ASK YOURSELF: When it Comes to Online Dating, You Don't Understand...

...why the same trolls who would never have the balls to ask you out in person, somehow seem to muster up enough iCourage to harass you online for a date?

Why on earth do You think this is?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You're Not One of Those Fags Who Smokes Fags...

...but even though a decade has passed since you quit, you still find yourself having smoking dreams and then wake up feeling horribly guilty. The only nice thing about these dreams is when you awaken and realize that it was just a dream. Usually you just heave a healthy full-lunged sigh and go back to your ashtray-less life, but on this particular Saturday morning you wake up rather jumpy and irritable, almost as if you're having a Nic-Fit. However your current irritability has more to do with the fact that it is now Saturday morning and you still haven't heard from Mr. Write about making weekend plans, even though he's the one who suggested getting together in the first place.

The last you heard from him was on Thursday when he dropped an email bomb, "i got a looooooong letter from the bad ex just moments ago, it's sent me into a bit of a tailspin that i haven't even started feeling yet. have to walk the dog first. ugh." You, of course, responded instantly, "Which one is the bad ex? The Sociopath? Does he even count as an ex? What did he want?" And that, my friend, is the last you ever heard from Mr. Write. You begin to wonder if maybe he's freaking out? Is he getting back together with The Sociopath? The unknown always plays a number on you as you begin to rifle through the multitude of possibilities that, thanks to that ancient episode of L.A. Law, usually include an open elevator shaft like the one that Rosalind Shays stumbled into and plunged to her very dramatic and much appreciated death. So even though Mr. Write has ruined your non-existent weekend plans, you give him the benefit of the doubt and respond (again) to his last email. This time you simply say, "Is everything ok?"

Moments later you get an instant response which is much less satisfying than any elevator shaft would have been: "yes yes, sorry to be out of pocket, i got overwhelmed with work yesterday on top of having my visitor from LA, she's great but all-consuming. and weekend plans through sunday got stacked up doubly and triply, i SWEAR i am rarely this social...all ok with you?" Doubly and triply booked? What the fuck is that? Obviously Mr. Write has forgotten that he is actually quadruply booked because he's the one that asked you to do something this weekend. Whatever. Although you are annoyed, you're not really surprised. Actually, you're pretty much over it. Mr. Write obviously needs a Re-Write before his words and his actions can actually cohesively combine in order to ultimately make up one unfortunate, yet extremely predictable plot line of a typical Boy Meets Boy Eighth Avenue Love Story that will surely open and close during Previews. If a boy is sooooo busy that he winds up triple booking with other boys, then not only is He Just Not That Into You, but he is obviously not ready to get into any sort of relationship with you either. And since, ultimately, that's what you want, it's easy to sort out Mr. Write's "doubly and triply booked" bullshit from your ultimate goal of finding Mr. Right and being his Numero Uno booking priority. So you write back, eventually, and decide to keep it short because a) Mr. Write really doesn't deserve much detail, and b) Your internet connection has been down for two days and you are sending it from your cell. You respond, “I’m fine. Sounds like you’re busy. Have fun with your friend.”

You, of course, never hear back, and although the silent treatment isn't entirely unexpected, it definitely sends you into a tailspin. Mr. Write was supposed to be your fucking Blonde Beard rebound! How dare he doubly and triply book his weekend plans and then disappear into thin air! And then, just to really feel bad, you begin searching Connexion profiles through all your silly (for lack of a better word) relationships, and none of these boys seem to be single! They're all listed as Dating or, get this, Exclusively Dating! One is even In a Relationship! It's almost as if your breaking up with these boys put them onto some Disney Express Lane directly to Happily Ever After. And you can't help but ask yourself the pitiful question that terrifies you and your perpetual singleness to the core: Could it be you?

You mope around the entire event-less day until your BFF sends you a text telling you to come meet him and his Gal Pal at The Ritz for a Gay Cocktail. Even though, *gasp* you're not feeling particularly social, you decide that getting out of your Home Sweet Hovel will do you good, so you swing up to Hell's Kitchen for a few cheer inducing Stoli O's. Your train connections are flawless and before you know it you've got a Gay Cocktail in hand and are leaping through the back patio door looking for your BFF so you can bitch all about lame ol' Mr. Write. And that's when you see it. You are absolutely shocked. Six months after he quit you catch eyes with your BFF just as he's taking one big ass drag from his cigarette. He looks up at you as if he's fifteen and you're his mother and then he says, "I don't wanna hear it." And, guess what? You don't wanna say it. You've said it before. Practically every six months when your BFF falls off the Wagon and hitches a ride from his buddy, Joe Camel. Needless to say, it disappoints you, but your BFF is a big boy and you are much too young and way too cute to be his middle-aged mother, so you shut your minty-fresh, smokeless trap. And that's when you get a fabulously exciting, spontaneous text from your Gal Pal: "Singing Karaoke at Lemongrass on 13th. In a huge private room! Bring whoever!" And when it comes to Karaoke, no matter what kind of foul mood you're in, you never need to be asked twice.

In fact, you are so excited for this well-deserved dose of Homeopathic Vocal Crack that you grab your BFF and his Gal Pal and hail a cab (without a moment of your usual cheap hesitation) and you head down to Greenwich Village. As the meter ticks away, your BFF's Gal Pal calls a few of her peeps to come join your Gal Pal and the rest of your Literary Lot of Writer Friends. However, while the three of you are squashed in the backseat of the taxi, you quickly become aware of an all too familiar clinking sound, and when you look over at your BFF you see that he has somehow smuggled his Pink Vodka Cran into the Yellow Checker Cab. You must give him another one of your Motherly looks of shock because he immediately gets defensive and says," What was I gonna do? Leave it?" But before you even get a chance to respond, your BFF brings up a very valid point, "If they didn't want me to take it then they shouldn't have served it in a Plastic To-Go Cup..." And then your BFF quickly turns into the Backseat Nazi and begins to yell at the Cabbie about how he's taking us the long way, and, since your BFF is always right when it comes to directions, you don't really mind until the Cabbie gets annoyed and hits the brakes. Hard. In fact you don't actually begin to mind until you feel the Vodka Cran and all the melting ice soaking your leg and absorbing quickly and coldly into your sock and shoe. You yelp from the Hypothermic Shock, and, of course, that's about when the Cabbie asks, "Did someone spill something back there?" And your BFF, who's now in absolute drunken hysterics, quickly quips back with a terse, "No, sir!" as he drops his now-empty To-Go cup onto the floor. And then, for some unknown reason, the Cabbie feels bad for taking you out of the way and actually turns off the meter as he heads across town in his soggy Yellow Submarine.

