Rare are the times when I wish I had a boyfriend. Usually, I’m perfectly happy being single, especially in New York City. But there are exceptions.

A couple weeks ago, I left work early. I was feeling awful – sore throat, headache, chills. As I walked home, for a moment I thought how great it would be to leave work at 1:00 every day. I could spend the afternoon finding hot boys to have sex with! But at that moment, I had no interest in sex whatsoever. The only thing I wanted a hot boy to do was to bring me soup, wrap me in blankets, and cuddle with me.

Cuddle?! I was definitely sick.

Last week, I had to have minor surgery on my hand. I somehow developed a ‘retinacular cyst’ under the skin of my right palm, and removing it required surgery. Though it was minor, it was full-blown surgery: arrival at the hospital Friday morning at 5:45 am (!), made to wear nothing but the loose – fitting hospital gown with my butt hanging out in the back (they wouldn’t let me keep it, I asked), and full anesthesia while they sliced open my hand in the O.R. to remove the alien cyst. Because of the anesthesia, I was required to have someone accompany me home.

My friend the Photographer generously agreed to be my escort. Because I didn’t want him to get up at 5am or sit in a waiting room for 3 hours, I told him to arrive around 9am, which the hospital said was OK. But as I was sitting in the sterile, curtained off pre-treatment area, clutching the thin gown around me and looking nervously at the IV equipment, I couldn’t help but feel very alone. I pride myself on being independent and self-sufficient, but at that moment I really wanted someone to sit with me, and make me smile, and tell me everything would be fine. I wanted a boyfriend.

After the surgery, I was overjoyed to see the Photographer, giddy in fact, and greeted him with a huge, dopey grin. The anesthesia clearly hadn’t worn off. He got me in a cab, stopped with me at Duane Reade to fill my Percocet prescription (good stuff), and took me home.

The next 48 hours were a blur, filled mostly with drugs, sleep and Domino’s pizza. There were, of course, times that I again wished I had someone to take care of me (suddenly not having use of your right hand makes the simplest tasks insanely difficult), but overall I managed pretty well. Until Monday.

My instructions were that on Monday, three days after the surgery, I could remove the mountain of bandages wrapped around my hand, and begin simply covering the incision area with band-aids. Monday night I sat on my bed, took a deep breath, and began to unwrap the sticky ace bandages. It wasn’t the pain that concerned me (it had mostly stopped hurting by then), it was the fact that I am somewhat squeamish about things like cuts, blood, and general bodily grossness. And by “somewhat squeamish” I mean I’m a huge baby.

I managed to get the outer layer of ace bandages entirely off, and then remove the two larger gauze pads. Then I saw what was left: a small square of thin gauze, which was discolored from dried blood. Another deep breath and I began to peel it back. It stuck to the skin.

“Ahhh!” I cried. I realized I was being foolish. “Stop being a baby,” I told myself. “You’re an adult, it’s just a little dried blood, and it probably won’t even hurt. Just do it!”

Once again I began to peel back the gauze, forcing myself to keep pulling as it slowly separated from the skin. I grinded my teeth and kept peeling... until I saw the first of the stitches. They had used black stitches, and the way the ends stuck out from the purplish wound make it look like a big dead bug on my hand.

“AHHHHH!”

I grabbed my cellphone.

XJosh answered on the 2nd ring. “Hello?”

“Are you home???” I cried.

“Uh... yes...” my ex-boyfriend answered cautiously.

“I’m coming over!” I exclaimed. XJosh and his current boyfriend, Marabou, had recently moved to a new apartment in Hells Kitchen, just 2 blocks from my place.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because!” I raced through an explanation in one breath, “Friday I had my hand surgery and today I’m supposed to take off the bandages and I took off the bandages but now there’s a piece of gauze and it’s stuck to my hand and I think it’s from dried blood and it’s stuck to the skin and I looked underneath and I can see the stitches and they’re grosssssssss, and I’m afraid to rip it off cause what if it starts bleeding again and what if it hurts and I need some help and ... and your sister’s a nurse!!”

XJosh signed, knowing full well my ridiculous inability to deal with anything icky. “We’re finishing dinner. Give us 20 minutes.”

Nineteen minutes later, I was pressing the buzzer to his apartment.

“Everything you need is in there,” I said dramatically, handing my messenger bag to XJosh as he opened the door.

Marabou opened my bag and began inventorying the items. “Band-Aids … and vodka?”

“Start with that,” I ordered as he pulled out the half-empty bottle I’d brought.

“What do you want it with?”

“Ice.”

After I downed half my drink, I let XJosh examine my hand.

“Can you get it wet?” he asked.

“Yes, they said that’s OK today.”

For the next ten minutes, XJosh tended to my hand, carefully dripping warm water on the gauze and lightly peeling it back, then gently applying several band-aids, all while Marabou tried to distract me with the video game he was playing.

“There,” XJosh announced, proud of his work. “All done. Didn’t even hurt, did it?”

“Thanks,” I said. Then I handed him my empty glass. “I’ll have another.”

We hung out for another hour, and then I went home, leaving the rest of the vodka as a thank-you. Walking home, I reflected that going there was probably a little ridiculous. But sometimes you literally need a helping hand. Still, it was the third time in as many weeks that the idea of having a boyfriend seemed less appalling and more appealing.

A few days ago, one of my colleagues came in to work very upset. When I saw her crying at her desk, we went to the supply room to chat.

“My boyfriend and I broke up last night,” she told me, new tears coming to her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I said, trying to comfort her. I listened for a while as she let out her I-can’t-believe-I’m-single-agains, and her I-really-thought-he-was-The-Ones. I handed her tissues, and patted her arm.

Then she exhaled a long sigh, looked at me and asked, “Why are relationships SO HARD?”

I shrugged and shook my head – I certainly didn’t have the answer to that one.

“Don’t ask me,” I replied. “I’m perpetually single.”

“Well right now,” she said, laughing through her tears, “I’m thinking that’s not such a bad thing!”

Of course we were talking about sex. It was Thanksgiving weekend, which always seems to be a big party weekend for the gays. MartiniFun was visiting from Chicago, and we were out at Therapy with a few friends. No one ever remembers how these conversations start, but we were talking about sleeping with boys, their friends, or friends of their friends.

“Does sleeping with a friend of a friend put you 2 degrees away from sleeping directly with that friend?” I asked.

“I'd be hard pressed to be 2 degrees from any of you,” AuntPharm said.

“Hell, 1 would be rough,” I replied, noticing that I’ve actually slept with most of my friends at some point. “In fact,” I went on, “I could probably go up to any stranger in this bar, and say ‘I've slept with one of your friends.’ And it would probably be true.”

“And how does that make you feel?” AuntPharm asked, laughing.

“Like it’s time to leave New York?” I quipped sarcastically.

But it did get me thinking about how many men I’ve actually slept with in my decade in New York. Was my number too high? Or was I just a typical New York gay?

I was immediately reminded of a conversation that took place, of course, on Fire Island. There, it seems, all conversations are about sex. That night in July I walked into the kitchen was no exception.

“So he was blowing me on the roof of his house,” one of my housemates was saying. “Everything was going was going great until he looked up at me just as I happened to be checking my watch...”

Everyone laughed.

“Do straight guys have this much sex?” TastyCake suddenly asked.

“What guys?”

“Straight-huh?”

“Who cares?”

“No, seriously,” TastyCake went on. “Ok, so there was this hot guy at the gym, and we were cruising each other, and we hooked up in the steam room. And he kinda looked familiar, but I couldn't remember him. So later on that day, I suddenly get a text from him. He knew me, he had my number, and... his number and name were in my phone! Can you believe I didn't remember him!?”

“Hello!” D2 cried, rolling his eyes. “This afternoon you introduced me to someone on the ferry that I slept with 5 years ago, and I just realized it now! I mean, sometimes I see a guy and I'm like, ‘I think I had sex with that person, but I’m not really sure...”

“Well,” TastyCake said, “how many guys have you slept with?”

“Oh, no!” I scolded. “We’re not getting into that game!”

“C’mon,” he replied. “100?”

“Easily,” I admitted.

“Totally.” added D2.

“This month,” chimed in Madambien, as everyone laughed.

TastyCake continued, “I can't wrap my mind around that number. Straight guys would say 5.”

“But,” I replied, “you can’t compare that. Straight guys live in a totally different world.”

Maybe, I realized, that was the key. It isn’t about being a Fire Island gay, or a New York gay – it’s just about being gay. It is a totally different world. But then I wondered, do all gay men live in that world? Or just the men I know?

Earlier this year, I went on a date with a very cute boy that was actually a set-up through a mutual girl friend of ours. He was sweet, smart, and funny – but I could tell right away we were very different people. The dissimilarities started when we were arranging our meeting. He worked very close to Hells Kitchen, so I suggested gay bars where we could meet. Vlada, Barrage, Ritz... He hadn’t heard of any of them. I was shocked. He’d lived in New York for 5 years, he was a gay man... how could he not know any Hells Kitchen gay bars?

Our separation became more evident as we chatted over drinks. We were discussing recent vacations, and he spoke of a camping trip where he’d spent a week in the woods with bears, snakes, and 4 straight girl friends. I spoke of the gay cruise, where I’d spent a week on a boat with bears, twinks, and 3000 gay boy friends.

