as heading anywhere serious, you decide, in advance, that email is the best mode for this particular communication pickle. So you email him a simple mid-morning message that simply says, "Happy Birthday! Hope you have a great day!" A little lame, especially from a writer, but hell, it's the thought that counts, right? And meanwhile, isn't it supposed to be a little lame?

The Cuddler responds pretty much instantly and says, "Thanks for thinking of me. It's been nice getting to know you these past few weeks and I'm looking forward to knowing you better." You take a lot of time composing your careful reply and say, "You're very sweet. What's the plan for tomorrow?" And that's that. A day passes and you don't know what to do. You still don't even know where the dinner is being held. Now you have a real dating conundrum. Should you call to find out the location of the dinner that you don't want to go to? Or should you just let it go? And meanwhile, did The Cuddler ever receive your email? Will you come off as The Asshole? And, more importantly, do you care if you do?

Finally, twenty-nine hours later, The Cuddler calls you a few hours before the dinner and immediately apologizes because he has to cancel his birthday dinner tonight because, get this, "Something Suddenly Came Up" at work. You refrain from telling him that you've seen this Brady Bunch episode, but he rushes off the phone because it's a crazy day at work. Blah-blah-blah. You don't really believe The Cuddler, but is he lying? Is he just being protective? Is he mad about your lame email? Is he really cancelling the Birthday Dinner? Or is he just cancelling you? The whole thing seems designed to confuse you (most likely by his other friends going to the Birthday Dinner.) Are you being played? Anyway.

You're not the type of fag who hearts Sunday Brunch...

...but you're definitely not the type to turn down a Mimosa. And, thankfully, you don't even have to wait outside in some horrible line with, quel horreur, children, because you're going to a friend's apartment for a mandatory, cocktail-infused, mandatory Sunday meeting of the Boy Luck Club.

You wake up in Hellsea, more specifically in The Cuddler's arms, and you freak out when you open one surprisingly non-hungover eye and realize that it's already noon. Not only don't you have time to go home and accessorize, you barely have enough time to shower and put on last night's outfit, which, thankfully, is actually semi-appropriate for daylight. Well, appropriate enough for a gay brunch with the Boy Luck Club.

You race over to your friend's loft during a Nor'easter (meanwhile, you wish someone would explain exactly why you're not allowed to pronounce the 'th'?) but all your friends have long since beaten you there. The Host immediately pours you an Eggnog (which you protest until he retrieves the container and proves that it is, indeed, low-cal Lite Eggnog.) You sip on that during your annual B.L.C. Holiday Porn Swap. You all nibble on bagels, lox and whitefish salad, but switch to Mimosas as the conversation turns to proper Manhunt nettiquette. One of your HTML-challenged friends switches the topic to who's naughty and who's nice on Craigslist. This is followed by a heated debate over when rimming is, and is not, appropriate. Eventually the B.L.C. comes to a consensus and you agree that rimming is strictly "we-just-met-and-haven't-shared-a-bathroom-yet" behavior, which, on the relationship time-line will last just about as long as Public Hand Holding. But then someone pulls out a shiny object and you all ooooh and aaaah over how easy it is to scroll through a portable porn collection with the swipe of a finger on someone's new iPod Touch.

When the champs is all gone, The Host cracks open a bottle of Stoli O' and toasts the Boy Luck Club with a simple, "Here's to being gay!" You all clink glasses as someone wonders aloud, "What do you think straight people talk about during brunch?" The whole Boy Luck Club thinks about this foreign concept for maybe a nanosecond, and then with a collective shrug you all move on to discuss the puzzling conundrum of the life-philosophy of a Bug Chaser. Anyway.

You're not the type of fag who gets off hearing the Right Words from the Wrong Guy...

...but the romantic in you doesn't hate hearing them either. Neither does the narcissist. Meanwhile, you made tentative plans with The Cuddler to meet at one of his friend's Christmas parties after you finished with one of your friend's Bowling Birthday Parties in Williamsburg. You hate going to Billburg, mostly because it feels like Logan's Run and, unfortunately for you and Logan, both of you are, well, let's just say thirtysomething. The Bowling Party is fun even though there are so many damn hipsters that the party breaks up long before the four-hour queue to bowl does.