When you arrive at Karaoke, Lemongrass is packed, but after ordering a few drinks the Cocktail Waitress shows you back to the Lit Lot's private room. And it is a little slice of (as Belinda Carlisle would say) Heaven on Earth. Apparently the Lit Lot was getting annoyed that none of their songs were ever being played in the main room, so, surprise-surprise, one of the cranky writers complained and they offered up their most spacious private room at a huge discount. But thanks to the miracle of a recent text messaging blast, the large room has quickly filled up with cheap writers who should stick to writing words instead of singing them as they pop up on the monitor. And you use the word "singing" very cautiously (mostly because you're a bit too drunk to come up with a better, more accurately descriptive word). You're also a bit too drunk to answer the question, "Who are the Karaoke Nazis?" when your Home Schooled Hipster friend points out your BFF's Gal Pal and the friends she invited are hogging the microphone. They're also busy fast forwarding through all of the Lit Lot's songs since, being Karaoke Nazis, they have quickly figured out how to work the Karaoke Machine's remote control. But things quickly disintegrate when someone from the Lit Lot who actually paid for the room tries to reclaim the precious microphone and is, instead, greeted with a Karaoke Nazi's middle finger.

You're a bit embarrassed since you're the one who extended the invitation to the Karaoke Nazis, so you quickly look around to find your BFF to discuss the best way to handle the Current Karaoke Threat Level, which, just like her rising middle finger, has just been elevated to a Code Orange. But your BFF seems quite oblivious as he, uncharacteristically, puts down a full drink and heads outside. You ask aloud, very confused, "Where's he going without his Gay Cocktail?" until you realize that he is obviously going outside to smoke, and you roll your eyes because a) You don't want your BFF to smoke, and b) You are left all alone to diffuse the Book Burning campaign taken on by Karaoke Nazis' during their Invasion of the Lit Lot. And that's when you find yourself on the Front Line of this malodious Sondheim-ish Dance War between the Jets and the Sharks.

That's when your BFF's Karaoke Nazi Gal Pal looks directly at you and yells, "Don't you roll your eyes at him! He's a big boy and if he wants to smoke then that's his choice. He doesn't need you judging him to make him feel bad about himself!" And you are absolutely shocked. In fact, you would have actually preferred to get the finger from her because you are in no mood to argue with the Karaoke Nazi's righteous bullshit, especially when she is so utterly wrong-cious! But she doesn't stop. She just keeps going on and on and won't let you get a word in edgewise. And to top it off, she's got the damn microphone! You barely get out a sentence, "Why on earth would I be supportive of an addict who's fallen off the wagon? I'll save my support for when he quits again!" And that's it. You get no more words into this bullshit argument, yet you are quickly ripped a new asshole for being so judgmental. Yet during your lambasting you quickly realize that this argument (like most arguments) has nothing to do with what you're actually arguing about. The Karaoke Nazi has also obviously also started smoking again, she obviously also feels guilty about it, and instead of having this argument with her husband who hates that she smokes, the Karaoke Nazi is obviously taking her venom out on you.

But you ain't having it. Not tonight. You already feel bad enough about being dumped by both Blonde Beard as well as your God damned rebound, Mr. Write! And since you don't understand their reasons for dumping you, you certainly aren't about to be dumped on further for ridiculous reasons that you do understand, yet have absolutely nothing to do with you. So you very dramatically say, "Can I say something without being interrupted?" to which the Karaoke Nazi instantly interrupts you. So you repeat, very loudly (even without the Karaoke Microphone), "I'd really like to say something without being interrupted, if you don't mind!" And with your second request she actually shuts up, so you say, "I'd just like to take this opportunity to point out that you are pulling exactly the same kind of judgmental crap on me that you are accusing me of pulling on our Smoking Friend." And with that you throw your share of the bill down onto the table and immediately walk out of the bar.

Of course, once you make your way outside you find your BFF innocently smoking a cigarette and you just walk by, unable to even say goodbye. Moments later you receive a text from your BFF that says, "U left so suddenly?" to which you respond, "I was suddenly done." You're still steaming as you wait impatiently on the same subway platform that Blonde Beard recently dumped you on, wondering why on earth you should be happy when your friends start doing things that are bad for them? But that's when you realize that you will actually be absolutely thrilled when you officially learn that the Karaoke Nazi has started smoking her way to an early death again. Anyway...

FAG POLE RESULTS: Are you one of those Fags who would settle with a less than perfect match because you're afraid of growing old and gray alone?

37% of You Cinderfella Fags said, "No, I'd never settle. I intend to hold out for Mr. Right even if he finally shows up wearing Depends Undergarments instead of a Glass Slipper."

35% of You Madame 'Ho-vary Fags said, "Yes, I'd settle. Retiring to Porn and Arthritic Masturbation are not how I want to spend my Golden Girl years."

16% of You Liberace Fags said, "Settle-schmettle! My Golden Girl years will be spent being cared for by a lovely House Boy who will attend to my every need unless he wants to be taken out of the will!"

10% of You Party Daddy Fags said, "Get old and gray alone? Hell, I'll be living in one of those Gay Retirement Orgies in Palm Springs. Every day will be like a White (Haired) Party!"

