"If you meet your next boyfriend on Manhunt, I will eat a necktie."

I stared back at this pompous, cocky person who was mocking me right to my face. He happened to be one of my best friends, who I'll call MartiniFun.

"You're on!" I exclaimed.

"It will NEVER happen," he replied. "Manhunt.com is for fucking. That's it. You find someone to have sex with, and you never talk to them again. The site's tagline is 'Get On, Get Off'!"

I pinched the stem of my maraschino cherry and swirled it around my manhattan. "Some people on manhunt might want a boyfriend. Look - this profile says 'Not looking for hook-ups, looking to date.'"

"Really?" MartiniFun exclaimed, with sarcastic disbelief, "Which profile is that, the guy laying spread-eagle on the coffee table, or the one dipping his balls in the cool whip container?"

I sipped my cocktail and decided right then that I would prove him wrong, and serve him a hot plate of Necktie, no matter how long it took.

The first suitor who I thought could potentially fulfill my quest was Personal Chef. He was cute, charming and crazy in bed. It was all going well until I invited him as my plus one to a dinner party. It was at that point he revealed himself to be crazy out of bed as well. Drunk, immature and a big crazy mess. By the end of that night I had 86ed him.

Then came ChelseaRon. When I first met him, and we went on a couple dates, I thought he really had potential.

"I'm going on my third date with this one," I told MartiniFun one night. "But don't worry. I'm perfectly willing to let you chop up the necktie, and bake it into a pie. Or maybe turn it into a nice stew."

"I'm not worried," he replied arrogantly. "It won't last."

Once again, he was right.

It's not like I was actively searching for a boyfriend on Manhunt - far from it. But I'm always up for a date, or at least a drink, before jumping into bed with someone. And if that date leads to a second, or a third, or even to a (gasp) relationship, I am open to that . And if I can be open to it, yet occasionally browsing Manhunt, then why can't someone else with a similar mindset be browsing as well? Is it so wrong to suppress my cynicism for a few nano-seconds and think that two such browsers might meet in cyberspace?

Last night I texted MartiniFun.

D: I've met someone. He's tall, cute and sporty.

MF: Like Sporty Spice?

D: No, like he plays soccer, runs, all that stuff.

MF: Sounds hot. Where did you meet him?

D: Necktie Soup!

MF: Riiiiight. We'll see.

Yes we will.

It’s easy to get laid on a gay cruise.

The second night of the Atlantis Freedom 2009 Caribbean cruise, the party theme was Brazil. Everyone always dresses up for all the themes, some wearing crazy, over-the-top outrageous costumes, most wearing something that suggests the theme but shows a lot of skin. It just so happened that my costume last Halloween was Tarzan, so when I read about the Brazil theme, I threw my loin-cloth-skirt-thing into the suitcase and was ready to go.

I was only on the pool deck that night for about 10 minutes, cocktail barely begun, when I spotted a young, twinky, half-naked boy with sandy blonde hair. Wearing a Tarzan costume. It was almost too easy.

I walked over, said hello, and made some comment about too many Tarzans. He laughed, smiled, touched my arm. We chatted, drank, found excuses to touch some more.

“What’s under your skirt?”

“What’s under yours??”

We danced face to face, hiding growing excitement. In less than 2 drinks, TarzanBoy and I decided to leave the dance floor.

On an Atlantis cruise, everyone shares a stateroom with a roommate. TarzanBoy seemed certain his roommate was still up on the dance floor, so we headed to his room. Sure enough, it was empty. At first. We were in there for a good 15 minutes, long enough to lose both Tarzan costumes, but not quite enough to get into too compromising a position. Which was lucky, as of course we heard the keycard in the lock, and in walked the roommate.

He took in the scene rather quickly, muttered drunkenly “Don’t mind me, nothing I haven’t seen before!” and stumbled directly to his bed and pulled the covers over his head. He may not have minded, but it had been too long since I’d been in a dorm-room-with-roommate-in-the-next-bed-pretending-not-to-listen situation. Fortunately Tarzan felt the same.

“I’m sorry,” he mouthed silently. “Your room?”