“Well,” he announced, “we both slept in a cabin!”

I laughed. And then, I asked him point blank the question on my mind. “You’re just not... in the Gay World, are you?”

He smiled. “Not most of the time,” he admitted. “I like the gay world. I do! I just can’t handle it on a daily basis. But when I visit, it’s great fun. It’s like a big costume party! And who doesn’t love a costume party?”

I know I do.

The story of one New Yorker's first visit to Los Angeles. Part One here. Part Two here. And now the final chapter:

We actually set an alarm for Saturday morning, but we didn’t need it. One good thing about being on New York time in L.A. is that your body can sleep til noon, but you’re still awake by 9. It was Tourist Day, and I had quite a list. First stop: Enterprise.

They handed us the keys to our PT Cruiser – I looked longingly at the convertible, but we decided against the $150 upgrade. By 10:15 we were cruising down Sunset Boulevard toward Santa Monica.

We had coffee and breakfast on the Santa Monica promenade, and then headed to the Pier. We walked the length of Santa Monica Pier, and I took it all in. The homeless people, the pigeons, the strange men gutting fish...

“Santa Monica Pier – check!” I announced.

We hopped back in the car and headed for our next destination: The Getty Museum.

I put the address into Google maps, and handed my iPhone to TightLips.

“Just follow the purple line,” I explained. “The blinking blue dot is us. It has GPS.”

Soon, we were winding through narrow streets, going up steep hills with beautiful houses on either side.

“These houses are ridiculous,” I observed. “They must cost millions.”

I watched as the road narrowed, and the curves became sharper.

“This can’t be right,” I said.

“It is!” Tightlips replied, scrutinizing the iPhone.

Soon were had slowed to about 20 miles per hour, going around curves so sharp that mirrors had been nailed to the trees so that you could see if a vehicle was approaching from the other side. And we always seemed to be moving uphill.

“This CAN’T be right,” I insisted.

“We are exactly on the line!” he said adamantly.

Then we went up another steep incline, around one final U-shaped curve, and suddenly were facing a huge metal fence with a locked gate that went right across the road.

“What the??” I stopped the car.

I looked to the right, and saw nailed to a tree a black box that looked like a mailbox. On it was a large printed sign: DIRECTIONS TO GETTY MUSEUM. Your GPS is Wrong.

* * *

30 minutes later we were out of the hills, on highway 405, and then pulling into the parking lot of the Getty Center. We didn’t really know what to expect, and the surprises started with the tram that takes guests up the mountain side from the parking lot to the museum. We felt like we were entering Jurassic Park. The Center turned out to be a campus of buildings with stunning architecture, beautiful gardens and fountains, and extraordinary views, even on an overcast day. We saw some of the exhibits, including a great photography display by Irving Penn called The Worker, and then strolled though the stunningly landscaped gardens.

“Getty Museum – check!”

We got back to the hotel around four, and changed into our Saturday-Night-Out-In-L.A. Outfits. A client of mine was hosting an event at the Grammy Museum in downtown LA, and had invited us to attend. We left early, as we had a few stops to make on the way.

The first stop was In-N-Out burger. Tightlips was salivating as we pulled in to the parking lot. I looked over the menu, which only listed four items, and ordered a double cheeseburger and fries. The burger was pretty fantastic. The fries, however, were a little soggy – I didn’t really like them.

“Maybe you’d like them better Animal Style,” said TightLips, pointing to a woman near us whose fries were covered with chili, cheese and who knows what else.

“That’s not on the menu!” I said to him.

“You just have to know,” he replied.

“That’s fucking ridiculous,” I exclaimed. “It’s a fast-food chain, not the Skull and Bones Society.”

He shrugged. I handed him the rest of my fries, which he gladly started eating. I made the obligatory fat joke.

“Hey,” he replied, “You’re lucky I didn’t order a four-by-four.”

Again I looked at the menu, then back at him questioningly, as of course no such thing was listed.

“You just have to know.”

“Secret Society of the In-N-Out Burger – check!” I said sarcastically, and we were off to Hollywood Blvd.

We covered the Walk Of Fame, scratching the rest of our Must-Sees off the Tourist list: Grauman's Chinese Theatre, the Kodak Theater, the Hollywood sign. We decided to each pick our favorite Star and take a picture. TightLips immediately chose Paula Abdul, and after only 20 minutes of searching, we found her. Mine was more difficult.

“I don’t really have a favorite star,” I told him. “I’m not the celebrity type.”

“You’ll find one,” he replied. We walked both sides of the boulevard, just as I was getting annoyed with the tourists in front of the Kodak Theater, TightLips pointed at the ground.

“Look!”

I gasped. “Absolut Vodka has a Star?!”

Hollywood Walk Of Fame – check.

The event was at the new Grammy Museum in downtown L.A. Although I was still mostly loving the city, I got to experience one of L.A.’s infamous downsides: traffic. After driving an hour for a distance that should have taken 20 minutes, we finally arrived at the museum, which was located in the same complex as the Staples Center.

I thought the Grammy Museum was pretty cool. TightLips was like Charlie in the Chocolate Factory. He ran around, gasping, pointing, screeching.. and when he saw the display of Beyonce’s grammy dress I swear he orgasmed – I was worried he would try to shatter the display case so he could try it on.

The centerpiece of the event was a private performance by Lang Lang, an amazing pianist who, among hundreds of other noteworthy appearances, performed at the opening ceremonies of the Bejing Olympics, where he was watched by over 5 million people. We got to watch him in a room of about 150 people, and he was absolutely stunning.

Following the performance, there was a cocktail reception on the roof of the museum. The space was nice – well decorated with cocktail tables and of course a full rooftop bar. And once again I loved that we were at an outdoor event in the middle of November. But I was underwhelmed by the views. Looking at the few paltry high-rises of downtown LA, I found myself missing the magnificent skyline of New York City.

We left the event and headed back to West Hollywood for our final night out in L.A. We again found ourselves fighting traffic.

“God, it’s 10:30,” I said, “is there ALWAYS traffic here?”

“Pretty much.”

When we finally arrived, we dealt with the next drama: parking. I was definitely missing the ease of public transit in Manhattan.

The club, however, for the second night in a row outshone NYC. We went to Cherry Pop at Ultra Suede, which was a great space with modern-looking décor and bars, as well as a pretty large dance floor. Around the dance floor were three raised stages, which featured rotating go-go dancers. At first I was critical of all three of them: the white guy with Mohawk, the black guy with the crazy outfit (Is that a wrestling belt, underwear, knee-high boots and a jacket that only reaches from shoulders to nipples? Yes, yes it is.) And the girl. A girl go-go boy? But soon they all won me over, ever her, especially when at random points in the middle of songs they would suddenly break into perfectly matched choreography – but only for about 10 seconds. A neat trick.

The music was great, and the crowd was very cute. There were a couple boys I thought about talking to, but that “foreign city” confidence I’d had the last couple nights seemed to be gone. It might have had something to do with the fact that I wasn’t drinking. It was strange not being able to jump on the subway or in a cab. I wondered, did people in LA not drink as much, or did they always have a designated driver, or did they just drive home drunk? All of those options seemed crazy to me, but I added it to my growing list of things in L.A. that just didn’t make sense.

The next morning, we returned the car and walked to Santa Monica one last time for brunch. We considered Hamburger Mary’s, but for some reason they don’t open at 10:30am so we chose Hugo’s, which had a sizable crowd waiting for tables. The GayCities iPhone app described it as “Healthy food to the stars.”

“Do you see any stars?” I asked TightLips as we were being shown to our table.

“That kind of looks like Phillip Seymour Hoffman,” he said, pointing at a man with white hair who looked nothing like Phillip Seymour Hoffman.

“And the woman he’s with looks like Tabitha from that Bravo hair-styling show,” I said.

“Perfect!” he cheered. “For purposes of story-selling, we had brunch with Phillip and Tabitha.”

The food was delicious, and it was another gorgeous sunny day. As we sat in the taxi to the airport, I posted to Twitter that I was very unhappy to leave L.A. and would be back soon. It was true, there was a lot about the city I really enjoyed. But there was also a lot about it I just didn’t get. And when our plane touched down at JFK eight hours later, I had a thought I often have when returning home from a trip: I’m glad to be back in New York, where things make sense.

The story of one New Yorker's first visit to Los Angeles. Part One here.

Friday morning I woke up, not surprisingly, with a terrible hangover. But the sunshine peeping through the curtain of our room at The Standard West Hollywood motivated me to get out of bed fairly early. After all, how difficult could it be for this New Yorker to spend a November day laying poolside in the sun?

TightLips and I decided that coffee and breakfast were first priorities, so we again rebuked the L.A. norm and walked, not drove, in search of nourishment. Of course we went back to Santa Monica Blvd, obviously the main gay drag (no pun) of West Hollywood. Thursday night we’d had dinner at Marix, and now found ourselves next door at Basix. Immediately, there was a lot I liked about it.