Number of Fags Who Voted: 133

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

...anymore. But you used to be, and you were damn good at it! But after the Electile Dysfunction episode with Mr. Write, those good ol' days of making a home for someone you love seem even more elusive than ever. Sadness overtakes you after you say goodbye to Mr. Write and make your way to the subway. You're really kind of confused about the whole Mr. Write situation. His exuberant texts and abundant emails seem to be sending a completely opposite signal than his Bizarre Billary Behavior tonight. And you're still way too hung up over figuring out Blonde Beard's hasty retreat to put too much energy into figuring out Mr. Write's Mixed Messages. At least when things seemed promising in a rebound-ful way with Mr. Write it was a nice distraction to forget all about Blonde Beard. But honestly, when you really think about all this, none of it really matters. What matters is that you are still obviously, as Madonna would say, Hung Up over Blonde Beard ever since your Non-Breakup, and since then, "Time Goes By ... So Slowly." Especially when you're sober.

As you're descending the stairs into the 14th Street subway, you get a text which you are absolutely sure must be another Mixed (SMS) Message from Mr. Write, probably to apologize for choosing to have a nightcap with Billary instead of you. And even though this particular text message is barely decipherable, it's meaning is definitely crystal clear. At 11:15pm your Hobosexual Roommate informs you that, "my friend is dropping 4 d nite.” Although you sometimes have trouble translating IM's or Texts from twentysomething into thirtysomething, you've actually received this particular last-minute text from the Hobosexual at least five other times (this past year alone), and it means that his irritatingly loud college friend is going to be crashing in your apartment, taking over your living room, and generally making your whole apartment smell like his moldy feet. Which is fine. What's not fine is that, just like the other five times, you have been given zero notice. Obviously, even if this was an unplanned, impromptu visit (which you don't believe for a second since the Foul Footed Friend lives in Boston), it obviously was a spontaneous decision approximately four hours ago when the Foul Footed Friend decided to throw his Stick and Bindle over his shoulder and hop a freight train from Boston to New York to visit the Hobosexual. Not only are you over the Foul Footed Friend's visits, but you're in absolutely no mood for one tonight. So you reply with a terse, "That’s fine, although it would be nice if you gave me a little more notice next time," and then you descend underground to catch the F-U. Whoops, you meant to write F -V trains. Really you did.

After ascending the six flights to your Home-Sweet-Hovel, you are out of breath as well as patience, and you can hear the Bravo blaring from your TV before you can even fish the apartment key from your pocket. You walk in and, as predicted, the Foul Footed Friend is actually picking his toes while splayed out on your couch watching The Real Housewives of New York City on your TV with your volume blaring. And the best part is that he doesn't even say hello! Nor does he stop picking his non-athletic Athlete's Feet! Were these gay boys born in a barn? Aren't we supposed to be a bit more cultured and polite than our straight counterparts? Or have these inane (yet extremely enjoyable) Bravo shows completely melded our Queer Eyes with the Straight Guys? "Hey," you say, mostly because you can't stand being ignored by your own unwelcome guest. "Hey," he says back, without ever looking up from The Housewives.

Although the Foul Footed Friend drives you crazy, he is not the one you have a beef with. And Speak of the Devil, that's when the Hobosexual appears from behind his freight door, then immediately slams it shut so nobody will see how many decomposing bodies he's hiding in there. He's wearing a sweatband around his dry temple, which, incidentally, has never perspired inside any gym, nor gotten Physical since Olivia Newton John made headbands popular in the early '80s. The Hobosexual just stares at you, possibly with fear, probably with hatred (both of which you're okay with), but since you were not born in a barn, you decide not to make a big deal out of his surprise visitor directly in front of the surprise guest. So you just say, "Hey," to the Hobosexual and he actually doesn't say anything back, because he was obviously born in the same straw-floored barn as his Foul Footed Friend.

You retreat and hide away in the clean sanctuary of your bedroom, and after what seems like an eternity, Noah's Ark must finally be complete because the Dynamic Duo finally leave their barn and head out for an evening of Forty Lays with Forty Blights. Of course, since these Barn Fags are neither accustomed to paying electricity bills nor caring whether their roommate is busy having a pity party, they end up forgetting to turn off the blaring television. When you can't take it anymore, you emerge from your Homosexual Hermitage and spend twenty minutes looking for the remote amongst all the Foul Footed Footwear strewn around your living room. In fact there is so much luggage that you begin to wonder exactly how long your un-expected guest will out-stay his un-welcome?

This is just about when The Real Housewives of New York City suck you into their Upper East Side Reality, which at the moment is much more preferable than your own Lower East Side Brutality. So you plop down onto the lumpy futon couch and eat some Bon-Bons while you watch Cuntess LuAnn complain about the hardships of returning to the central air-conditioning woes of her twenty million dollar Manhattan townhouse after summering in East Hampton. Anyway...

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

...but the TSA Agent at the Palm Beach International Airport Security Check seems to think you might be some sort of Gay Terrorist. Okay, it's true, you do live on the Lower East Side, but if you were going to blow something up to make a political statement, your target would more likely be Splash than some random JetBlue flight filled with Snowbirds from Boca. You are not-so-politely asked to stand aside as he sends your backpack through the X-ray machine for another scan, and when it fails the second test you are asked to stand quietly behind a yellow line so you can watch helplessly as the Transportation Security Asshole rifles through your extremely well packed bag. Although being an Anal Retentive traveler makes you constipated, the silver lining is that your bags look as if they've been packed by a Professional Folder at The Gap.