I nodded. As we pulled on our loin cloths for the starboard journey, I wondered about my own roommate. I had left him up on the pool deck at the dance, and I hoped he was still there. We arrived at my stateroom and I slid the keycard into the lock. Darkness.

Again we lost the costumes. Again we jumped on the bed. Again, after 15 minutes, we were interrupted by the door. My roommate. But this time – it was a knock.

Two days earlier, knowing that there would be a slight possibility that I might have the opportunity for a nautical trist while on a week-long cruise with 3,700 gay men, I’d come up with a plan. When we first got onboard, my roommate and I decided that if either of us brought someone back to the room, we’d simply put up the Do Not Disturb sign. Of course it wasn’t fair to kick the other out of his own room for hours, so if you were to come back and see the sign, you would simply knock, and come back 15 minutes later.

It was a brilliant system… except that I felt a bit guilty as it was the second time my roommate had been made to knock. That day. So, I jumped up, grabbed a towel, and answered the door.

“Hey I just need my wallet,” Roomie said. “I’m going to the casino. I’ll be gone a couple hours.”

Music to my ears. After Roomie left with his wallet, TarzanBoy and I had a lovely, uninterrupted 2 hours of fun. We were just getting out of the shower when there was another knock. I let Roomie back in, and TarzanBoy left a few minutes later.

“Wow,” said Roomie when the door closed, “I can’t believe he was here all that time.”

I looked at him. “It was only 2 hours. You do KNOW what we were doing, right?”

“Duh. But I dunno, 2 hours? After like 45 minutes I just get bored.”

I rolled my eyes, thinking ‘45 minutes? Me Tarzan, you lame.’

On a recent Friday in New York City, the evening began with cocktails upstairs at the Duplex on Christopher Street. TightLips and XJosh brought their whole crew from Astoria, and we began drinking, chatting, and gossiping. It didn't take long for the conversation to get interesting.

"How the hell do I reply to this guys text?" asked EverybodyLovesAden, snapping his phone closed.

"What's the problem?" asked XJosh.

"Well," explained EverybodyLovesAden, "He's just this guy that my fuck buddy knows. And the other night we had a threesome, and now this guy is texting me. He like, I dunno, wants to hang out or something?"

We all laughed.

"Well, what's the problem?" I asked. "So hang out with him – wasn't he hot?"

"Yeah, he was hot," said EverybodyLovesAden, "but I don't know anything about him. I barely know his name. Ron."

I immediately thought of a boy I knew named Ron, who I had been on about 4 dates with. The last date had actually been fairly recently. The sex was fun and he was pretty hot, unfortunately our personalities didn't quite click, so I didn’t see it going anywhere serious. Still, I thought about hanging out with him again. That is, until EverybodyLovesAden’s story gave me a strange uneasy feeling.

"Ron huh," I said to EverybodyLovesAden, "I know someone named Ron. I wonder if it's the same guy."

He chuckled, and so did TightLips.

"Like there's only 1 gay Ron in New York," TightLips laughed.

"I dunno," I replied, "where does he live?"

"I told you I don't know anything about him," said EverybodyLovesAden, "but my fuck buddy lives in Chelsea, so probably around there."

My Ron also lived in Chelsea. Of course, so did half of gay New York.

"Is he cute?" I asked.

"Duh," said EverybodyLovesAden.

"Ok, how tall is he? On the shorter side?"

"Ummmm," EverybodyLovesAden considered this. "Maybe, but I wouldn't say short…"

"How about his body," I asked, now somewhat obsessed. "Toned? With very little body hair?"

"Oh my god," said EverybodyLovesAden, rolling his eyes, "You've just described nine-tenths of Chelsea."

Despite his brushing me off as being silly, I had a sinking feeling that I was right. I just needed a way to prove it. I took a long sip of my cocktail.

"I wonder if it's David's guy," giggled TightLips. "That would be amazing!" I shot him a dirty look.

"So how are you going to reply to the text?" Asked XJosh.

"AH HA!" I shouted.

They all looked at me like I was crazy.

"The TEXT." I emphasized.

They didn't change their expressions.