One, we were seated outside on the large patio. Two, the extra-frothy double cappuccino that the cute server quickly brought me was exactly what I needed. Three, the California-Health-Savvy menu made it easy for me to order something filling enough to quash my hangover but nutritious enough to feel beach-body-ready. And four, even though it was a Friday morning in November, we were sitting outside and cute boys were walking, strolling or jogging by.

“I’m loving L.A.!” I announced, taking a bite of my Egg White Power Omelet as a hot boy in a tank top and mesh shorts ran past us.

TightLips rolled his eyes – he was already tiring of my constant L.A. praise. But I didn’t care, and was still raving 2 hours later as we soaked up the sun on the pool deck. He was splashing around in the pool on a pink innertube as I sipped an iced tea in a lounge chair.

“I could get used to this!”

He ignored me and pointed out the group of female models who had taken a table near the building. A couple of them were playfully posing near the fence, giving their favorite sexy-model-poses to the camera.

“I could be friends with them,” he said wistfully. I shrugged. Another Friday afternoon at the Standard West Hollywood.

By 3 o’clock we were fried, and I decided it was time to start working my way through the Tourist List. We put on our Shopping Outfits, and grabbed a cab to Rodeo Drive. We strolled through Dolce and Gabbana, glanced at Gucci, and tried on jeans at Prada.

“Rodeo Drive – check!” I announced, and it was off to happy hour.

TightLips had some friends who lived in the area, a college friend and her sister, and they agreed to meet up with us for cocktails. After some madcap antics trying to find and pick us up on the streets of Beverly Hills, we squeezed in their Camaro and soon arrived at The Abbey, one of West Hollywood’s best-known gay bars. It was huge, with several rooms and lots of outdoor seating.

Unfortunately the L.A. weather tricked me, and I wasn’t prepared for the sudden temperature drop as soon as the sun began to set. Wearing just our sunny-afternoon-jeans-and-t-shirts, sitting outside wouldn’t work. Fortunately inside, there was a huge fireplace with a three-level fire. We settled down in front of it with our fancy cocktails and a plate of hummus.

As we chatted, I was also texting ByeByeCostal, who wanted to meet us for dinner around nine. I agreed, thinking that gave us plenty of time to go back to the hotel and change before going out for the night. It was then that I noticed three cute boys sit down at the bar and order drinks.

“Hmmmm,” I said thoughtfully, and the girls turned to see what had caught my attention. TightLips didn’t have to.

“I saw them when they walked in,” TightLips said. “They’re totally your type. You may as well go.”

I paused. Could I really just walk up to three cute strangers at a bar? In New York I would not. I would assume they’d be pretentious, or bitchy, or just not interested (and 2 out of 3 would probably be correct in New York) and I’d chicken out. But again that weird and wonderful confidence of being in a strange city came over me, and I excused myself from our group and walked up to the bar.

“Hey guys, where’s a good place to go out tonight?”

A lie of course – I didn’t need the information, as I had ByeByeCostal taking us out. But it worked brilliantly. They all gave their answers, and from there came introductions. I settled into the seat next to them, thinking ‘I’m sitting at a bar with THREE cute boys. Does it get better than this?”

It did. They were cheerleaders.

“Cheerleaders? Like, you get thrown up in the air?” I asked, slightly directing my question toward the blond one, who I thought was the cutest (but only barely.)

“Oh yeah, that’s my favorite part!” Blondie replied.

“So who’s the catcher?”

They smiled, and told me that they were going to Palm Springs for the weekend, as it was Gay Pride Weekend there, and they were performing in the parade on Sunday. They were killing time now waiting for 5 or 6 cheerleader friends, and then they were all going to drive together to the house they had rented with the 4 bedrooms, pool, and Jacuzzi. Full of gay cheerleaders.

“It’s going to be an amazing weekend!” said one.

“You should come!” said another, smiling coyly.

“Totally,” agreed Blondie, as he reached over to squeeze my arm. “You should definitely come.”

It’s a good thing that I’d only had one drink, or I undoubtedly would have raced over to TightLips, screamed “We’re going to Palm Springs!!” and dragged him out of the bar and to the nearest car rental. Instead, I replied truthfully, “I wish I could,” and ordered another round of cocktails with them.

Before long, Blondie (who fortunately was not going to be the one driving) was pretty buzzed. He took a sip of his Lemon Drop Martini, and suddenly made a painful face.

“Ow!!” he exclaimed.

“What?”

“It huths my tahng!” Blondie slurred while holding his tongue with his fingers. “Its an exploded taste bud.”

We looked at him incredulously.

“An exploded taste bud!” he exclaimed, insistent. “My friend told me it can happen when you have too much citrus!”

“I’ve... never heard of that...” I said, trying to be sensitive. His friends were not so tactful.

“That’s fucking crazy!”

“You’re so stupid!”

“What?!” Blondie cried. “It’s an exploded taste bud! Haven’t you ever had an exploded taste bud??? Too much citrus!”

Perhaps it was better that I wasn’t going to Palm Springs.

I hung out with them for a few more drinks, until TightLips and I realized that it was almost 9, and there was no way we were going back to the hotel . But it had gotten pretty cold, and I decided I couldn’t walk around in just a t-shirt. So, at 8:55, I exchanged numbers with the cheerleaders, wished them luck in Palm Springs, and walked into American Apparel. It was five minutes before closing time. There was no one in the store but me and the sales clerk. He was young, thin, and very cute.

“Hi,” I said. “Sorry, I know you’re about to close. I just need to get a sweatshirt or something. I wasn’t prepared for it to get this cold tonight. I’m from New York.”

I had uttered the magic words.

“Ohmigod I LOVE New York! I totally want to move there! Where do you live? How long have you been there? What do you do?”

I wasn’t sure how it happened, but suddenly it was raining men in California, and the cumulo-boy-us cloud was right over my head. I’d just left three gay cheerleaders, I was on my way to have dinner with my old trick ByeByeCostal, and here was a hot twinky sales boy who seemed quite into me.

Granted, I could hear the scolding voice of my friend MartiniFun as if he were right there talking in my ear: “My mother always says – don’t date the help!” But after all, I was on vacation – I wasn’t looking for a relationship.

I quickly learned that when he wasn’t working at American Apparel, ClerkKent did party promotion for some of the bars here in West Hollywood, and that he hoped to move to New York and get into event planning. Of course.

“I do event planning in New York,” I admitted. We exchanged phone numbers and email addresses, and he promised to let me know as soon as he made it to the big apple. I bought a lavender long-sleeve v-neck and said goodnight.

TightLips and I met up with ByeByeCostal, who took us to a cute little café down the street from the Abbey. It was nothing fancy, but I was glad to try somewhere popular with the locals. After dinner, we stopped for over-priced coffee on Santa Monica, and then strolled into a sex store to kill time. After 15 minutes of gasping at 3-foot-long dildos and being scared to stick our fingers into the sample FleshJacks, ByeByeCostal announced that it was time to hit the club.

The club was called Factory, the party was called Popstarz. It was a giant, multi-level space with abundant lighting and sound, a huge main dance floor and a couple separate lounges. The crowd was cute, and everyone was having fun, because they were playing fun music. Pop songs of course, the kind that everyone loves to dance and sing along to.

ByeByeCostal introduced us to a couple of his friends, and we drank and danced with them for a while. Occasionally while we were dancing my hands would innocently wander down to squeeze ByeByeCostal’s very muscular butt, and occasionally he would turn and grind that same cute butt up against me. I starting thinking about whether TightLips would be OK getting himself back to the hotel alone, as it was looking like I would spend the night somewhere else.

I got another cocktail, went back to the dance floor, and thought about how much I was loving L.A. The weather, the night life, and the boys! In the last 5 hours, I’d met 4 cute boys, gotten 3 phone numbers, gone dancing with 2 more boys, and was about to go home with 1 of them. Right on cue, there was ByeByeCostal crossing the dance floor in my direction. As he approached I smiled, listening to the thumping music. Tonight was gonna be a good night!

“I gotta go,” he said.

I stared. “Huh?”

“Have fun!” he said, and before I could even gather my thoughts, I was watching his cute butt walk right out the door.

“Bye Bye...”

I turned to TightLips, and he read my ‘what the hell?’ expression. He shrugged. We danced to another Britney song, but soon after decided to call it a night. We still hadn’t quite adjusted to the time in L.A., and it wasn’t just that. Hollywood suddenly wasn’t making any sense at all.

“I can’t believe we’re lying by a pool – in November. 75 degrees! Is this normal?”

“Actually, it’s been known to be warmer,” TightLips replied.

I sighed contentedly, dipped a plantain into the fresh guacamole, and glanced around the pool deck of The Standard West Hollywood. “I could get used to this.”

24 hours earlier, we met up at gate 42 in JFK. It was 1pm on Thursday. I hadn’t seen TightLips in a while, and as we settled into 31A and B, we caught up on gossip like 13-year-old girls.

“I can’t believe he said that!”

“Were you on that email chain??”

“He’s such a bitch!”

Since we were in catty-chatty mode, I asked him, “So what’s going on with your love life?”

Typical TightLips, he immediately clammed up. “Nothing! I don’t know. Nothing!”

I knew that he was seeing someone who lived halfway across the country, but I didn’t know the details. I decided to press a little bit.