The Transportation Security Asshole pulls so many things out of your little backpack that a small crowd of Breeders begins to form around you "Oohing" and "Aahing" as if the Clown Car at the Circus has just arrived. As the TSAsshole digs further, you begin to worry about what embarrassing thing might be uncovered, and that's when he starts inspecting your liquids. Now, being one of those Felix Unger Fags, you don't bother with one of those flimsy quart-sized Ziploc bags. You, my friend, spent hours in The Container Store looking for clever travel ideas that will enhance your vacations (mostly as a distraction from procrastinwriting), and you found this wonderful little, quart-sized Clear Zippered Cube that works wonderfully. Meanwhile, since it's not a silly Ziploc the TSAsshole starts to empty all of your liquids, including your measly three ounce allotment of Astroglide Lube, to see if it fits into a damn Ziploc. Now, you want to say, "A quarts a quart, right?" but you keep your trap shut as another chunky TSAsshole pulls you aside with his metal-detecting wand and tells you to, "Spread 'em," in a way that completely ruins an on-going arrest fantasy you've had since your very first foray into Gay Porn. You suddenly have the urge to tell them that if they're looking for your bomb that you packed that into your checked luggage, but, thankfully, you bite your tongue as the first TSAsshole finds the offending object and, ironically, pulls a stainless steel Tongue Scraper from your bag. You had no idea that good oral health was so important to Al Qaeda. But you digress.

After your Impromptu Strip Search, you repack your own bag (mostly because you can't bear to watch the TSAsshole attempt to amateurishly shove your professionally trained Ringling Brothers' Clowns back into your little VW Beetle backpack), you somehow still have time to wait at the gate and are absolutely thrilled to get a call from Mr. Write. Although you don't typically love talking on the phone with people you barely know, you are amazed at how easy it is to shoot the breeze with him. You tell the Non-Jewish Jew all about spending Passover with The Ex's family. He thinks it's funny that three and a half years after you and The Ex broke up, that you're the one flying down to Florida to celebrate Pesach with his Aunts and Uncles when The Ex is nowhere to be found! Well, The Ex did actually put in a phoner from LA, but you, my friend, were the one treated like Manna from Heaven since you actually showed up for the Matzoh Fest. You know The Ex's family all secretly want you two to get back together, but you have your sights set on spending your next Passover, not necessarily in Israel, but if everything goes well with your current ridiculous fantasy and it doesn't need a Mr. ReWrite, then perhaps you will be saying The Four Questions next year with Mr. Write's family?

Although you are literally surrounded by babies on the plane, they miraculously sleep during the your uneventful night flight back to JFK. In fact, they are such good babies that by the time you get back to your Home Sweet Hovel you find yourself willing to trade in your Hobosexual Roommate for a complete set of Screaming Septuptlets because at least they would be breast fed and wouldn't have left the kitchen literally overflowing with dirty fucking dishes. But the filth doesn't get to you because you have a cute tan and a date with your cute Playwright tomorrow. Anyway.

The day flies by and, uncharacteristically, you actually get a lot accomplished. Having a nice tan amongst millions of pasty New Yorkers seems to give you more energy, almost as if you've knocked back a bottle of Geritol. Luckily, summer (and your Summer Share in The Pines) is right around the corner and you'll have this kind of Vitamin D energy all the time! But you're getting way ahead of yourself. Right now you need to concentrate on looking cute for your dinner date with Mr. Write. He suggests getting drinks at the same place you had your first date, North Square, and although the repeated date doesn't seem all that inspired, you weren't offering him any better ideas so you happily agreed. At the very least you know it will be quiet and romantic.

When you arrive, Mr. Write is sitting at a table and, as if on cue, the waiter immediately comes over to take your drink order. The Absolut Vodka flows as smoothly as the Absolut-ly engaging conversation does. You like talking to Mr. Write almost as much as you like looking at him. The two of you discuss the reading of his most recent play and about how the Lead Actress made an unfortunate accent choice which Mr. Write mimics so perfectly that you can't help but expose your dimples along with a big hearty laugh. You quickly realize that he has just passed one of your five deal breaking tests: any boy that you're going to get serious with must be able to make you laugh. Seriously. You think back to Blonde Beard and although he definitely wrote some witty emails, in person he was somehow more reserved. Instead of guffaws, Blonde Beard seemed to produce more of an overall "awwww" quality. But right about now, as you are laughing heartily across the table you wonder what exactly was so awe inspiring about Blonde Beard's sense of humor?

After a few drinks, you both wind up being too lazy to leave the bar and decide to let the Cocktail Waitress carry your heavy beverages and your even heavier tab over into the dining room. You both order light fish dishes as you both, ironically, begin to fish into each other's past. Mr. Write tells you how he doesn't really do much dating. Especially online dating. And then he quickly begins to offer a little too much information about the Sociopath he dated during/after he left a four year (open) relationship. And then was promptly dumped. Since Mr. Write said he doesn't date much, you find yourself wondering if the Sociopath was actually a sociopath, or more likely just resided in Chelsea-opath? If there's one thing you've learned from three years of dating, it's that boys in New York are fickle, especially when they find themselves in any sort of an emotional pickle. However you aren't really too concerned about the Sociopath's particular details, since none of it really matters to you. What does matter is that it seems to matter to Mr. Write. A lot. Especially since, for some unknown reason, he is talking about it on your first "official" date. Your Ex-Cousin-In-Law once told you that everything you need to know about a boy you learn on the first date. What you are learning right now is that Mr. Write seems to be equally enthusiastic about you as he is for the Sociopath (notice the present tense). And you don't like to share. Hell, if you're going to end up in a three-way then you definitely want to get some emotionally detached sex out of it! Yet Mr. Write seems to be quite attached. Now, you know you're not completely over Blonde Beard. Far from it, actually. But you do know better than to be yapping about your baggage on a date! What really annoys you is that Mr. Write was supposed to be your rebound, and yet you are quickly realizing that you are more likely his rebound. Whatever. What is also obvious is that although Mr. Write obviously isn't going to be Mr. Right, does this mean that you can't get some sex out of Mr. Write? Right?

