I know plenty of hot boys, but ThoroughlyMuscledMilli is seriously up there on the list. He’s pretty much my ideal body type, the perfect mix of skinny twink with lean muscle. A couple months ago, my jaw dropped when I read his facebook info page saying he was in a Thruple– a three-way relationship. Already enthused by his physique, the thought of him having a crazy menage a trios every night of the week almost sent me over the edge. I played it cool and didn’t let on my titillation, but the next time I saw him, out at a club, I couldn’t help bring it up.

He was with one of his two boyfriends, and after saying hello, I asked about the other one.

“Oh he rarely comes out,” ThoroughlyMuscledMilli told me. “He’s more of a home body.”

“I’m sure he’s a nice body to come home to,” I replied.

He just smiled, so I pushed a little further.

“That must be a crazy apartment,” I said. “Like a gay Playboy mansion!”

“Actually, we’re pretty boring at home,” he told me. “Usually we just cook dinner, watch TV, and go to bed.”

I shot him a ‘C’mon, you’re kidding’ look.

“I mean, it gets interesting once in a while,” he admitted, referring to what I imagined were mind-blowing, life-altering, porn-star sex sessions. “But really, it’s usually pretty dull.”

I had a hard time believing him, maybe because I didn’t want to spoil my own fantasy, but eventually I thought perhaps I might be getting carried away. I knew that regular couples, even the crazy-hot-super-model types, eventually settle into a routine that, the longer they are together, rarely includes wild monkey sex on a nightly basis.

Still, the idea of a thruple fascinated me. It seemed like such a foreign concept, until I remembered that my good friend J-Blo had been in one only a couple years prior. With burning questions fresh in my mind, I called him to get the scoop.

“So you were in a Thruple, right?” I asked.

“A thruple? Is that what they’re calling them these days?” he laughed. “Yes, I was in a three-way relationship. It was hot. Lots of really fun sex.”

“I knew it!” I cried. “So it IS like being on the set of a Chi Chi La Rue film!”

“Well, once in a while. But it was also nutty as we all lived together in a tiny studio apartment.”

“That doesn’t sound too fantastic.”

“And of course, as anyone NOT involved could easily have predicted, it eventually all fell apart.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“Just lots of dis-trust, lots of suspicion, lots of jealousy.”

“Sounds dramatic.”

“It was,” he admitted. “But we’re all great friends now!”

I was dubious.

The abnormally warm weather this past weekend found me rollerblading with XJosh and Marabou when the topic came up again.

“Thruples are the new black!” announced Marabou.

“Really?” I said skeptically. “I only know of one right now.” I referenced ThoroughlyMuscledMilli.

“There’s also Albert and Armand,” XJosh informed me.

“They’re in a Thruple now?!” I replied. They were a couple that XJosh and I had met back when we were dating, almost 4 years ago. Both were actors.

“Yep,” he replied. “With another actor.”

“I’m sure that’s not dramatic” I said sarcastically. “But I guess I’m not surprised. They had a regular third fuck buddy for a while, it was almost a thruple.”

“Apparently they still have a guest star now and then,” said XJosh. A fourth!? My gay porn fantasies immediately sparked anew.

“Yeah, but we hear there’s all kind of rules now,” chimed in Mariboo.

“Rules?”

“Like if they bring someone in, everyone has to agree on the boy,” he explained.

“So it’s like a panel?” I asked. “With three judges?”

“Yup, like American Idol.”

“More like American I’d do.” They rolled their eyes. I suddenly made a decision. “I need to be in a Thruple!” I declared.

“Ha,” remarked XJosh. “Let us know how that works out for you.”

“What!” I replied. “Just because I can’t even find a single – with whom to be a couple – doesn’t mean I can’t jump right to thruple. I’m sure it will work out brilliantly.”

He groaned. “I’m sure it will.”