"He texted you," I explained, like I was talking to a room of first-graders, "so that means you have his number in your phone. I have MY guy's number in MY phone, so all we have to do is COMPARE, to know if it's the same guy!"

TightLips kept giggling, while XJosh said "Ohhhh, good idea." EverybodyLovesAden pulled out his cell phone.

As I began scrolling through my contacts to the R's, I suddenly felt a bit nervous. Of course I wanted to be right, because I love nothing more than being right. But at the same time, part of me was hoping it wasn't the same guy. It was completely irrational of me: I had no ties to this person, I'd certainly slept with other people and I’m sure he had too, and certainly through the years I'd slept with some of the same boys as EverybodyLovesAden. But somehow as his number appeared on my screen, I felt really nervous.

"OK," said EverybodyLovesAden, waiting for me to read the number.

"I…" I hesitated. "I'm afraid to look!"

"Oh give it to me," exclaimed XJosh, who was sitting between us. "I'll look."

I sighed, and handed him my phone. EverybodyLovesAden did the same. He looked for a second at mine, then looked at EverybodyLovesAden's. He looked up. "It's the same guy."

"BWA HA HA!" TightLips burst into hysterics. "That's amazing!!"

"I knew it," I mumbled, shaking my head.

"Wow," said EverybodyLovesAden. "Sorry?"

He looked at me. I looked at him. Then we both started laughing too. What else was there to do?

My mother thinks that I drink too much. When she accuses me of this, I purport to have no idea what she’s talking about. But I guess to be fair, I should take an un-biased look at a random week of my life. Let's take this week.

Sunday night – Work event, followed by a couple drinks.

Monday morning – tired, slightly hungover.

Monday night – Drip pool party at the Grace hotel. Super fun party with lots of hot boys (and girls) dancing, splashing and wearing nearly nothing.

Tuesday morning – exhausted, hungover, totally worth it.

Tuesday night – Last-minute invite from XJosh to see Rock of Ages with him, TightLips and EverybodyLovesAden. After that show, cocktails were REQUIRED. A drink at Barrage.

Wednesday morning – tired, no hangover.

Wednesday night – Cocktails at a work event, which impaired my judgment enough that afterward I agree to meet JBlo at The Ritz for the Rewind party. SO FUN – great mix of “retro music”, everything from the 70’s through the 90’s. Danced til 1am.

Thursday morning – exhausted, hungover.

Thursday night – work event, followed by a drink at Barrage.

Friday morning – Today. Tired, no hangover.

Friday night - The plan is a friend's birthday in the east village, which means drinks. The plan is also to not have too many, as Saturday morning I have to work.

Saturday morning - no doubt tired, hopefully not hungover.

Saturday night - friends are coming in from Philly. Must show them a rockin good time. No doubt involving lots and lots of cocktails.

Sunday morning - SLEEP IN (I deserve it.)

Sunday night - The Premiere Party of "Jonathan, Just Because" an internet short film by friends including Josh & Josh. I helped plan the party, which will be fabulous - and involve lots of cocktails.

So that is my week. Looking at this evidence, in a un-biased way, factoring in mathematical equations, deductive logic, and cute-boy-to-cocktail ratios, what is our conclusion? Is my mother right - do I drink too much? The verdict, of course, is no: I'm not an alcoholic. I'm a New Yorker.

Friday night I went to The Hose to check out the Amateur Strip Contest and general debauchery. The Hose is the newest gay dive bar in the East Village, and is trying to build a reputation for sleazy fun. TightLips, J-Blo and I wandered Avenue B for a bit before discovering the unmarked door that led up a steep staircase to the party’s main room. It was very crowded, with a mix of east village hipsters, grungesters, and handlebar moustache-ers, to the endless amusement of my friends. The “strip contest” was a disorganized 15-minute mess of guys awkwardly dropping their pants while the mentally unstable whack-job of a host shouted insults at them. Unique, anyway.

There were a few cute guys there, and after the tragedy of the contest (which no one seemd to ‘win’) I chatted with one of the cute ones, who turned out to be an actor/singer/dancer. Of course.

“That strip contest was awful,” said TripleThreat.