After paying the check you walk out the side door and seamlessly segue the conversation onto the lighter topic of politics as you shamelessly segue your trajectory toward Mr. Write's one bedroom apartment off Union Square. You offer to look up the Pennsylvania Primary Election Returns on your iPhone for Mr. Write because he is a fanatical Hillary fan, and he's absolutely thrilled when you tell him that Hillary has been declared the winner! Although you're still torn between Obama and Hillary, you definitely like the idea of having a lesbian in the White House. You also think Bubba will make a wonderfully charismatic First Lady. And you definitely like the idea that Bill will be the last one buzzing his agenda into his wife's ear each night before they retire to their separate bedrooms. And really, how bad could ol' Hillary be if she named her kid after a gay neighborhood?

However, when you finally arrive at Mr. Write's building he kind of just stops and stands there. Almost as if you're supposed to say goodbye. You're so confused that you actually say, "Am I not coming upstairs?" Because if this was the case you certainly wouldn't have walked ten blocks out of your way just to say au revoir on the street. Hell, he already invited you up for a make-out session the first time you went out so what could be different this time? That's when Mr. Write informs you that you are allowed to come up, if you'd like, but he is definitely going to watch the Pennsylvania Returns on CNN. You agree to his odd terms (especially since Hillary has already won), but whatever. At least Mr. Write is passionate about something, right?

So you go upstairs and Mr. Write immediately turns the TV on with the remote as you immediately attempt to turn Mr. Write on with a kiss. His breath is so fresh and minty, which is nice, but the kisses seem to be lacking all the passion that his politics seem to have inherited. But this is okay because you love a challenge. So you pull Mr. Write down onto the couch and start to grind your hips against his as your hands disappear up his shirt. Touching his tight little body definitely works faster for you than taking a fistful of Viagra, however, although you're definitely ready to play a nice little game of "Intern in the White House," Mr. Write turns out to be the one who could use that fistful of Viagra. Only when you open your eyes you realize exactly why Mister Softee is not into you. Although you were busy getting lost in the moment with your eyes closed, Mr. Write was busy watching ol' Hillary on CNN. Now it is common knowledge, especially to Mrs. Clinton's husband who has practically admitted, in a court of law during his impeachment trial, that his wife is a bit of a turn-off. You're about to turn-off the damn television when the secret of Mr. Write's minty fresh breath actually falls from his mouth and lands on your cheek! You scream, "Are you chewing gum and making out with me?" as Mr. Write plucks the offensive Wrigley chunk from your face and gets up to throw it away. Only when he returns he sits down on the other sofa.

Obviously you are no competition for Hillary, so you stand up and tell Mr. Write that it's getting late and you should go home. He offers to walk you downstairs because he has to walk his dog, and although you're surprised that he'll leave his precious Hillary, you kind of think it's sweet. So you take the elevator and head down 14th Street toward the Sixth Avenue F train. After crossing Fifth Avenue, you all take a pit-stop so that the pooch can take a pee, and Mr. Write asks you if you have plans for this weekend? Although you're not sure you want to have another sexless bi-sexual three-way with Mr. Write and Mrs. Clinton, you do tell him that you have plans Thursday and on Sunday, but that, so far, you are free both weekend nights. That's when the dog is finally done with marking his territory, only Mr. Write doesn't seem to notice. Or move. So while you stand there wondering whether you're missing an F train, you find yourself asking, "How far do you usually walk your dog?" and Mr. Write says, "Oh just to the corner," as if he's just done you some big favor by extending the nightly walk and taking you all the way across the street. You quickly take the hint that Mr. Write has no intention of walking neither you, nor his lethargic dog, an extra half block to the subway station because, just like Obama, both you and the pooch have just lost out to Hillary Clinton. So you say, "Okay, well I'm gonna go now." As you give Mr. Write a peck goodbye as you finally decide that you are now unquestionably going to vote for Obama. Anyway...

ASK YOURSELF: You Have No Idea Why the Fags Working Out at the Gym...

...are inevitably way hotter than the Fags changing in the same gym's locker room? Are these not the same Fags?

Why on earth do You think this is?

You are encouraged to answer in the form of a comment to this post (see link below) so all of You can get to the bottom of this horrible gay injustice!

You're Not One of Those Billy Elliot Ballet Fags...

...but you find yourself doing some serious Grand Jetés through the parking lot of the Kravis Center in West Palm Beach because you're late to see one of your Campy friends from L.A. strut his stuff with Lou Diamond Phillips in Camelot. Unfortunately this particular Musicdull happens to be one of your least favorite shows (and honey, that's one damn long list of dreck) and you actually find yourself wishing that Camp Beverly Pills had prescribed you House Seats to some sleep-inducing ballet instead. But one of the side-effects of an evening spent with Camp Beverly Pills is that you always have a fantastically crazy night full of hazy memories and horrific hangovers. So the good news is, even if the show is horrendous, you won't even remember!

When you arrive to the empty lobby and the Door Nazi informs you that you are (surprise, surprise) late and that the opening number has started and you will have to wait twelve minutes before he can show you to your Nap (oops, you meant to write Seat). So, of course, you immediately head to the bar and guzzle down a few light beers (you learned long ago never to order an over-priced Straight Cocktail, especially from a female bartender). Anyway. Eventually the Door Nazi shows you where you'll be taking your two hour and forty minute snooze, and, luckily for you, the Overly Tanned Corpse next to you seems to snore you awake just before all of Camp Beverly Pills' scenes. It's as if he's some (barely) living Snooze Alarm. Meanwhile, your friend is wonderful! He has some ridiculously funny role where he gets to be Sir Lance-a-hunk's one eyed bitch and every time he comes out on stage you burst into inappropriate laughter. It's okay since the only people you really annoy are the actors because everybody else surrounding you is way too hard of hearing to be disturbed. In fact, the audience dialog is hands down more entertaining than anything Alan Jay Lerner wrote in the original book to Camelong, and is definitely the most enjoyable part of seeing the show. It's absolutely amazing at how LOUD these Deaf Seniors will speak to one another during the performace, "WHAT DID RITCHIE VALENS JUST SAY?" And then the slightly less audibly impaired spouse will literally repeat, VERY LOUDLY, word-for-word what Lou Diamond Phillips just said. The entire repetitive experience reminds you of one of those bad cell phone connections where you can actually hear your own voice echo everything that you just said.