This weekend I was enjoying the first truly beautiful New York day of 09 on the 44th street pier. I was standing with a group of gays, just talking, chatting, hanging out, when up walked a friend of ours with his dog. Suddenly, all conversation stopped, and it was all about the little monster. No chatting could continue, as it was constantly interrupted by shouts of “Condom, Stop it! Condom, sit! Condom, don’t eat that! Condom, what’s in your mouth! Condom, why can’t you be good?!”

Much like a small child, when a dog is present it immediately commands all attention, regardless of how many people are there, who they are, or what they’d rather be talking about.

There is a guy I’ve known for several years, an artist who lives downtown. I’ve always found him gorgeous, and over the years we’ve had a complicated relationship that skirted the lines between acquaintances, friends-with-benefits, a couple attempts at dates, and just friends. Through it all, he’s owned a dog. And through it all, the dog ruled the relationship.

Multiple times I went to his apartment for dinner, or drinks, or to “catch up,” all of which I saw as possibly opportunities for naked time. I liked going to his place as I have a roommate, and he has always lived alone. Every single time I’d go there however, the conversation was always about the dog. “Isn’t Poochie cute? Isn’t Poochie sweet? Oh I spent the day with Poochie.” Or worse, rather than talking to me, he would talk to the dog. “What are you doing Poochie? Do you want to go out? Do you want a snack? Are you being a good boy?”

HELLO! I’m sitting here, I’m drinking a bottle of wine with you, I’M being a good boy – why don’t you come over here and rub MY underside? I always found it infuriating, and even though I would try to hook up with him a few times a year, I think the dog was a serious part of the reason our relationship never progressed further.

It wasn’t just the artist though; almost all dog owners I know are the same way. And cat owners are no better. In fact, sometimes they are worse.

A couple months ago I hooked up with an adorable boy I met online, we’ll call him Puss ‘N Booty. I went to his apartment, again because he lived alone, and discovered he had a kitten. Cute as a button and annoying as shit. (The cat, not the boy. Well, in a way, both.) Needless to say, the cat jumped all over the apartment, all over him, all over the bed – and of course he lived in a studio so there was nowhere else for the cat to be. Again, it was all about the pet, though this time was a bit different, because the cat was annoying Puss ‘N Booty as well, especially as we were trying to hook up and the cat kept jumping on the bed.

“Pussy, get out of here! Pussy, go away! Pussy, stop being bad!” He would grab the cat and lightly toss it off the bed – it of course landed on its feet, looked around for a minute, and jumped right back up. Because it was a kitten and not yet spayed or declawed, it was full of energy and just wanted to scratch things. Several times, while we were having sex, the cat would jump on the bed and on top of one of us. Puss ‘N Booty would act annoyed and throw it off, I would actually BE annoyed, and eventually I started to do whatever I could to just speed things along and get it over with.

When we were finished, laying there still naked, the cat jumped on the bed, and landed right around my knees. It looked right at me. I stared back. Some survival instinct automatically moved my hand to cover my exposed crotch.. just at the cat lunged, claws tearing my fingers.

“Ouch!” That bitch just tried to scratch my balls off! Puss ‘n Booty grabbed the evil creature for the millionth time and threw him of the bed, which was lucky because if I had grabbed the thing and threw it like I wanted too, it wouldn’t have landed on its feet. But instead of taking out my annoyance on the boy’s pussy, I just got dressed and left. He was hot, but I refuse to go back.

But for all my bad experiences with pet owners, by far the worst (or best) story happened to my friend MartiniFun. We were on vacation together in Atlanta, and one night while we were out we both met guys and went home with them. The next afternoon, we caught up over Bloody Marys.

“OK, so we make out for a while on the dance floor, and then he drives us back to his place,” MartiniFun told me. “We walk into his apartment, it’s cute, and up runs this dog, all excited to see him. Then, I see that he has a second dog, also trotting up. Ok fine. So we go into his kitchen, and I see that he also has a cat. I’m like ‘Oh you have a cat too?’ and he says ‘I have three.’”

“Jesus it’s like a zoo in there!” I exclaimed.