Although your après bowling plans were tentative, The Cuddler texts you several times during the non-bowling-Bowling Party and asks when you're coming to Chelsea to meet him? You reply to ask if his xxx-mas party is fun (sans double entendre, bien sur) and he instantly responds, "Would be better if you were here..."

Wow. Just wow. The Cuddler just said exactly the right thing. Only your heart didn't melt. Or skip a beat. Although you're not too surprised, lately you have definitely been craving these kinds of heart ailments. You want to be one of those sickening couples holding hands on the street who are so desperately in love that they don't even notice the gay-bashing thugs screaming, "Fags!" from the safety of their Escalades complete with gold-plated New Jersey licence plate frames.

But what if your heart could skip a beat for The Cuddler? Maybe you're just too self-involved, too up-your-own-ass to notice your heart palpitations? Maybe if you went to his friend's xxx-mas party you'd finally realize you felt differently? Besides you have nothing to lose because Brooklyn Bowling is over, and you have to take the L train which conveniently stops a block from the party. So you text The Cuddler and tell him you're on your way, to which he gives yet another exactly right response: "I miss you." So you schlep your defrosting heart through the frozen sleet and into the Bedford Avenue station where you quickly run past Logan's little hipster brother's who's barfing up chunks of tofu and good times onto the platform while his drunk girlfriend rubs his back. Now that's what you call love.

Luckily, the Manhattan bound train comes quickly and the xxx-mas boys buzz you up without much of an interrogation. Rihanna's seductive S.O.S. guides you to the right, gay party but when you open the door you are instantly shocked by a completely foreign, almost out-of-body experience: you are much too sober to be at this party. You consider making an about-face, but it's too late; The Cuddler catches your eye and his eyes light up in a way that expose either a skipped heartbeat or the fact that he's so wasted that both eyes can no longer blink synchronously. Or possibly both. ?

The xxx-mas drunks surround you as The Cuddler gives you a big kiss and begins to introduce you proudly to all of his friends who are saying things like: "It's so nice to finally meet you!" and "We've heard so much about you!" But the real kicker comes in the form of a simple, "You two make such a cute couple!" Although these compliments should make you feel good, they don't. In fact, they freak you out so much that you begin to panic. Have you finally become one of those gay men who's more concerned about his abs than he is about having a real relationship?

You don't want to think about this right now nor do you want a cocktail, so you tell The Cuddler that you're tired and he happily begins saying his goodbyes under the assumption that you are going home together. You're not sure what you want yet, but by the time you hit the slushy street, you realize that he's way too drunk to get home alone so you wind up hailing a taxi during the hail storm and escort him home.

The Cuddler is making Z's by the time you finish brushing your teeth with the travel-sized toothbrush you keep in his bathroom, so you pull his shoes and pants off and squeeze into his bed so you can spoon your drunk friend like you're two puppies trying to stay warm. You feel a bit ambivalent kiss the back of his neck because you realize that the guy who eventually does melt your heart better cuddle as good as this sweet boy does. Anyway.

You're not the type of fag who's a Size Queen...

...but you do believe in truth in advertising, especially when it comes to online dating profiles. In fact, over the years you've been known to brag about your skills at weeding through the profile lies of boys who misrepresent themselves. You've gotten good at scouring photographs for the twentith century artifacts (leg warmers, Flowbee haircuts, Gloria Vanderbilt jeans) found in the background of photos that some tricky old man scanned into his profile because his twenty-first century JPEG's don't warrant nearly as much attention.