Half the audience either leaves or possibly actually dies of old age during the intermission. However, after a bathroom break followed by a chaser of two more light beers you are ready to suffer through till the bitter end. And it is sooooooo worth it, because Camp Beverly Pills is actually cast in dual roles where he has one absolutely wonderful, scene-stealing final moment with Lou Diamond Phillips. Your friend informs King Arthur about something which is probably very touching but you are much too busy beaming with pride to listen to any of the inane dialogue. Not to mention the fact that you are counting down the moments till you can order a proper Gay Cocktail from an inproper Gay Bartender.

You wait at the Stagedoor for Camp Beverly Pills to come out and greet his adoring fans, but they're all 101 and old enough to remember the original La Bamba Boy when he was a big star back during The Great Depression. Unfortunately, you are also old enough to remember the not-so-recent moive. But only on VHS, not Beta. So you shake LDP's hand and give him some blah-blah-blah about how great his Slow was (oops, you meant to write Show. Really.) And then you head over to the Holiday Inn and drop off your overnight bags (don't judge, you had to bring several wardrobe changes just in case). Then the two of you quickly head down to the tragic Hotel Bar where the Cast & Crew is already busy liquoring it up. After a few Stoli O & Soda's you find yourself yapping about being dumped by Blonde Beard and, probably because he's a good friend and knows you need to be taken out for a night of debauchery, or possibly because he's sick of hearing you whine, Camp Beverly Pills quickly gathers an impromptu group of Camelot Fags to take you out for some Gay Cocktails in Floriduh.

Your first Gay stop is, get this, in a strip mall. But the boy following the GPS Voice Prompts assures you that there will be plenty of stripping. You roll your eyes as you are practically dragged into stupid Cupid's. Only when you arrive the doorman informs you that there is, get this, a $20 cover charge. You instantly push past him to peek inside and inform everybody that it is midnight on a Friday night (oops, make that Saturday) and there is nobody in the club. You tell Camp Beverly Pills that there ain't no way that you're paying $20 to go into an empty bar just to talk to The Camelot Fags because you can do that for free at the hotel bar. They, of course, agree, and then you all head over to a little bar called Roosters which instantly conjures up a disturbing image of The Cock filled with older, more Sun Damaged boys. Only when you get there, it's much, much worse. It's kind of tragic in that way where you instantly thank the Gay Gods that you are fortunate enough to live in the Gay Mecca of NYC where the Crystal Queens have the good sense to buy dental implants after their Meth Mouths set in. But, after throwing a few Gay Cocktails down your (fully toothed) neck, none of this matters much. Because, after all, you are out with Camp Beverly Pills and there is fun to be forgotten!

The next morning you remember nothing after you obviously pushed the GoGo Boy off the stage, but the photos are undeniable and have you absolutely convinced that you definitely had a Gay Old Time. Although you weren't doing any actual ballet, the photographic proof of your dancing is definitely about as gay as it gets. That, coupled with the circumstantial evidence of seven mysteriously crumpled dollar bills that you find shoved down your underwear during your morning pee. But you digress. When you emerge from your shower you find Camp Beverly Pills giggling in front of his computer and you are completely horrified when he says, "This is my favorite video from last night..." Ugh. Apparently you are True(ly) more of a Spandau Ballet Fag than a Billy Elliot Ballet Fag. Anyway...

FAG POLE: How do you get over the fag who just dumped you?

You've got your first tie! And, of course, it's a Dirty Gay Three-Way!

31% of you Carrie Bradshaw Fags said, "With a Sex and the City marathon and a gallon of any flavored ice cream that has cookie dough listed as it's main ingredient."

31% of you Samantha Jones Fags said, "With another boy who is much cuter, much richer and much more into you."

31% of you Charlotte York Fags said, "With a night of Gay Cocktails with The Boy Luck Club."

6% of you Miranda Hobbes Dykes said, "With another girl. Gay boys are just too much fucking work."

Number of Fags Who Voted: 163

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

...but there is nothing you love more than to be sitting on the beach sending snarky picture messages to all your pasty New York friends as they sit at home, shivering, because their cheap slumlords have turned off their furnaces for the season. The only problem is that, for some Global Warming bullshit reason, Florida is actually chilly, while two of the New York Weather Fags (ABC & Fox) are predicting that it's going to hit 80 fucking degrees in the city this weekend! Luckily the clouds clear up long enough to sit by the pool for an hour at your parents' condo, and although it's a sad substitute for the glorious beach, the pool is at least protected from the raging wind so that you don't have to be wrapped up like a gay mummy (in 500 thread count Egyptian cotton, of course).

You're on your best behavior laying obediently on the chaise next to your Mommie Dearest. You're wearing a Straight-Friendly one-piece just like a good little Christina would, as Mommie Dearest yaps away about her latest wire-hanger debacle. Apparently her upstairs neighbor's toilet has recently caused a horrible leak and caused your Snowbird parents' ceiling to cave in. Since your Hobosexual Roommate is prone to causing these types of unnecessary leaks, you wonder if perhaps his Hobosexual Mother might actually live on the 16th floor? But this conversation grinds to an absolute halt when Mommie Dearest's absoulte dearest friend plops down onto the chaise next to you. Apparently, unlike your gossipy mother, her Floridian BFF, Paige Six, really likes to stir the pot. As far as you're concerned, it takes Two to Tango, but you shut your trap because you're on a free vacation and you think Paige Six is a hoot. So when Ms. Six invites your whole family out for an evening of Seafood and Reggae music at Conchy Joes, you quickly accept the opportunity to be her Deep Fried Groupie so you can drink gallons of Red Red Wine and mooch off of the Senior Set's pension plans, of course.