“They don’t make em like they used to,” I agreed.

“Remember Boysroom?” he asked.

“Yes!” I cried. “Now that place was FUN. They knew how to have a strip contest.”

“Oh I know,” replied TripleThreat. “I was in it once.”

I could sense a good story was coming.

“So I was out with friends, drunk, and they convince me to join the contest,” he said. “I must have done well, because it came down to just me and one other guy. Now, this other guy... was like my opposite. I’m your little gay white-boy dancer, and he’s this big black muscle guy dressed like... well, a thug. So they call us back on stage for the final round, and I go first. And I dance my ass off (while flashing my ass to everybody), doing splits, leg over my head, I mean all out. I finish, the crowd loves it, and I’m thinking I’ve got this in the bag. So Thug comes up, and he’s just kinda standing there, all attitude, drinking his Corona. For like half the song he seriously just stands there drinking his beer. Then finally, he puts the beer bottle down on the stage, turns around, drops his pants ... and sits on the bottle. Then he stands up, with the Corona in his ass, and starts thrusting the bottle in and out of his hole. I just turned around and started to walk out. And my friends stopped me, thinking I might still win! One was like, ‘Do you want a Corona?’”

“Wow,” I sighed. “I miss that place.”

“How do you do it? How do you sleep with so many hot twinks and make it look so easy?”

Well, I don’t think I really sleep with THAT many young skinny gay boys... but ok, it happens once in a while. Still, I firmly believe that if I can do it, YOU can do it. Just follow the steps.

Recently I had sex with an extremely attractive 21-year old. Here’s how it happened.

Step One: Don’t be afraid to try when you’ve got nothing to lose (and usually, you’ve got nothing to lose.)

I met Kenny several weeks ago at a party hosted by my friend J-Blo (that's short for Justin The Blogger. He wanted a nickname - and he's got one!). Kenny was one of, if not the cutest boy in the room, so I immediately asked J-Blo to introduce us. He did, I flirted for a while, bought Kenny one drink, flirted a bit more. He seemed mildly interested, but clearly was not really into me, and certainly not going home with me that night. Having lost nothing (except maybe 1 drink) I moved on. (If the boy you re pursuing shows immediate interest, skip to Step Three.)

Step Two: If at first you don’t succeed, try *once* again.

I was browsing online profiles on a popular website a few weeks after the party, and there was Kenny. In most of his photos he was shirtless, which I enjoyed. I decided to try once more. This step is open to interpretation – if he had clearly blown me off at the party, I would not have contacted him again. But because he was mildly interested, I jumped back to step 1 – nothing to lose.

I complimented his pictures. Within minutes, he wrote back. Sometimes, a 2nd try is all it takes.

Step Three: Once you have their attention, be fun and conversational, but be direct.

I complimented his photos, made a joke about dating websites, and commented on the freezing weather. He thanked me, lol’ed at the joke, and agreed about the weather, saying he was so cold in his dorm (!) at that moment. I told him he had an open invitation to warm up at my place with a cup of tea. He found the idea of afternoon tea so charming that 3 emails later he was on his way to my apartment.

The next step risks making me sound like a psycho killer, or more like someone who should be featured on “To Catch A Predator.” But really, think about where the vast majority of dates take place: bars. Why? Because alcohol is a social lubricant. Everyone is happier, easier to get along with, and a little bit more fun when they’re drinking.

Step Four: Add booze.

If following these instructions while at a bar, this is where you would simply buy your boy a drink. In the case of Kenny, I adapted. He arrived at my apartment for afternoon tea, announcing, “I brought scones!” (Super cute – major points for him.)

I asked, “Would you like to add some whiskey to our tea, and turn them into Hot Toddies?”

He readily agreed. We spent the next hour drinking, chatting, drinking, giggling, and drinking.

Step Five: Find an excuse to get him to the bedroom.

Had we been in a bar, this would be Find an excuse to get him to your place. I find that keeping a somewhat stocked home bar always helps, as in “How about we go to my place for a free drink next?” usually works well. In this case, already in my apartment, I suggested he look at the pictures from my recent cruise on the laptop on my bedroom. He didn’t once suggest I bring the laptop to the living room.