But there are no red flags in the Nice Jewish Boy's profile who just wrote and asked if you'd like to meet for coffee. He lives in the 212, his pictures are cute (and current) and his profile is not only succinct, but everything is actually spelled correctly (it's the little things in life...) His profile even has a funny little blurb about how his potential dates shouldn't be alcoholics because he's looking for a sober driver. You chuckle to yourself as you email the Nice Jewish Spell Checker back and tell him enough with this coffee crap already! You'd be into meeting for a real drink. But you inform him that Manischewitz is an aquired taste and that he shouldn't be offended when your Irish Catholic liver drinks him under the table. Although you certainly can't be his sober driver, you promise to hail his drunk ass a cab before you go out for a nightcap.

Your correspondence is quick and easy and plans are made right away. You decide to grab a drink at East of Eighth before you trek over to Brooklyn for a Bowling Birthday Party--you learned long ago (the hard way) that it was absolutely imperative to schedule these Match.com meet-n-greets immediately prior to other evening plans so that you always have a built-in out. Even when you don't...

Later that evening, you're running a bit late because of poorly advertised Weekend Subway Advisories, so you text the Nice Jewish Spell Checker and say you're running a few minutes late. He T9's you back, sans spelling errors, and informs you that the bar is crowded but that he's scored a little table in the back. It all sounds very romantic. Could he be the one?

When you arrive you recognize him instantly because, surprise-surprise, he actually looks like his profile photos. Cute. He smiles and you wave to him as you make your way through the crowded bar. You appologize for being late as you extend your arm and introduce yourself. That's when the Nice Jewish Spell Checker stands up, shakes your hand, and offers to get the first round of drinks. Only his movement is barely perceptible because when he stands up, he's pretty much the same exact height he was when seated. You quickly realize that the grossly overrated 5' 7" claims made by the 5' 2" liar standing (sitting?) in front of you would definitely slip through the cracks of the Microsoft Word's Spell Check. Although he can definitely spell, the Nice Jewish Spell Checker is actually in dire need of a Fact Checker. Or at the very least, a non-metric ruler... Anyway.

You're not the type of fag who hearts the Birthday Dinner...

...in fact, you loathe the Birthday Dinner. It's such a blatant violation of the unspoken rules and regulations of the ridiculous privileges that New Yorkers get away with on their birthdays. Chelsea Boys especially tend to use their special day as a way to sucker their friends into paying for ridiculously expensive (surprisingly carb-intensive) meals at restaurants that they'd never otherwise frequent. One day each year these Gluttonous Birthday Offenders put down their beat-up Zagats and dust off their Michelin Guides to choose three-star restaurants that no one in their circle of friends can neither pronounce nor afford. But this is not the worst part. The real kick-in-the-balls comes when all these Gray's Papaya paupers gather together in front of so much unnecessary silver cutlery that even the 700-thread count tablecloth becomes unworthy of mention; once the Maître d' hands out les menus qui sont écrit en français; once your MetroCard carrying friends begin the annual Birthday scavenger hunt for the most expensive dishes on le menu: appetizers, amuse bouches, starters, hors d'œuvres, entrees, side dishes, desserts, desserts for the table, desserts for the fucking table next to you. You know you're in trouble when your poorest, most unemployed artist friend (who, by the way, once told you that H&M is way too expensive) asks the Sommelier to describe the nuances of a rare vintage Château Neuf du Pape. That's when you reach down between your legs and realize you should've worn your protective ice-hockey cup instead of those cute 2xist boxer briefs because the liquor alone will eclipse the already exorbitant food bill. You begin to wonder if there's such a thing as a second mortgage for a rent-stabilized sixth floor walk-up?

But you digress.

You're on the phone with The Cuddler trying to come up with a free evening to get together when suddenly you find yourself caught between a stale baguette and a hard-cover Zagat Survey. You stammer when The Cuddler catches you off-guard and invites you, surprise-surprise, to his Birthday Dinner. You kind of deserve it though, after the whole Match.com wink debacle the other day, even though he took your vengeful, "I-caught-you-on-Match.com" evil-intentioned wink as more of a "ha-ha-aren't-I-cute?" playful sort of thing. You immediately want to throttle your straight girlfriend who convinced you it was too cruel, even for you, to break up with this boy moments before he was another year closer to gray pubic hair. But the absolute worst part of this scenario is that you and your big mouth already told The Cuddler that you were free. Anyway.