That evening, you all pile into Daddy Warbuck's gynormous SUV and drive over to Conchy Joe's which ends up being a bit of a schlep. But it's all well worth it when the Waiter insists upon seeing your ID before serving you a glass of Red Red Wine. Although you are absolutely thrilled, you find it to be a bit unnecessary when the entire table begins to cackle at the obviously Farsighted Waiter. You glare at Mommie Dearest who is actually choking on an Oyster Cracker that she accidentally inhaled while you were being proofed, so you bitterly move Mommie Dearest's glass of water just slightly out of her reach as you hand the Farsighted Waiter your not-so-new New York License. Ok, now you know you look pretty good for your age (you are gay after all), but does the man really have to do a Double Take as if you're starring in some Damn Doublemint commercial? Then the Farsighted Waiter, who is easily ten years your senior, throws your ID back at you while shaking his head in disgust as he informs you, "I'm actually two years younger than you," as if you have just been pre-qualified for Social Security. You bite your tongue and choose not to explain the difference between Straight Years and Gay Years to the Farsighted Waiter who probably hasn't seen any non-AARP Members since the Category 5 winds of Hurricane Andrew obviously impaired his vision. Regardless, being the youngest looking fag in the room is a nice contrast from feeling like a cent-less centenarian in the under-thirty-only zone you live in below Houston Street that you commonly refer to as Logan's Run.

After several jugs of Red Red Wine, the Reggae Band starts to play and they actually turn out to be pretty good. But what's really entertaining is watching your graying parents pop some Advil and drag all their combined aches and pains onto the dance floor in order to Shake Shake Shake Their Booty. Paige Six somehow drags her Sports Fanatic husband onto the dance floor, even though he's in dire need of a double knee replacement, and Kneeless Joe waddles in place to "I Shot the Sheriff" in the arms of his Drunken Deputy. Eventually, as the Pacemaker Patrons finish up their Blue Plate Specials, the whole dance floor quickly fills up, and, from the copious amounts of Advil you spy being popped by the greedy fistful, it is safe to say that a good time is had by all. Even you end up limping your way onto the dance floor, and with your Healing Hernia and your Balloon Balls, you practically fit right in with the Straight Senior Set.

Only you don't fit in. And not just because you're gay. You don't fit because all these Snowbirds have coupled up and mated for life. And you, my friend, are sorely single. Again. You look around the room and wonder if, decades from now, you'll have someone to retire and grow gray(er) with? For Christ's sake you just noticed (and quickly plucked) a gray fucking chest hair! Or will you wind up living your Golden Years watching Golden Girls reruns from your Craftmatic Adjustable bed? Alone? Or *gasp* even worse, will you be so relationship-ly destitute that you wind up spending the rest of your days wearing Depends Undergarments in your Home-Sweet-Hovel arguing with your Hobosexual Roommate over whose turn it is to replace the Polident? This last pathetic image seems to make you shiver, until you realize that what you assume to be your emotions shaking this deep-seated fear out of the darkest recesses of your Cajun Blackened Heart, the vibration is actually coming from your cell phone in order to alert you of a new text message from your Boy du Jour: the Playwright in Shining Ardour, Mr. Write.

During the drive home you have a total interstate text fest with your Non-Jewish Jew and you tell him all about how you are driving down to West Palm tomorrow so you can ask The Four Questions during Passover with The Ex's family (even though The Ex won't even be there). You find it extremely sexy when Mr. Write practically orders you to pack up your bags and, "Come home! Someone else can ask the 4 questions." But the contrary Shiksa in you immediately taps back, "I only have 1 question to ask of you: Why is it that on this night a bitter aging fag would give up the increasingly rare opportunity of being the youngest boy in the room?" You click send and wait patiently for a witty response from Mr. Write, but you are jarred out of your Four Question Fantasy as well as your car seat while everybody in Daddy Warbucks' Gas Guzzler partakes in a collective chorus of, "OH MY GOD!" You look up as Daddy Warbucks skillfully swerves off the two lane road in order to avoid running over an oncoming motorcycle that has just flipped over and is sliding its way toward your over-sized 4WD along with the leather clad couple who are also tumbling toward you on their way to become one big collective speed bump. Luckily, Daddy Warbucks (who thankfully hasn't had a drop to drink) somehow maneuvers his Beige Behemoth and completely avoids what could have easily become yet another Retiree Roadkill statistic. You all jump out to help the poor people who are somehow still alive even though their Harley has shed a few key parts down the road, including it's Handlebar.

Somehow you are the one who ends up calling 911, even though you are thoroughly drunk and have absolutely no idea where the hell you are. After slurring a few unintelligible "Um, I dunno's" to questions that you are ill-equipped to answer, Paige Six grabs the phone from you and informs the dispatcher where to send help. The Bloody Driver is obviously in a state of shock as he seems to be pacing back and forth and worrying more about his Handlebar-less Harley than he is about his Wailing Wife who is inspecting the various cuts and scrapes covering her dark Bain(daged) Soleil legs through her now-shredded jeans. To calm him down, Mommie Dearest tells the Bloody Driver that you will move his Handlebar-less Harley out of the middle of the road, which seems completely reasonable until you and your Healing Hernia attempt to lift the damn thing. Although you haven't been allowed to go to the gym for over a month, could it be possible that you have lost that much strength? Or, please God, is the Handlebar-less Harley just ridiculously heavy for one drunk gay boy to lift? Luckily the police show up and "I Shot The Sheriff" ends up helping you roll the Scrap Metal out of the road.

Before you leave the scene of the crime (without ever being asked to make any sort of statement or to leave any contact information) you are happy to see that the Bloody Driver has finally stopped worrying about his Scrap Metal and has sat himself down to console his Wailing Wife. And then you pop back into the SUV with the Straight Senior Set and begin your drive back to the Ocean Front Condo. Paige Six immediately begins to spin the simple story into the biggest thing since Hurricane Wilma thrashed through the state of Florida and Bamm Bamm'd everything in it's path into tiny little Pebbles. Meanwhile, when you finally remember to check your phone to see if Mr. Write ever responded, you find yourself equally pummeled by the Category 5 text message you have just received from Blonde Beard. He's obviously received the Shutterfly Photo Book that you spent days making for his 40th birthday in order to document your entire relationship. As you read his words, your heart sinks even faster than your non-relationship did after you stupidly dropped the L-Word on Blonde Beard. The message simply says, "Got your gift. Thanks, it was very thoughtful." Anyway...