“Just wait,” he continues. “So we start making out again, and after a few minutes he drags me to the bedroom. He opens the door, and I see like four fish tanks.”

“Fish?!”

“Not just fish. Fish, frogs, turtles... and then I hear this squawking – and see behind the bed is a cage with two birds in it.”

My jaw dropped. MartiniFun just nodded, and said, “Oh yeah. It was Noah and the fucking arc in there.”

“What did you do??” I cried.

“What do you think – we had sex! But wait. So it starts out ok, we’re fooling around, and then we start going at it, but as we get more into it, he starts moaning and groaning, and when he does that the dogs start barking. And at first he tries to ignore them, and then he yells at them to stop, but nothing works. So finally we stop, he gets up, puts both dogs outside the bedroom, and closes the door.”

“They were in the room?” I asked.

“Oh yes,” he replied, “and so were the cats. They still are at this point. So he gets back in bed, and we start going at it again, and now it starts getting really intense and he starts morning and groaning, and so outside the door the dogs start barking. But we ignore them, and keep going, and soon we’re really going at it, and he’s getting louder and louder, and as he does the dogs are barking louder and louder, and soon they’re fully howling outside the door. And he’s screaming ‘Ignore them! Faster! Harder!’ Ok, so now we’re going crazy, and the bed starts shaking and banging against the wall, and somehow it must have also been hitting against the birdcage... because the next thing I know the door of the birdcage is somehow open, and the two birds are out of the cage and flying around the ceiling.”

“What?!” I shouted.

“Seriously. And then the cats, who have been on the floor, jump onto the bed, and are leaping in the air trying to catch the birds. And he’s ignoring the whole thing, screaming ‘I’m close! I’M CLOSE!’ So I just ... kept going. He’s screaming, birds are flying, cats are leaping, dogs are howling, turtles are snapping ... I had sex on Animal fucking Planet.”

“Wow,” I said, stunned.

“I’m making a new Rule!” MartiniFun announced. He loved to make rules. “From now on, no sex with men who have pets!”

I raised my glass. “No dogs, just doggie style.”

“Cheers.”

My boss is a charming 60-year old gay man. He's fun, witty, treats his employees well, and he adores me. I love my boss. Most of the time. But once in a while, things get a bit out of hand.

One day Bossy came into the office and told me he had met someone at his gym. Lonni is the lead singer of a new gay pop rock group called Whore's Mascara.

"We're friends now," Bossy told me excitedly, "Lonni wants me to come to one of his shows. You should come with me, I'll introduce you – he's veeeery cute!"

Bossy's partner, who I’ll call Partner, also works in the office. He rolled his eyes at Bossy's match-making, and also at the idea that Bossy would ever go to a Whore's Mascara show – Bossy is strictly the early-to-bed, early-to-rise type, asleep by 10pm and at the gym by 7am. Then one Friday morning Bossy tells me that Whore's Mascara is performing at The Ritz at 10pm on Sunday night.

"That's not so late," he said.

I laughed. "The Ritz is right in my neighborhood," I told him. "If you go, I'll go."

"Maybe I will," he replied.

That Sunday evening found me in the West Village, celebrating a friend's birthday at one of the worse venue choices ever – Marie's Crisis piano bar. As I winced while hordes of insipid queens screeched out agonizing renditions of bad showtunes, my cell phone vibrated. A text message. From Bossy.

You goin to whores?

I was shocked. He was actually going to leave his apartment at 9:30 on a Sunday night to go to a bar? He was my boss, so I couldn't really say no. But going to a bar with him might be awkward. As I paused to consider my options, someone dragged their nails down a near-by chalkboard. No, it was just some flaming gay man trying to hit a high note intended for a soprano. I texted him back.

I'll meet you there in 30 minutes!

"I can't believe I'm here!" Bossy announced after I walked into The Ritz. "I haven't been out this late in years!"

"I'm proud of you!" I replied. He smiled. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad.

"Partner didn't know what to think when I left," Bossy told me. "He thought for sure I was going out to have an affair!"