“Long distance relationships are rough,” I said.

“I am NOT in a relationship!” he exclaimed. “I’m in a … Situation.”

I laughed, and decide to leave it at that, knowing I would get no more out of him. I cracked open my new James Patterson paperback.

The flight, amazingly, was drama-free. No delays, no turbulence, no screaming babies.

We had decided to only rent a car for one day of our four-day weekend, and like characteristic New Yorkers took a cab from the airport to the hotel. I was immediately happy with The Standard, with its signature blue Astroturf pool deck and over-sized metallic silver beanbag chair in the room. TightLips was immediately happy the cable TV had Bravo.

He started to settle into the Real Housewives of Atlanta Reunion, but I grabbed the remote away and dragged him down to the pool deck for our first LA cocktail. Soon he was sipping a Raspberry Bluejob, while I was enjoying a Basil-Lime Vodka Gimlet and the weather.

“There’s no way anyone is New York is sitting outside having their cocktails tonight,” I observed.

“Feel bad for them?” he asked.

“Not in the least. Cheers!”

After our drinks, we decided to walk the 2 blocks to Santa Monica Blvd in search of a fun restaurant for dinner. TightLips wanted Mexican food. I wanted eye candy. I had downloaded, much to his horror, the GayCities app to my iphone, and it showed plenty of gay bars and restaurants on Santa Monica, near the hotel. We soon arrived at Marix, a Mexican restaurant over-flowing with gay boys. It was West Hollywood’s Arriba Arriba.

I texted ByeByeCostal, a trick I had met in New York years ago, but had kept in touch with as he seemed to fly to Manhattan a lot, even though he lived and worked in L.A. He promised to meet us the next night, but suggested we check out Obar and FUBAR. Such creative names in LA.

After our tex-mex meal, TightLips and I walked to Obar, conveniently a few blocks away. It was a very crowded, well decorated, fairly upscale lounge. I enjoyed it right away, and happily sat down at the bar. TightLips however, between the poolside cocktail, the dinner and the jet lag, was exhausted. I sent him back to the hotel, assuring him I would be fine.

I sat for a few minutes sipping a vodka redbull, taking in the L.A. scene. Before long, a pretty Asian girl ordering next to me said, “Hello Beautiful.” I liked her immediately. We chatted while she ordered, her name was Emily, and the whole time I was thinking, ‘I met an L.A. fag hag!’

She left with her drinks, and I sat for a few more minutes, listening to the bartender call everyone Baby. He also had the terrible habit of over-garnishing every drink, as a sign of affection to the patron, once even going as far as dropping 3 cherries into a drink announcing, “Kisses!”

I turned away from him, and suddenly saw kisses indeed – there was my Asian fag hag... making out with a hot blonde girl! When they came up for air, they walked back over and Emily introduced me to Mary. I said hello, the whole time thinking, ‘I met two L.A. lesbians! This is so L-WORD!’ Then suddenly Emily introduced me to someone else.

“This is Deeno. He wants to buy us shots!”

Deeno was slightly older, very drunk, and very into me. “Hellllllllllo!” he slurred, immediately grabbing my ass. “You need a shot!”

The truth was, I didn’t. I’d had the gimlet, a double margarita at dinner, and the vodka here. I was getting drunk. But I always say, never turn down free alcohol. Plus, I was alone at a bar in a strange city, and they were being nice to me. I needed to be polite.

“Ok, thank you!” I said, politely. “What shall we have?”

“What we’re having,” Deeno slurred, “is either Lemon Drops, or Jaeger shots.”

“What?! Jaeger shots!” I cried in disbelief. “What is this, a fucking frat party?? Who the fuck does Jaeger shots?!”

Emily and Mary stared at me. Deeno seemed too gone to notice my outburst.

“Um, Lemon Drops would be lovely,” I said with my sweetest smile.

Baby the Bartender served us four huge shots in lowball glasses with sugar-covered rims. It took me 3 gulps to drink it.

As soon as we’d finished, the lesbians started making out again, and a minute later they announced, “We’re leaving!”

“What!?” I cried. “It’s 10:30! Where are you going??”

Mary leaned in close to me and whispered, “someplace better!” and then grabbed Emily’s ass with both hands. I got the message. They were going home to scissor.

I was worried I’d be stuck with drunk Deeno, but fortunately he was stumbling around the bar, a bit lost. I seized the opportunity to escape. When you’re in a new city, you somehow develop courage you don’t seem to have at home. I looked around, saw a group of 4 guys (2 of them attractive) and immediately went up and started talking to them.

“OK guys, I have a question. When someone buys you a drink, how long do you have to talk to him?”

There was a split-second, ‘who-is-this-weirdo-talking-to-us’ pause, but then the answers started flying.

“Ten minutes?” said one.

“However long it takes you to drink it,” said another, a philosophy I personally agree with.

“Not if he’s ugly!” cried the third. The conversation continued, and I soon learned all of their names – none of which I even pretended to remember, as the force of the triple-size shot on top of all the other drinks was really starting to hit me. I was just considering ordering a bottle of water when...

An unbelievably loud whistle blast! One long high-pitched whistle, louder than all the conversation and music.

“What the fu...” I started, but was cut off by one of my new friends.

“Order!!” he shouted.

“What??”

“Drinks!” exclaimed another, pushing me toward the bar, which I happened to be closest to. “They’re free!”

I noticed two things – a crowd of people swarming toward the bar, and the projection of a huge digital clock on the wall, counting down from 4 minutes.

“Drinks are free for four minutes?” I asked.

“Yes!!” they shouted. “Vodka cran! Vodka soda! Rum and diet!!”

It was all happening too fast, especially in my drunken state. Which should have been my first indication that I did not need another drink. But I always say, don’t turn down free...

Another loud whistle blast! Just as I was about to order, the clock hit zero. But fortunately, Baby the Bartender remembered me from the time I’d spent sitting alone at his bar. “What’ll it be? I gotcha, Baby.”

I tipped him handsomely, and delivered the free drinks to my new friends. I was rewarded with an invite to their next destination.

“You should come,” they said. “It’s Arab night.”

“Huh?” I asked, confused. All I could picture was flying carpets, genies, and Aladdin. “Arabian Nights?”

“Arab night! Like, Arab guys!”

“Oh,” I said. “Well, where is it?”

“It’s like 12, 15 blocks from here.”

“Oh,” I said. “So we can walk.”

“We’re totally driving.”

I shook my head. “I’m just gonna go to this FUBAR place,” I said. “But thanks for the invite!”

As they headed off to Arabia, I stumbled another few blocks to FUBAR. It was not like Obar at all. Dark, sweaty, loud. A step up from a dive bar. I pushed my way in, looking around and trying to judge the crowd. The next thing I noticed was the go-go boys. Scratch that. Go-go men? Go-go line-backers? The one standing on the front bar had thighs the size of my head. I wouldn’t say he was fat... but it was definitely not all muscle. “Beefy” might be a good word.

I was getting tired. It was almost 1:30 – 4:30am New York Time. But what if I missed something? What if this was THE place to meet guys? I looked around again, and finally decided that FUBAR reminded me of Urge in the East Village, while Obar reminded me of The Park in Chelsea. I leaned against a wall to Twitter that thought, and as I did I noticed someone right next to me, typing on his phone as well. I stole a glance at his screen. Grindr. The gay hookup iphone app. Apparently, this wasn’t THE place to meet guys, if someone was standing here trying to meet guys online.

I took it as a sign, and left the bar, stumbling back to the hotel. I still had 2 more L.A. days ahead of me.

Tuesday night at XES for a friend’s birthday turned out to be sort of a Fire Island reunion. As one frequent guest of our house remarked, “It’s so weird to see you all in clothes.”

The Sexican and I were chatting about, of course, sex, when a housemate who shall remain nameless announced that he had recently slept with a 19-year-old. I shrugged, having made the same admission once or twice in the past. But Sexican, a little tipsy, acted horrified.

“Oh my gawd!! Nineteen???”

A sheepish nod.

“Wait. Did you BOTTOM with a nineteen-year-old?!”

Another sheepish nod, followed by a dash to the bar for more alcohol.

“I can’t believe it!” exclaimed Sexican.

“What?” I asked. “He’s a bottom.”

“I never bottom for someone younger than me!” Sexican cried. “That’s the Rule!”

“It IS?”

I had never heard such a thing, though perhaps I’d been following it inadvertently all these years. I usually tend to top, at least during one-night-stands, which I’ve had a lot of. And I’ve always tended to sleep with younger guys, which I’ve had a lot of. But was there a correlation? It seemed ridiculous that something as silly as age could determine what sexual position someone prefers on any given night, in any given encounter. But, it certainly seemed to resonate with some people...

As I thought about it, I recalled something that In Bocca Di Lucas had written once on his blog, Top To Bottom. Some quick research found me the post, Now Step I Forth to Whip Hypocrisy. He wrote about a partner of his that wanted him to bottom, apparently a request he gets fairly often, the reason being his looks. The point of his post seemed summed up when he, at height 5’4”, wrote: “I have just as much of a right as any other guy to like it better on top...just like all these 6'4" bottoms I've been meeting have a right to take it up the ass.” However, just one line before that, he himself admitted: “I am fully aware of the fact that I look like a bottom. I'm short, slim, boyish, and I have a killer ass.”