You're Not One of Fags Whose Head is in the Clouds with Unrealistic Dreams...

...but as you lay in bed you can't help yourself imagining how nice it would be to be snuggling up against Blonde Beard right about now. You imagine your face rubbing up against his softer than expected beard, and kissing his welcoming lips, as you get lost in the feeling that made you fall in love with him in the first place. Only instead of your unrealistic dreams coming true, you wind up with a text message that beeps you back to reality and makes your heart skip a beat. The only boy who would be bothering you during your silly fantasy is Blonde Beard, right? Wrong. You pull your hand away from your nether-regions in order to check the phone and, not necessarily unfortunately, your message is from Mr. Write. "that was great fun...meeting you. i told my director all about you and he thinks you sound 'dreamy.' and he is the straightest boy i know." Although you are obviously touched, your heart is still busy imagining the bearded boy who you hoped to be receiving this dreamy message from, and you take a moment to decide how best to respond. You know you're not in the best mental space, but you also know that you met someone special tonight and you don't want your bad mood to sabotage the obvious potential. So you take a moment and edit your crankiness, and wind up responding with something deprecating, and are quickly rewarded with yet another compliment, "dude you ARE dreamy. surely you know." And you decide to end the conversation because you like the idea of Mr. Write falling to sleep and dreaming of your alleged dreaminess, even though you'd prefer to imagine Blonde Beard tossing and turning to his obvious nightmares of leaving you crying on a subway platform.

The next morning you awake to a full schedule of crap coupled with an overwhelming case of woe-is-you, and you have serious trouble pulling your head from your pillow even though it is (surprisingly) not hungover. You never feel like shit after a night of relative soberness, however, when you reach over from your pillow to check your cell you are distracted from your Blonde Beard sorrow long enough to see that Mr. Write has obviously jumped out of his bed and texted you with a simple, yet substantial, "Hi."

You have so much to do today before schlepping out to JFK and flying to Florida to visit your aging Snowbird parents, but your first order of business is to finish that damn Shutterfly Photo Book and send it off to Blonde Beard. You want to be done with that humiliating task so you make sure it is at the top of your daily To-Do list. You feel kind of silly putting it together, yet for some unknown reason, you want it to be as spectacularly special as you initially imagined it would be. So you run out to a card store to buy some self-adhesive photo-corners in order to paste all of the restaurant business cards that you collected onto each page of the ridiculously inappropriate book. It saddens you as you flip through the book, pasting each card onto each page, while wistfully remembering each conversation at each restaurant, and yet somehow you are compelled to finish. You need to be done with this and drop it in a mailbox. Only you can't. After you finish you end up dragging the humiliatingly sentimental Photo Book into work so you can show someone how fucking fantastic it is. And she literally tells you that, "It's absolutely wonderful. I would cry if I ever received something like this." And that makes you happy enough to finally drop the fucking thing in a mailbox and be done with it. Then you race over to The Mercury Lounge in order to buy tickets to Yaz this summer because you know that, although Blonde Beard bought tickets for both of you, that you are no longer going to see that concert with him. You fret over which night to purchase tickets, but you ultimately decide that if running into Blonde Beard would ruin the entire experience of seeing one of your favorite bands, then you should definitely buy tickets for the alternate night's show.

That evening you have plans to go have drinks with the Portuguese Brazilian From London, only you aren't really feeling all that social, so when he IM's you in the middle of the day to ask if you'd rather go help him buy a suit, you are completely non-plussed. You had tentative plans to have a drink with him tonight, even though you're in no mood, so you're kind of happy that he's altering the plans and giving you an easy out. You want to ask the Portuguese Brazilian From London if, perhaps, he'd rather come watch you write for the rest of the afternoon, but you are friendly enough because you realize that it is indeed best that you skip this undeniably doomed date. So you lie and tell the Portuguese Brazilian From London that you are very busy working even though you are merely procrastinwriting, and you happily put an end to the possibility of spending your aftersnooze at Brooks Brothers.

Later on you get a really nice Text from Mr. Write that says he really wants to see you before you leave for Florida to visit your parents. You are touched and tell him your crazy schedule, to which he responds, "can we at least have coffee? i want to lay eyes on u b4 u go. 4 or 5 ish." And how can you really say no to that? So you meet him at 5pm after a full day of procrastinwriting and then you have a nice coffee at a NewsBar on University Place even though you carry in a Diet Pepsi because you don't drink coffee. You wind up talking about past relationships and even though you consciously choose to be vague about Blonde Beard, Mr. Write is definitely even more vague about his recent romantic shenanigans. So, of course, you press him. He hems and haws but basically tells you that he has recently ended a four year (open) relationship because he wound up falling in love with a boy (which is exactly why you would never allow yourself to be in an open relationship...) and that they broke up a few months ago. When you ask for specific dates you are given nothing. Actually you are ignored. So, of course, you ask again. And then Mr. Write says, January. Or February. As if he has actually forgotten which month his heart was broken.

This is when you begin to look at Mr. Write long and hard. And something seems off. His enthusiasm for you no longer seems appropriate. Suddenly, his overly confident assurances that he is, indeed, truly single, and that he is ready to be dating make you begin to wonder exactly who he's trying to convince? You smile, even though you thinks that the Lady doth protest too much. But you have a plane to catch, so you kiss Mr. Write goodbye and race home so you can pack your largest Gay Fat bathing suit and head out to JFK so you can fly JetBlue through the white puffy clouds to warmer weather for a dreamy weekend in the sun with the Straight Senior Set. Anyway...

You're Not One of Those Fags Who Wears Jewelry...

...but if you were wearing one of those Mood Rings from the '70s it would definitely