Step Six: Get him naked.

Depending on the boy, this step may be unnecessary – some are stripping down the moment they enter the door. In Kenny’s case it required a bit more finessing. While looking at pictures on my screen, we went back to discussing his online profile pictures, which I insisted needed to include some pictures of his cute butt. He tried arguing that it wasn’t cute, and so while he was laying on his stomach on my bed, I grabbed my camera and snapped a few quick shots. He looked at the digital screen.

“Hey, those are pretty good,” he admitted.

“They’ll be even better without your jeans,” I replied.

He paused, and I could sense this was the moment of truth. The he said: “Well, I am wearing really cute underwear.”

He slid his jeans off and went back to lying on this stomach and looking at my laptop, while I took some more shots of his ass in his tiny boy briefs. Then, knowing he was past the point of protest, I slid the briefs down to expose he pert little butt, and snapped a few more. I showed him the camera. He approved. Then, I straddled him, sitting on his thighs and spanking his bare behind.

Step Seven: If you are sitting on top of a boy who is wearing no pants and slapping his bare ass, and you still need instructions on how to get laid, clip off your balls, place them in a martini glass above your television, and spend the rest of your days watching re-runs of The Golden Girls on Lifetime.

Sex with Kenny happened. It was good. His ass was great, and I took lots of pictures of it. When we were done, we lay there, and he took the camera and started scrolling through the digital pictures. “That one’s good. That one’s good. Ew, no! Bad, That one’s OK, that one’s good...”

“I’ll email them all to you,” I said, reaching for the camera, “you can choose the best ones and put them on your profile.”

“Wait wait,” he said, still pushing buttons on the camera. Suddenly, the camera made a sound I’d never heard before, three loud tones in quick succession: BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

“What did you do??” I cried.

“I erased them,” he replied, with the hint of a satisfied smile. “All.”

I was dumbfounded. “You whaa... I didn’t even know my camera could do that!” It was true – I would never think to erase the memory card before downloading the pictures, so I’d never even checked to see if it was possible. Apparently, it was. “Why?????”

“I don’t like the idea of you having naked pictures of me. Sorry.”

Step Eight: Always expect the unexpected. Right up until the bitter end, no matter how well things are going, always be ready to be caught off guard.

Kenny had beaten me at my own game. The pictures were gone, his pants were back on. Ok, so it wasn’t a total loss – I did have an afternoon of fun drunk sex with a hot twinky boy. But I still somehow felt like I’d been beaten, and I *really* hate to lose. I guess no matter how good you think you are, or how many times you do this, there’s always something to be learned.

I was at a party recently, and met a really hot boy. He was insanely cute – sparkling blue eyes, baby face – nice body. He’d lifted up his shirt and shown off the hottest little pert nipples... I so wanted him. Unfortunately my friend D2 so had him. (He’s another David, hence D2). They were laughing, flirting, touching... I knew where it was going. I tried in vain to insert myself into the conversation, to laugh along, to flirt a little – no avail. 15 minutes later they were making out next to the window. 5 minutes after that they were saying their goodbyes. They left the party together. I’d lost, and I hate to lose.

Two weeks later I’m having drinks with the boys. Of course the talk turns to recent tricks. Of course no one is holding back, least of all D2. Of course Nipple Boy comes up.

“Remember him?” D2 was asking “You might have met him at the party...”

Oh I remembered.

“We went home together...”

I braced myself. Ready to hear details like “He had the MOST amazing ass!” or “He did things I didn’t know were possible!” or “He was the greatest lay I’ve ever had!”

D2 took a swig of his drink and looked at us. “He pissed in my bed.”

My jaw dropped. “What???”

“Oh you heard me,” he replied.

“Wait,” I said trying to clear my head, “did you have sex?”

“Oh, sure we had sex, drunken sex but it was fine, then we fell asleep. And it was all good til the next morning, when I woke up, and put my arm around him, and felt something wet. Like, a lot of wet. His whole side of the bed was wet.” I just shook my head, as D2 continued. “I said to him, ‘Why is this wet?’ and he looked all confused, and he got up, and I was like ‘Did you spill water?’ and he was all ‘Um, maybe...’ and then suddenly he had to go, and got dressed and ran out, and when I took off the sheets, there was a big yellow stain on my mattress. He totally pissed my bed.”