(Sounds good to me!)

So some people, I reasoned, determine position preference based on body type, which is purely physical. Others clearly rely on age, which encompasses both the physical and the emotional. And I soon realized that other people associate it with the totally emotional quality of personality.

I was walking in Chelsea with Travelocigay, after we had finished dinner at Tia Pol, an amazing tapas restaurant on Tenth Avenue. He wanted us to meet up with some friends, and pulled out his cell phone to call one of them. I listened to his end of the conversation:

“Hi... Where are you? ... Walking on Tenth... Tia Pol... Where are you? ... Ohhhh... Where is that? ... Ohhhh... Yeah, we should meet up... Ummmm... How long will you be? ... Um...”

Finally I could no longer take the indecisive babble.

“Where are they!?” I demanded.

“Nisos,” he replied.

“When are they done?” I questioned, already mapping Chelsea in my head.

“They’re on dessert,” he said.

“Ok, were going to G. It’s a block away, tell them to walk over whenever they’re done.”

Travelocigay relayed my message and hung up. Then he turned to me and said, “I love that you’re a top!”

Who can say whether being a top or a bottom is determined by age, or height, or attitude. Maybe it’s a combination. Maybe it’s a spur-of-the-moment decision. Or maybe it doesn’t matter, and once they’re at that point, boys just wanna have fun.

I recently got an invitation to a Bar-B-Q at Chef BoysForPay’s house in Brooklyn on a Friday night. Brooklyn? On a Friday night? Chef BoysForPay’s cooking is undeniably amazing, but my impulse wasn’t to accept immediately. I thought, what if something better comes along? It’s a Friday night in New York City, what if I agree to spend the night in the outer boroughs, and miss something fabulous? My Borough Hesitation suddenly reminded me of last October.

Halloween 2008, I had my sexy Tarzan costume all ready to go. Halloween falling on a Friday, there were LOTS of options – everyone was headed somewhere. The week leading up to the holiday, as the gay boys began puttting their less-is-more costumes together, emails arrived in my inbox. Some from friends, suggesting plans. Many from the different clubs and bars, announcing their parties. Finally I got an email from TightLips. He, XJosh, and EverybodyLovesAden were going to meet at their place in Astoria, and proceed into Manhattan for a few stops around town.

I immediately rejected the idea of going to Astoria just to come back to Manhattan, and decided to meet up with them later. For the earlier part of the night, I decided to join an acquaintance, whom I Rarely See, but who had also emailed his intention to hit 2 Manhattan parties and invited others to join him.

At 9pm I texted RarelySee. He replied that he had decided to take a nap and skip the first party.

I tried not to be annoyed (the event planner in me hates disorganization and last-minute changes) and I reasoned that 9 was too early to go out anyway. I sat around my apartment for an hour, then another half hour, waiting for him to text. Finally at 10:40 I texted him again: “What’s up?”

He replied: “Getting more mixers, I’ll be right back.”

So he was already at the second party? Did he think I was there? Was he Drunk? Confused?

I typed: “Where are you?”

Reply: “Fixxed Joe subway messege”

He was clearly drunk and confused, and I was annoyed and decided I was done with him. I texted TightLips, who said they were at a bar on 14thStreet. I thought, Fine, I’ll go meet them. I threw my costume in a bag (even though it was Halloween, I didn’t want to walk around alone in just a leopard print skirt) and walked out the door.

I quickly discovered that at 10:45 on Halloween Friday there are no available cabs anywhere in Hells Kitchen. I walked 20 blocks looking for one, and texted Tightlips again. He then replied that they’d be leaving that bar in about 45 miutes, heading to Chelsea.

I was more annoyed. My choices were to take a subway to the east village, where I would arrive just in time for my friends to leave, or wait for them in Chelsea, where I had walked to. Normally I wouldn’t have minded sitting alone in a bar for one drink – but it was Halloween. And at 11pm, every bar was packed with people, most of them drunk, all of them in costumes. I could not just sit, alone, un-costumed, looking like a total loser. Disgusted with all my options, I walked home.

As I spent Halloween night alone in my apartment, I realized that you can’t spend your life waiting for a better offer. Chances are, not only will you not be missing anything, but you might end up with nothing at all.

Last month when my friend Mattitude emailed that he was leaving New York City, I was disappointed and also a little dumbfounded - who leaves New York? Of course I planned to attend his going-away party, but when the invite appeared on Facebook, I hesitated for a split-second. A Friday night? At a straight bar in the village?

ATTENDING, I clicked, not only because he is a good friend, but because I was finally done with worrying something better would come along.

Sure enough, it was a great time. We had excellent cocktails in a cute little lounge called The Dove Parlour on Thompson Street, then wandered the village for a bit in search of sustenance.

We stopped at NY Coffee & Hot Dogs, where the following exchange took place:

Me: Small latte please.

Server-Girl: Skim milk, right?

Me: Did she just call me Fat?!?!

Then we ended the night at Pieces – always tragic, but in a fun-with-enough-booze kinda way.

While we were at the Dove, XJosh, Marabou, TightLips and I discussed costumes for Halloween. We came up with some great ideas, including what may be my Naked-est Costume Ever. But most importantly, I’ll be spending this Halloween with my friends, not home alone waiting for a better offer.

The weekend of October 10/11 2009, I attended the National Equality March in Washington, D.C. It was a fun, moving, crazy, amazing, drunken, special weekend, and I had no idea how I would ever write about it. Until I realized that I’d been writing about it the whole time – via my endless Twitter and Facebook updates.

Sat at 10:40am
David is on the Bolt Bus headed to DC for the National Equality March. Weekend of updates to follow!

Sat at 12:15pm
David is somewhere in south jersey. Made friends with a cute lesbian couple. No children on the bus thank god - nice and quiet.

Sat at 1:42pm
David’s gay bus to DC is at a rest stop outside Charleston, DE. I wonder if this update will get flagged for "gay" & "rest stop".

Sat at 3:04pm
David has arrived in DC and is heading for the Ritz Carlton Pentagon City. Ya gotta have connections, people.

Sat at 6:09pm
David is relaxing at the Ritz before a night out in DC, and kinda laughing at all the boys taking those 6am buses tomorrow.

Sat at 9:04pm
David is having cocktails and dinner with the gang at SETTE in Dupont Circle. March tomorrow!

Sat at 11:37pm
David is standing in line to get into Town, apparently the hottest party in DC since the Democrats.

Sun at 1:20am
David is DISGUSTED that DC clubs still have black lights. Is it 1993??

Sun at 9:28am
David is hungover and annoyed at B**** for throwing open the hotel curtains, but glad it's not 6am. Suns out in DC!

Sun at 10:22am
David cut himself shaving. On March day! I'm sure by the end of the day I'll have given blood, sweat and tears for Equality.

Sun at 11:15am
David is at the holding area for the march. Amazing energy! And lots of cute boys.

Sun at 12:04pm
David just realized we are at the very front of the march. And we're off!

Sun at 12:17pm
David: March is off to a slow start - it's more of a Stroll For Equality so far.

Sun at 12:20pm
David: Actual rainbow in the sky above the march! Crowd goes crazy!!

Sun at 1:40pm
David is closing in on the Capitol. Not sure what it is about this stretch, but there's cute boys EVERYWHERE.

Sun at 2:00pm
David is at the rally. Lady GaGa just passed by getting escorted to the stage.

Sun at 3:46pm
David: Lady GaGa on stage at the Equality Rally! Crowd goes crazy.

Sun at 8:47pm
David: Phone died, no surprise. I was seen on cspan! Proud of all those NYers who made the day trip but glad I hoteled. Goin out!

Sun at 10:34pm
David is heading out in Dupont Circle. Where is everyone? What's the DC hot spot tonight?

Sun at 11:46pm
David is sitting with the boys in the "VIP" section at Cobalt. We look like we're judging American Idol.

Monday at 10:19am
David is on Cspan at the Equality March. Clearly seen in the video on YouTube.

Tuesday at 12:09pm
David is wondering what to have for lunch. Wow, updates are so much less interesting when I'm not in the middle of a March for Gay Equality.

"I think my tastes are changing," I told VeryVogue and D2, my Fire Island housemates, while we were sipping cocktails poolside."I'm starting to appreciate guys who are a little older."

"Oh, so it's finally OK if they're old enough to drink?" asked VeryVogue.

I gave him a dirty look and sipped my Vodka Crystal Light.

I have somewhat of an obsession with twinks. Guys who are young, usually thin, boyish, often with little body hair and little earthy cares just seem to do it for me, and always have. However, along with their young bodies and carefree attitudes come a whole host of problems, ranging from immaturity to insecurity.

I was discussing it with a friend I ran into earlier this summer at Rockit, a Friday night party in Hells Kitchen . I lustfully pointed out a gorgeous boy walking by who couldn’t have been a day over 21.

“You remind me a straight girl friend of mine,” my friend said. “She keeps dating these, like, 21-year-old models. And she is never satisfied.”

“But they’re so hot!” I whined.