You're not the type of fag who dates Suburban Boys...

...but it's slim pickings when you sign onto Match.com. You are shocked to learn that 206 people have viewed your profile during the past 10 hours--not too shabby for a good night's sleep! However, you're a bit overwhelmed to find your inbox overflowing with “winks,” until, upon further inspection, you realize that you seem to appeal to a demographic of overweight, fiftysomething Nebraskans. You being to wonder about the odds of an entire state developing an online eye-twitch until you notice the email from a cute, age-appropriate boy:

“We've got a high compatibility rating. Who am I to argue with a simplistic dating algorithm? I think a date would be fun for both of us, maybe, if you're interested.”

You’re impressed. Not only did he use the word ‘algorithm’ correctly, but he also spelled it right. His pictures could be cuter, but then again, so could yours. You learned long ago to stay away from the professionally shot Black and Whites as well as the blurry shots with hats and/or sunglasses. The profile is actually decent with nary a hint of Serial Killer to be found. But that’s when you notice his fatal flaw. It is right there, as plain as day, mocking you for not noticing it instantly. Algorithm Boy is from Westchester…

You quickly picture yourself doing your walk of shame on an overly lit MetroNorth train and it ain’t pretty. You have, however, lived in the boroughs and you have experienced this geographic prejudice first hand. So you decide to give Algorithm Boy a chance, even though the odds are slim-to-none that you’ll be meeting him for a drink in White Plains. You write back and forth all day (which is strictly against your Match.com communication policy), but you let it slide because he gives good email. He works in the city and asks to meet for coffee after work (which is strictly against your cocktail policy), but you both agree to play it by ear and call him when you’re finished your errands which just happen to be located a bit too conveniently to his office.

As promised, you rush to finish your errands and call around 5pm and hear Algorithm Boy’s voice for the first time, which seems vaguely annoyed. “Is there a problem?” you ask. “No. Not really. You just said you’d call at five o’clock.” You look at your watch and it’s 5:12. Danger Will Robinson! Danger! You take the high road and politely remind him that you were “playing it by ear” even though you distinctly remember using the term 5-ish when making your plan. Algorithm Boy decides that he’s still up for it, and when you ask him where he wants to meet he actually suggests, “How about the Starbucks in Grand Central?” You almost suggest getting the coffee to-go and meeting him on the MetroNorth train because God forbid this suburban commuter should stray two steps out of his way to accommodate you! But you say, “I’m on 22nd and Park. Maybe you know of a place a little bit south and we can split the difference?” But, of course, he doesn’t. Algorithm Boy tells you to meet him at the Information Booth at Grand Central Station which is preposterous considering it’s rush hour, but somehow you bite your tongue before it says, “Why don’t we just meet at McDonald’s in Times Square?”

You roll your eyes and get on the 6-train at 23rd and you wait and wait and wait. You get claustrophobic as the train fills up with rush hour sardines until the conductor apologizes for “Signal problems at Grand Central.” You picture the signal problems as giant red flags as you get off the subway and begin to walk. You call Algorithm Boy who is already waiting for you at the Information Booth, and he sighs as you tell him about your latest dilemma. You tell him that you will take a bus if one comes, otherwise you’ll have to walk. At this point there is no way you are paying for a taxi to rush to this date.

You are sweaty and annoyed by the time you arrive at Grand Central during the peak of the evening commute. You call each other’s cells and eventually locate Algorithm Boy who, upon first glance, you know, with absolutely no uncertainty, that you will never sleep with him. Anyway.

You're not the type of fag who hearts Match.com...

...but you are the type who hearts a sale, and the promotional email in your inbox practically begs you to come back for $5.75 a month if you sign up for three. In fact, it's such a bargain that the fact that you are currently dating The Cuddler never even crosses your mind. You quickly update your dusty profile, add a few new cute photos and gulp ominously as you change your profile from "Hidden" to "Visible."