The other boys laughed. I did too, but all I could think was: if I’d “won;” if I’d gone home with him that night like I’d wanted to, it would be MY mattress with the yellow stain. I guess I didn’t lose after all.

“I can’t believe YOU don’t have a Fuck Buddy!”

We were sitting in Starbucks in Union Square, caffinating before hitting the bars in Chelsea. The surprised exclamation was directed at me.

“I dunno,” I shrugged, “I like having sex with new people.”

“But don’t you have any regulars?” asked Justin, one of the friends I was out with that night.

“I guess I have semi-regulars,” I said slowly, thinking out loud. “But it’s more like people I’ll call up after a really long time, and hook up with again … and then not see again for another really long time. There’s nothing regular about it.”

“Having a regular is great,” chinmed in SeattlesBest, a cute friend of Justin’s who was in town for the weekend. “You get to know them, know their bodies, know how to pleasure them more.”

“Yeah, then comes the other problem,” I replied, “They fall in love with me.”

“PFFFFT!” Justin exclaimed, almost spraying his latte. “You’re just THAT good, huh?”

“Damn right.” I smiled.

“That’s why you just have to be straightforward with them up front,” said SeattlesBest. “If you don’t want a relationship, make it clear it’s about sex and nothing else.”

I sipped my coffee, considering all this. “So you all have fuck buddies?”

“Yep.” “Definitely.” “Several.”

I spent the next couple of days thinking a lot about the F.B. concept. Of course the idea was nothing new – everyone’s known about fuck buddies since season two of Sex and the City. But did everyone really have one? What really surprised me was that there were so many people out there willing to BE an F.B. Having one is one thing, but isn’t being a F.B. a title most people would find unappealing… kind of like being “The Other Woman”? Of course I realized – if you have an F. B., then by default you are an F. B.

On Saturday I sat down with a Bloody Mary and my friend Mattitude for brunch at Vynl.

“I have this guy who’s been my fuck buddy for years,” he told me. “He’s a little older, and even though I know it’s stupid, I feel like that’s a reason I can’t date him. Well that, and he told me from the very beginning he didn’t want another relationship. So, we’ve just had a lot of sex.”

“Is he your only one?” I asked.

“No, there’s one or two others.”

I started to think that maybe I really had been missing the boat on this one. Fuck Buddies were the latest trend! How could the whole world, or at least all my friends, have F.B.s, and how could I not have know about it? Had I just never asked, or was everyone keeping their F.B. a big secret? Most of my friends aren’t the secret-keeping types, especially about their sex lives. With one exception, a friend I’ll call TightLips, who has the infuriating quality of refusing to answer any questions about his personal life. By pure coincidence, I found myself at TightLips’s apartment in Astoria that very same night.

“People find it surprising that I don’t have a regular fuck buddy,” I told him.

“YOU don’t have a fuck buddy?” he exclaimed.

I rolled my eyes. “Well,” I replied, “Do YOU?”

TightLips shrugged, averted his eyes, and muttered “I don’t know,” in his infuriating way.

“C’mon!” I shouted. “You don’t have to give me his name, or address, or his Manhunt ID.” He shot me a dirty look. I continued, “Just tell me, cause I know you’re not dating anyone, if you have a regular guy that you’re sleeping with.”

“Wellllllll…” he replied coyly, “There are a few people…”

I was shocked. TightLips had a FEW people?? That was the last straw. The whole world had gone fuck buddy crazy, and I had missed the memo. I decided I needed to rectify the situation, starting immediately. I scanned through the contacts in my cell phone, weighing my options. I landed on the name of a 21-year-old actor I’d met online several weeks before. I paused to consider. We had hooked up twice, and both times the sex had been surprisingly hot. He was a 21-year-old actor, so clearly there was absolutely no potential for a relationship of any kind. And as I thought about it, I recalled that we actually did have a conversation about neither of us looking for a relationship. I typed out a text message.