He shook his head. “You two could commiserate. You both know that what you want in the moment is what you really don’t want in the long term.”

“Damn twinks!” I cried. “They’re bad for you, but they're so good! They're like carbs.”

After my hangover subsided, I thought about the conversation, and wondered why I was so helplessly attracted to twinks. I knew full well that they were almost always undateable, being either too young, too unemployed, too unstable... Was it just because they look so good?

I do have a probably unhealthy fascination with youth – skin before it starts to wrinkle, hair before it starts to gray. So when I see a cute gay boy, showing off his pert little ass with not a hint of a sag, how can I not want to get him in bed?

But then I realized – even getting them in bed is often a letdown.

I recently got invited to a twink orgy. I’d come home from the gym, made dinner, and popped on to Manhunt, with truly no intention of doing anything more than browsing. Until I got a message from a boy who was 23 but looked about 19, with a thin yet curvy body and not a wisp of hair below his eyebrows. He wrote that he was staying in a hotel in midtown, and that a few of his friend were there with him. Did I want to come “hang out”? Of course I asked about the friends, and was instantly given 2 more screennames. I was somewhat shocked when both profiles showed cute boys, ages 19 and 21. Ten minutes later I was out the door.

A twink orgy! Hot young naked bodies everywhere! Crazy unforgettable acrobat sex!!

Not quite. True, the 3 young guys were there when I arrived. And a fourth joined soon after. True, they were cute, though some more than others. And true, eventually everyone was fooling around. I’ve definitely had worse nights.

But the overwhelming feeling was ... awkward. One guy was self-conscious about his body, one guy wanted to bottom but it hurt too much, one guy didn’t’ understand the concept of not using teeth... Overall, though the experience was fun, the sex was decidedly mediocre.

I left wondering: if you can’t get good sex at a twink orgy, where can you find it?

“How are things with Shirley Temple,” asked TightLips over margaritas one night. I’d been seeing Shirley Temple, the adorable non-drinking actor, pretty regularly for most of the summer.

“Good,” I replied. “He’s fun, we have a good time. And the sex is fantastic!”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” I continued, “It’s like, he really knows what he’s doing! I wonder ... I wonder if it’s because he’s older... you know, he’s had more practice. I mean, he is almost 30.”

“Really? Really. You’re really just figuring this out.”

“What – that he’s almost 30?” I asked.

“You’re really just figuring out that guys who are older have more experience and are therefore better in bed? That’s just dawning on you? Hello! Get out of TwinkyTown!”

I started thinking that maybe he was on to something. Maybe I’d been missing out all along on great sex, because I was obsessed with twinks who couldn’t fuck their way out of a Barney’s bag. Sure, Shirley Temple’s ass was a little furrier than the ideal smooth boy butt I’d like, but he looked great naked, and was great at naked fun!

I made a decision. Thoroughly set on giving up twinks and sticking with amazing sex, I went out with Shirley on a Thursday night. We checked out Key Klub, which boasted a cute space and an OK crowd, but was ultimately not worth a trip to the almost-East Side. From there, we decided to swing by Splash, since our mutual friend J-Blo was promoting the party that night. It was Campus Thursdays.

For the first ten minutes I was fine. Then I started noticing the go-go boys. Thin. Young. Smooth. Nearly Naked. Dancing - no, writhing - on cubes and on bars to Katy and Kelly and Britney. Perfect, little tight butts bouncing to the beats...

I realized that Shirley had grabbed me by the wrist and was dragging me around the side of the dance floor. With my eyes somewhat unfocused, I didn’t understand where he was heading until we were standing right next to VeryVogue and D2, my Fire Island housemates. They greeted Shirley warmly. They rolled their eyes at me.

“Of course you’re HERE,” D2 said.

I thought about pointing out that they, too, were here, but got distracted by one of the go-go boys taking position on the bar right above us.

“I thought that your tastes were changing!” said VeryVogue.

Again, I opened my mouth to reply ... but hesitated. The go-go boy had taken off his shorts, and was wearing some kind of black mesh underwear that was completely see-through. His entire perfect tiny round ass was visible gyrating atop the bar.

“They are!” I replied.

Totally.

My life is pretty gay. I hang out with gay people, I go to gay bars, I go on gay vacations ... I even eat gay food. (If you doubt that last one, you should have been at Bay Bar on Fire Island when the gay sitting next to me announced, as the artichoke margherita ricotta pizza he'd ordered was set down in front of him, "This is the gayest pizza ever.")

So, it always comes as a shock to the system when I hang out with The Straight Friends. It's true, I have very few, and most are co-workers. But this group is special - these are 4 friends who I have known since high school. Four straight guys, all from northern New Jersey, who basically grew up together. Somehow, we manage to get together once or twice a year, and we always have a great time.

It shouldn't really be a shock. It's just like hanging out with the gays: lots of crass drunken talk about sex and dating. Except certain words get substituted in conversation: 'Tits' gets used where I'd usually expect to hear 'pecs.' 'Pussy' where 'ass' would usually be (unless they are really lucky.) And perhaps most jarring: 'beer' instead of 'cosmopolitan'.

The thing about my friends is: they're really, really funny.

M: Dude, I dunno. We've been dating for a couple years, and we've gotten into the Boring Sex Phase.

S: Ohhhhhh! I HATE the Boring Sex Phase.

J: Totally sucks.

M: I know.

S: When it happened to me, that was it. I started getting sex somewhere else.

M: Dude. I wouldn't cheat on her.

J: Wow. You're the hero of my Victorian novel.

I nearly spit my vodka soda all over the bar from laughing so hard. Somehow, 10 minutes later, it got better.

S: Germany was awesome. The architecture was like, seriously cool, the food was good, and we had a rockin time at the clubs!

J: Dude. Did you get laid?

S: Fuck yea! Holy shit you guys. This German girl - beautiful. Like unbelievable. And then I get her NAKED... she had the most beautifully trimmed pussy I've ever seen in my life. I mean, I went to museums... But this. This was Art.

Again I laughed hysterically. I wanted to roll my eyes, but it would have been hypocritical. I've probably had a very similar conversation on Fire Island.

“I’m off to meet a friend for lunch,” I said.

“Oh RIGHT!” snapped one of the catty gay men in my office.

“We know where YOU’RE off to!” chimed another catty gay in my office. There are quite a few of them. (OK, us.)

“Are you meeting a trick at the Marriott, or the W?” they asked.

“Yeah, right.” I replied. “I would never.”

Ok, the truth is, I would. And I have – just not in a couple years…

The first time it ever happened was probably 5 years ago. I’d met a British tourist at Therapy, and we’d hooked up. Later that week, he emailed me in the middle of the work day. It turned out his hotel was just a few blocks from my office. It didn’t take much negotiating for him to convince me to leave work for an hour and come find him in his room, waiting naked on the bed.

A couple years later at a different job, I was bored enough at work one day to log on to a popular hookup website. Sure enough, I found someone who not only worked less than 10 blocks away, but who lived in the neighborhood as well. Heading out to “lunch,” I went to his place, found him waiting in a jockstrap, and we had a fast, furious, sweaty, sticky fun time. A quick shower and I was back to the office in just under an hour.

Not long after, while I was still working at that same place, I had an old trick unexpectedly text me one night that he was in the neighborhood of my apartment. I invited him over and he arrived quickly, very drunk. We of course continued to drink, and while we did have some fun naked-time, he eventually realized that he’d had too much to drink, and decided to go home. The next morning while I was at work he texted me, apologizing that he’d left. I told him to forget it, but he insisted on “finishing what we started.” His apartment was a 10-minute walk from my office, and again it didn’t take much convincing. I soon found myself in the middle of my third-ever Lunchtime Trist.

* * *

“Did you have fuuuun?” chorused the gays as I walked back into my office after lunch with my friend Adam that was truly just that – a lunch.

“You have a little something right here,” said another, tapping the side of his mouth.

I rolled my eyes, but suddenly had a thought. If everyone in my office thinks I’m off having sex at lunch, then I probably should be. The fact is that my current job is in the heart of Times Square, and my apartment is in Hells Kitchen, just a few blocks away. I could easily have a boy meet me at home, spend 30 minutes with his legs to Jesus, and be back at my desk freshly showered with time to spare for a grilled chicken salad.

Now all I have to do is find some slutty boys in Midtown at lunchtime. I hear there’s an app for that.

The latest OUT magazine party was at the Ace Hotel, a new boutique hotel in Chelsea with a fabulously designed lobby. It was hard to appreciate the design, as the space was packed full of cute and trendy homos, as the OUT parties usually are, due in no small part to their open bars.

I brought Shirley Temple as my date (bringing a non-drinker to an Open Bar event means double the drinks for you) and we arrived a fashionable 30 minutes late. As we turned the corner, we saw the gays.

"A line?" he asked with some disgust, which made me smile. I was thinking the same thing. I was about to suggest we cruise the line to see if I knew anyone, when suddenly he was talking to a hot boy in a baseball cap. Who had just left work. At the hotel.

"You work there?" I asked, in Full Flirt Mode.

"Yep," he nodded.