You begin your initial Match search by entering some specific age, weight and zip code criteria in order to whittle down your Mr. Wrongs to a more manageable list of 500 or so ineligible bachelors. Apparently every single gay man in Manhattan between 31 and 41 is athletic and toned. Including Fat Grandpa from Bayonne who somehow winds up at the tippity-top of your list of liars. You scroll deftly through the inventory as you mutter, "You get what you pay for," but the words are barely out of your mouth when you first notice him. Your jaw slackens and your heart skips a beat. Not only does The Cuddler have a profile on Match.com, but he's actually online at this very moment!

You’re not new to dating. You’re not even new to online dating. You even read that damn book, He's Just Not That Into You, but only because your friend Liz co-wrote it. But this is a dating hurdle unlike any you've ever experienced. You consider calling Liz for help, but you quickly remember her one fatal flaw when it comes to dating advice: Even after Oprah's Book Club made her a millionaire, Liz still can't keep a boyfriend. So you find yourself asking yourself one of life’s most pertinent questions: "What would Carrie Bradshaw do?" Although you've seen every Sex and the City episode more often than old Brady Bunch reruns, you still find yourself utterly stumped. But before you can lisp, "She sells seashells by the seashore," you find yourself summoning up your that trusty dating vixen from the ‘70s: Marcia Brady. Unlike Carrie Bradshaw, Marcia-Marcia-Marcia quickly presents you with the answer to your dilemma. And just like that, your problem is solved with a quick mouse click. Before you even get a chance to regret it, you send The Cuddler a simple, yet vengeful Match.com "Wink."

And then, just like Carrie and Marsha before you, you find yourself in the middle of a poorly written sitcom in dire need of a page one rewrite (smack in the middle of the Writers' Guild strike, nonetheless.) You feel vaguely awful as you search through Match.com's online help for ways to take back the Wink. Unfortunately, you quickly realize that although Marcia would simply have to enlist her brothers and sisters for help to fish her "Dear John letter" from a federally protected, navy blue USPS mailbox, you will have no such luck. Even though you know that this boy is not the boy, you do like him and, after all, he is an excellent cuddler. Not to mention the fact that your Wink is pretty fucking ridiculous considering you both have active dating profiles on Match.com. You resign yourself to the consequences and are about to log off when the solution to the Wink dilemma hits you: the profile visibility option!

You’re not sure what it will do exactly, but you don't waste a second as you race back to the settings page and click on the "Hide" link in order to make your invisible again. You pat yourself on the back smugly with a sigh of relief as you sign off Match.com and take a big sip of Diet Pepsi as you return to your email inbox to finish reading your emails. You delete the damn Match.com coupon which now seems to be vaguely mocking you. And that’s when Outlook alerts you with an ominous little ding to announce a new email’s arrival; a new email from Match.com; a new email that proclaims, "Someone Winked at You!" Your heart drops as you open it and see the profile picture of the boy you are dating. Correction, the boy you were dating. The Cuddler's cockeyed smile, however, now appears much more like a big fucking, obnoxious Wink ;-)

Anyway.

You're not the type of fag who writes Narcissistic Blogs...

...but y'are Blanche, y'are!

Hell, you don't even read blogs. But your friends always seem to be thoroughly entertained by your adventures in dating, and it's taking up way too much time to tell them each individually about your escapades, so you decided to start this silly blog. Besides, it's a nice deterrent from writing your novel (and, on a side-note, equally as lucrative...)

And speaking of novels, you'd like to take this opportunity to teach all your potential dates a little literary lesson (with a lot of alliteration). When you tell people that you're writing a novel, nine times out of ten the next question out of their mouth is, "Is it fiction?" And even though the next words out of your mouth should be, "Check, please!" you typically try to explain to your date(s) in the nicest possible way that novels are always fiction. You're not writing a memoir because, let's face it, you're not that interesting. But a blog on the internet? You're definitely interesting enough for that. Anyway.