Hey hottie, what are you up to?

He replied almost immediately. Goin out with friends later, but not for a few hours.

Me: Sounds like enough time for some fun – want to come to my place?

Him: I can be there in 30.

And just like that, my list of fuck buddies had begun.

"Go to the downstairs bartender – he's wearing nothing but an apron and you can see his cock!"

How could I resist? When you hear a sentence like that, uttered by one of your friends as you walk into a bar, auto-pilot takes over. RMatt and I pushed through the crowd, headed for the back staircase. Logic should have won out. The simple fact that we were at Splash, one of my least favorite bars in New York City, should have made me know better than to descend the stairs. But sometimes it's just out of your control.

He was actually wearing less than an apron. It was a rectangular piece of fabric, about the size of ½ a piece of paper. The head of his penis was actually visible dangling below the cloth. The fabric was tied around his waist with a piece of string. In theory, this could have been hot. But we were at Splash, so it wasn’t. He was short and stout – not quite fat, but not exactly muscular either. Beefy is a good term. It also became apparent rather quickly that he was very loud, and very straight.

"Yo!" He shouted at us in a thick Staten Island accent while we were still 6 feet away from the bar, "Yous guys want drinks!?"

We approached the bar in a car-crash trance, reluctant but unable to stop ourselves.

"Yo guys! What's goin ON!" Clearly straight, but trying to play the Flirt-with-the-homos-while-working-the-gay-bar game. Badly.

"Uh, Hi."

"YOU!" he pointed at my face. "You look too young tuh be drinkin here! Lemme see some ID!"

I was momentarily flattered, but R Matt guffawed at the ridiculousness of the thought. I realized, reluctantly, that he was right – this guy had to be joking.

"She scanned my ID at the door on the way in," I told him.

"Yo Baby-face, gimme duh license – I'M gonna scan it right NOW! C'MON!"

Unsure what else to do, I pulled out my license and handed it to him. He spun around, giving us a full view of his bare, thick ass. Then he slid my ID from the top of his crack down deep between his cheeks. When it was almost invisible at the bottom, he let go. Needless to say, it stuck.

"Uh…." I muttered, somewhat disgusted. "Approved?"

"You BET it's approved Babyface – now take it OUT!" He bent forward, sticking his ass toward me at the bar. Once again, I felt I had no choice. I gingerly leaned over the bar and, trying to touch as little flesh as possible, pulled my license from between his sweaty butt cheeks.

"Ohhhh YEAH. NOW – Whadda yous WANT!?"

"A can of Lysol and my therapist," I mumbled.

"WHUT??"

"Uh, a Corona and a Ruby Red and Soda," I said.

"No Problem!" he replied, and went to the cooler. He returned with RMatt's Corona. "Ruby Red with whut?"

"Soda," I reminded him.

He turned back toward the bar, and in doing so saw someone else at the far end. He lumbered over, greeted the guy, took an order. Turned back toward the bar. Came back over to us. "Ruby red with whut?"

I stared at him. "So.Da."

Finally, he filled my glass and placed it on the bar, taking my money.

"Yo, I just got one question for yous guys." RMatt and I braced ourselves. As it turned out, no preparation would have been enough. "Yous guys like my outfit like this, or…" he spun the string around his waist, moving the tiny piece of fabric to the back to fully reveal his flaccid penis. Which was of average size, but looked smaller next to his thick, fleshy thighs. "Or like THIS!!!"

"Uhhhh…"

"HA HA HA – I'm just kiddin with yous guys!" he cried, putting the cloth back in place. Then he performed perhaps the most shocking maneuver – he reached across the bar extending his hand. "I'm Vincent!"

We reluctantly each shook his hand, introducing ourselves.

"Yous guys know it's two fuh one right now," he said, handing me a receipt. "Come back when yuh finish those and I'll give yous your free ones!"

We nodded, and gratefully took our escape, with no plans to come back when we finished those, or ever.

Because I'd paid, R Matt said," I owe you a drink."

I stared at him blankly, my eyes still glazed over from the traumatic experience at the bar. "There's not enough alcohol in the state of New York…."