"So, is there like a secret back door you can sneak us in?" I was batting my eyelashes so hard I thought his cap might blow off, but somehow (probably because of Shirley Temple) it worked. He led us around the side of the building, nodded at a security gueard, through a locked door, past *another* security guard, and suddenly we were in.

"Have fun!" he said, and dissapeared.

"Well that was easy!" I smiled. "Let's hope the rest of the night works out that well!"

As if on cue, a cocktail server approached us holding a tray with fruity-looking beverags.

"Would you like a complimentary rum drink?" she asked.

Normally, rum isn't my liquor of choice, so I asked if it was a full open bar.

"Nope, just these," she replied.

"Thanks!" I said, taking one. As she walked away, I took a sip. Fortunately, I'd been to more than my share of open bar events, and I knew that often the liquor was either donated by a sometimes questionable brand, or else very cheap. Still, nothing could have prepared me fully.

"Vlargh!" I exclaimed, almost actually spitting it out. "That's disgusting!"

"What is it?" Shirley asked.

I looked at it, assesing the murky purplish color. Then, fueled by curiosity, I reasoned that maybe I just wasn't used to rum, and the second sip would be better. I tried another.

"Eweeew-et!" I muttered, barely swallowing it. "I think it's a combination of really bad rum and bad mixers, maybe pomegranite and pineapple?"

He winced. Even a non-drinker appreciates the horror of a poorly-made cocktail.

We began to move through the lobby, a sea of gay men. Inevitably, I started bumping into people I knew.

"Hi Sweetie," one friend greeted me with a kiss on each cheek.

"How are you?" I asked.

"Great except for this drink!" he exclaimed. "It's awful!"

I nodded, and noticed another friend.

"Hi!" I said.

"Hey," he said smiling. Then he noticed my still-full glass. "Don't drink that! It's gross!"

"True that."

A minute later, another cute gay friend, this time with his boyfriend.

"Hi Boys," I greeted them. "Cheers!"

"Don't toast with that, it's horrible!"

"Tragic," the boyfriend agreed.

As we moved on, Shirley Temple laughed about the terrible drink being the running joke of the party. "The thing is," he pointed out, "everybody has one!"

"That's cause they're free!"

Then my friend SirDrinksAlot approached us, also carrying the dreaded concoction. It didn't surprise me though, as he'll drink anything. He'd suck the alcohol out of a bottle of after-shave.

"THIS," he announced dramatically, without so much as a Hello, "is the Worst Thing Ever." I didn't need to ask what he was referring to.

"It's bad," I agreed.

"NO. No, no. THIS ... is UN-DRINKABLE!" And with a grand arc of his arm he placed the full glass down on a table.

I was shocked. I'd never seen him turn down alcohol, especially free alcohol. I took it as a sign, a followed his example.

We left the party soon after, and I think most other people did as well. I wondered if it was actually possible that a bad drink ruined an entire party. (As an Event Planner, I think about these things.) Or worse, could it have ruined OUT Magazine's party reputation, and effect the attendance at their future parties? Or would people just forget all about the awful concoction after two sips of their next decent drink?

The following Monday, I received a Facebook notification that someone, who I didn't know, had commented on a photo of me. I clicked thorugh to arrive at the page of a friend who had posted a picture from the OUT party. It showed my friend, his date, Shirley Temple and me. We were holding the free cocktials. Underneath was the date's comment: "Worst Drink Ever."

I pulled open the sliding glass door and was instantly hit with bright Fire Island sunshine and Beyonce blasting from the iPod.

“Heeey!” chorused a couple of my housemates. I did a “share” for the first time ever this summer – went in with 6 other guys on a four-bedroom house, for 6 various weeks throughout the summer.

Three of them were already up, one walking around the pool in a pair of clear high-heeled shoes we’d found left in the house from last week’s share.

“There’s coffee,” said TastyCake, who was my roommate for the summer.

“And vodka!” announced GarrettJuice.

“It’s ten a.m.,” I mumbled, still waking up.

He looked at me. “So?” Though he was definitely the house mother of the summer, I’m not sure I’d ever seen GarrettJuice not sauced. He pushed a pitcher of what looked vaguely like lemonade in my direction.

“What IS that?” I asked dubiously.

“Vodka and Crystal Light!” he replied proudly. “We have to watch our carbs!”

I shook my head and headed back inside to the kitchen, opting for the coffee and the uneaten half of my sandwich from last night. When I returned to the deck, Britney was blaring and the boys were in a discussion about women.

“They’re all just so annoying,” TastyCake was saying, “every single one of them!”

“I totally agree,” called Madambien from across the pool, as he danced around in the high heels to Toxic without spilling a drop of Crystal Light Vodka from his plastic martini glass.

“Aren’t you generalizing a little?” I asked TastyCake.

“Nope,” he replied, “I really hate women. I barely like my mother and my sister. And they're lucky they're blood.”

I laughed, and took a huge bite of my sandwich. Madambien was circling the pool, strutting her stuff back in our direction. As I went to take another bite, he plucked the sandwich out of my hands.

“That’s enough of that,” he said, and without pausing took the sandwich back into the house.
I stared down at my now-empty hands, and then looked up at TastyCake.

“Were you just put on a diet?” he asked.

I shook my head in disbelief.

“I told you, carbs!” scolded GarrettJuice, clearly taking the sand-burglar’s side. “Do you know that house 2 down from us? The whole thing is filled with models. All of them! A house full of models! It’s disgusting.”

Despite being miffed about my missing meal, GarrettJuice had reminded me of a story my friend AllWorkNoGay had told me before I left for the island. I shared it with the boys.

Several years ago, AllWorkNoGay was visiting Fire Island, and met a boy at High Tea. This boy was gorgeous – adorable face, beautiful body – perfection. It turned out, he was a model for a famous fashion designer, and in fact staying at the designer’s huge house on the island.

“Would you like to come back to the house with me?” ModelBoy asked AllWorkNoGay.

“Of course!” AllWorkNoGay was funny, charming and great to hang out with, but knew that he was no super-model, and couldn’t figure out what the boy saw in him. Still, he wasn’t passing up the opportunity. When he got to the house, which seemed more like a mansion, he realized this boy wasn’t the only one the designer had invited to stay. It was an entire house full of stunning male models.

At first AllWorkNoGay thought he was in heaven, but he soon began to feel like the odd man out. He was definitely suspicious that he was the butt of their jokes when they kept offering him food, saying “Eat, Eat!” when none of them ingested so much as a celery stalk.

Finally, he pulled ModelBoy aside and flat out asked him, “Why are you with me?”

ModelBoy, without a hint of sarcasm in his beautiful honest eyes, replied, “I like the simple people.”

My housemates all laughed along with me.

“That poor guy,” said TastyCake.

Suddenly, the sliding door flew open and D2 burst out onto the deck.

“I'm so stressed out you guys! One of my tricks might live with one of my other tricks!”

TastyCake gave him a confused look, while GarrettJuice immediately began pouring him a cocktail.

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“O.K.,” said D2, sitting at the patio table and reaching for the drink. “I met this guy at Low Tea last night, and he was from Queens, and he was all about me, and we traded numbers, but then he disappeared, right? So then later at High Tea, I met this OTHER guy, who was also from Queens, but I thought, you know, whatever, there’s tons of people from Queens!”

He took a large gulp of his drink and went on. “So, I end up going home with the second guy, and we have crazy sex, and I’m there til like 4 a.m. And NOW, I just got a text from the FIRST guy, saying he’s lying in bed naked and inviting me over.”

“Slut.”

“Whore.”

“I’m so jealous.”

“Wait!” D2 cried. “So the first guy just texted me his address, and it’s the same house that I went to last night to hook up with the second guy! They’re both from Queens. Oh my god, they are housemates!!”

Although he may have expected sympathy, all D2 got was a big round of laughter. I finished my coffee and announced, “I think I’m ready for a cocktail now.”

It was a perfect summer Saturday in New York City. I was walking through Hell’s Kitchen with a cute boy, who I’ll call Shirley Temple, as he was an adorable actor who doesn’t drink. We’d just finished an early dinner at Arriba Arriba, and were deciding where the night would take us. I’m not sure if I was craving a second margarita, or if I just wanted to sit outside, but we found ourselves at Blockheads in Worldwide Plaza.

Blockheads had been one of my favorite summer locations for several years, because of the rare combination of outdoor seating and cheap drinks. It was also great for people watching: not only was it in the middle of uber-gay Hells Kitchen, but on one side of Worldwide Plaza is a Bally’s gym, so hot boys wearing gym shorts and tank tops are always walking in and out. Unfortunately, this summer it seemed that the secret of Blockheads had gotten out, and that night, like the last couple times I’d been there, the crowd was looking very straight.

I automatically scanned the area for cute boys, something I normally wouldn’t do while on a date, but we’d been playing a game of “Who Will See The Most People They Know In Hells Kitchen,” and I was determined to win.

I saw a cute-ish boy, who was indeed wearing gym shorts, with a t-shirt and baseball cap. I only looked at him long enough to determine that I didn’t know him, but that apparently was long enough to catch his interest. As we stopped in the middle of the plaza next to the fountain, the boy walked by and continued checked us out. A lot. He was obvious about it, and we both noticed.

"He was totally undressing you with his eyes," said Shirley Temple.

"Ha. Yeah, it was a little much," I agreed.

"And," ST continued, "he’s walking back."

Sure enough the boy had stopped, began talking to a girlfriend, and was now walking back toward us with the girl at his side. Then it got interesting.

He passed us, and as he walked by he began "adjusting" his t-shirt and waistband, such that his shorts "accidentally" slid farther and farther down his ass. He wasn’t wearing underwear. For a good 15 seconds, half his ass was totally exposed, right there in front of Blockheads.

"And now," ST continued deadpan, "he's undressing himself. "

I was dumbfounded. I’ve been flirting with boys a long time, and will admit to getting cruised by some very forward boys in some very interesting places. But flashing your ass in the middle of Worldwide Plaza? Seriously?

"We have to go." I said. "This place is way too straight."

My friend The Photographer and I were walking down Ninth Avenue in SoPA (South of Port Authority) to get dinner at Market Café. Out of the blue, around 39th street, we were stopped. He was a young guy with a cute face and what looked like a nice body.

“Excuse me guys,” he said, with what sounded vaguely like a Russian accent, even though he looked more Israeli, “Can I ask you question?”

We waited, half expecting a plea for money. After all, it was SoPA.

“Can you tell me – where is gay bar?”

I was uncharacteristically speechless. Really? Just like that, no hesitation, or anything?

Photog recovered first, but not really. “He would know,” he said, gesturing toward me. Sell out.

The truth is, I know the Hells Kitchen gay bars in my sleep. I can name them north to south, alphabetically or by drag queen headliner. I was, for some reason, dumbfounded. “Uhhh... Well, there are lots in Hells Kitchen,” I blurted, vaguely gesturing north.

“I need magazine, yes?”

“Uh, yes!” I said. “HX, or Next. You can find them at any bar. The closest one is ... uh...”

Finally, Photog broke in “Ritz?”

“Yes!” I exclaimed. “Ritz.” In actuality, I was skipping over HK, but that was technically a restaurant, and only a gay dance party on the weekends. And also skipping over Cleo’s, technically called Ninth Avenue Saloon, and always called tragic. “Ritz is on 46th street,” I went on, anxious to recover. “This is 38. Just keep walking up Ninth until 46, and make a right. It says “Ritz” with a blue awning.”

“Forty-six,” he repeated in his ambiguously Russian, sexier-by-the-minute accent. “I see rainbow flag?”

“Uh, no...” I stammered yet again, “No rainbow flag...”

Photog jumped in with “It’s decorated like a ship!” and made gestures with his hands like he was helming a pirate vessel.

I struggled to say something else, but nothing came. What was wrong with me? Where were the obvious lines that should have flown out of my mouth: What’s your name? Where are you from? How long are you in town? And of course: Gay bars are all dead on a Monday, but my apartment is alive and well!

With his typical ambiguous-Russian directness, he took his leave. “Thanks guys,” he said, and headed north.

We were silent for a moment, and then Photog blurted, “What was that?!”

“I have no idea. But I suddenly need some vodka.”

I broke my own rule, and went directly to the apartment of a trick I met on Manhunt without meeting him for drinks first.

He was cute when he opened the door, and looked just like he did in his pictures. I breathed a sigh of relief. Then I entered the apartment.

Dresses. Bright, glittery, gaudy dresses, strewn everywhere. A make up table, overflowing with cosmetics. A huge mirror. High heel shoes. Wigs.

“Oh, sorry,” he said, catching my stare, “I live with a drag queen.”

My immediate thought was: That’s like saying ‘I’m just holding this porn for a friend.’

My next thought was: Am I about to hook up with a drag queen?

“This is a lot of stuff,” I said.

“Yeah, she’s at a show tonight,” he said. “I design her costumes.”

Skeptically, I began to investigate further, trying to be subtle. There were indeed two bedrooms. QueenysLittleHelper was leading me, presumably, to his. Entering, there was a similar mess, but it was slightly different. Less dresses, more... fabric. The same marabou, silks and satins, but they were parts rather than dresses. Fortunately my good friend MartiniFun is a costume designer, and I recognized the typical tools of the trade. Fabric scissors, measuring tapes, little boxes of pins. And standing in the corner were two dress forms.

As he began to put his hands on me, I once again sighed in relief. I wasn’t about to sleep with a drag queen.

I may as well have.

As soon as I laid on the bad I felt little bits and pieces sticking to my back and arms.

“What the...?” Sequins. Beads. “Are these rhinestones?”

Instead of apologizing, he just kissed me. We had sex, but it seemed that every time things got hotter and heavier, so did the costume nightmare. With every thrust, there was an explosion of sequins, tinsel, and false eyelashes. Bedazzled fabric was flying through the air. Boa feathers drifted about. Glitter rained down.

When it was over we showered, but I was still flicking mirrored bits of sequin and tinsel off my clothes as I walked home. And those tiny persistent flecks of glitter stuck around for days. What a drag.

As I pack my skimpy bathing suits and search for lube that comes in airline-approved 3-oz bottles, I can’t help thinking about the first year I attended Gay Days at Disney World.

My friend Mattitude had gone to college in Florida, so having him as my roommate that first year came with a distinct advantage: he knew all the locals. Even though Gay Days is a huge Circuit Party destination and attracts gays from all over the country, it’s also a huge draw for all the Florida gay boys living anywhere within 2 hours of Orlando. The locals are a tight clique, but being there with Mattitude was like having the key to the city – once you had an in, all the doors opened.

Friday night we went to the Beach Ball party, which takes place at Typhoon Lagoon, Disney’s water park. Though not the biggest, this is debatably the most popular party of the weekend, with good reason – hundreds and hundreds of gay boys, running around a water park, wearing next to nothing, with full access to all the rafts, pools, and slides. To make the formula for a perfect night complete, remove the few elements that usually ruin an amusement park (lines and children) and add in a massive dance floor, a DJ, and copious amounts of alcohol .

Saturday night the big circuit party was at MGM Studios. However, because of the high ticket price some of the local boys decided to skip the madness and hit a neighborhood bar called Parliament House. I had no idea what I was getting into, but looking at the number of cute Florida boys who were going, I quickly agreed. It turned out Parliament House was no little local bar. That night there were live performances by Kimberly Locke (who gave a surprisingly good show) and Bananarama. And as much as I love a cruel summer, what really put me over the edge was the disclosure that there was a Foam Party.

I had wanted to attend a Foam Party for years, but they rarely exist, especially in New York. It requires a room (or in this case a large, sort of fenced-in area in the back yard) that gets filled with what is basically soap suds. Everyone jumps in to dance and gets covered in the foam, and it becomes playfully sexual pretty quickly, because everyone is soaped up and slippery, and because usually the foam is at least waist-high and no one can see what’s happening underneath.

I was shocked to hear that the majority of the group wanted nothing to do with the foam.

“Are you kidding?!” I cried. “It’s amazing! It’s fabulous! It’s foam!”

“It’s disgusting.” They replied. “It’s gross.” “It’s slimey” “You may as well lather yourself with STD.”

Undaunted, I announced that I was going in. One guy in the group, a cute Russian boy with reddish brown hair and pale skin, seemed less reluctant than the others. I honed in on my target, certain I could convince him. It didn’t take much.

“Hey,” I flirted, “We’re wearing the same bathing suit!”

“Almost,” he said, looking at the stripes down the side. “The stripes are different colors.”

“Close enough!” I said. “I bet if we switched, no one would even notice.”

He laughed. “You’re probably right.”

“We should go in the foam and try it,” I winked.

3 minutes later, CzarsAndStripes and I were waist deep in bubbles, while the rest of the group headed back to Bananarama. It was entirely as fun as I expected. We danced, we flirted, we groped inappropriately. Despite the general consensus that the foam was gross, the pit was pretty full of soaped-up gay boys. Most of them were having the same innocent fun that we were.

But every once in a while, we heard a scream.

“AHHHH!”

We both looked, but it was hard to see through the sudsy cloud. A few minutes later, it happened again, this time from another direction, the scream from a different mouth. And then, a minute later, another. Sometimes the screams were followed by laughter, other times by cries of “What the fuck!?” or “What in gay hell was that?!”

Curiosity finally got the better of me and I reluctantly took my hands off CzarsAndStripe’s soapy bottom and moved toward the source of the screaming. For a moment it was quiet. And then out of the corner of my eye I noticed something moving. I turned just in time to see a figure, completely covered in suds, rise up from out of the foam, look around, and slowly sink back to the ground until he was completely submerged. Although I was loving the foam, even I thought it was a little gross to put one’s face completely under it. Plus, how did he breathe under there?

My thoughts were interrupted when, 10 feet from where I’d just seen the figure appear and then submerge like some creature from the gay lagoon, a blonde twinky boy screamed.

“AHHHHH! What bitch just grabbed my ass!?!”

I couldn’t help but laugh. This guy was actually crawling around under the foam, sneaking up on unsuspecting boys, and helping himself to a handful. I didn’t know whether to be appalled or to applaud.

“Maybe it’s time to go,” said CzarsAndStripes.

Part of me wanted to stay, but I agreed, thinking: there’s always next year.