"Uh-huh." I said, looking for a cocktail. And starting to feel a bit awkward.

"I told him – I'm just going out with David!"

"Oh good," I smiled again.

"So now, he thinks WE'RE having an affair! HA!"

Awkward feeling continuing.

We got our drinks and found some seats. Just then Lonni walked by. Bossy jumped up.

"Hi!" Apparently they did know each other, as Lonni, who turned out to be a boyish-looking guy in his mid 20's, greeted him warmly. Bossy introduced us.

"This is my friend David."

Heeeeeey," said Lonni, with a laid-back, California-surfer, too-many-drugs kinda dwawl, "nice to meeeeet yoooooou. You just just relaaaaaax. We'll get started sooooon. Til then: get luuuuuu-bricated."

He waved and drifted away, leaving Bossy and I staring at each other, pondering exactly how to get lubricated.

Awkward feeling intensifying.

We decided to sit and wait for the show to start. We chatted a bit, talking about where Bossy used to go out, what bars were still open in New York, etc. I made the mistake of once again letting down my guard, thinking this wasn't so bad. As if he had a sixth sense, Bossy abruptly changed the subject.

"So what's going on with Michael’s ass?!" he asked. Referring to one of my co-workers, his employee.

"Uhhhhh... I... uhhhh... dunno..."

"It is getting FAT!" he announced.

In an attempt to close my dropped jaw, I pulled my drink to my mouth. And finished it.

"I think I'll go to the bar," I said cheerily.

"No! Sit down. I'll go. What are you drinking?"

"Are you sure..."

"WHAT ARE YOU DRINKING???"

"Citron and soda," I replied. "Thanks!" And he was off.

He returned a few minutes later. Mercifully, before the conversation hit another landmine, the performance began. Surely, I thought, we were safe now. We'd watch the show for an hour, and then both head home. Whore's Mascara is a fun time. Their music is sort of edgy-pop with dirty lyrics. Very dirty lyrics. Which would be great... if I weren't sitting with my boss.

"Don't be so full of yourself. Be full of me."

Ok, it's innuendo. Maybe he doesn't even get it.

"There's a dance party up your butt! I'm gonna Come! Come! Come! Come!"

Intense awkwardness.

Finally I decided to just focus on the visuals. The group is 3 singers, 2 guys and a girl. Though that night, they had a second girl. She was a skinny little dancer, dressed in a tight tank top and teeny-tiny little short shorts. She didn't dance as much as stand on a box and gyrate, and stretch, and bend over. Which would have been fine. Until she sat on the box and went into a very wide split ... and we could clearly see her maxi-pad sticking out of either side of her crotch under the shorts!

I tried not to look at Bossy. I tried to entirely eliminate my peripheral vision. It was useless. He was laughing, and leaned over to me. And the pinnacle of awkwardness was reached.

"I think they could cut that dancer from the act. She seems to be… unnecessary. She's sticking out."

“I’ve worn a harness before.”

Most of my friends looked a little shocked. Especially the straight ones. In fact, a couple of the straight ones didn’t even know what I meant.

“You know, it’s like leather straps, and usually it crosses over your chest, and you usually see them with some kind of metal studs or spikes on them,” I tried to explain.

“Why the hell were you wearing that?!” someone asked.

“For fun?” I replied. “It’s actually a funny story.” I sipped my drink and began the tale.

It was about 5 or 6 years ago, and I was cruising profiles on some website or another. I saw a picture of a boy, mid-twenties, good body, wearing a harness. I started chatting with him, and asked him about it. He told me he loved them, that he owned several. I was intrigued. I’d never worn one before, and didn’t really understand the point of them. Also , I’d always thought they were for hairy leather daddies in clubs like The Eagle, but here was a this young, smooth guy wearing them in several pictures, and looking pretty good.

Finally HarnessBoy said “You should come over and try one of mine on!”

“Maybe we should meet for a drink first,” I replied.

A few days later we met for a drink at Pastis. I was surprised to find that in person he was even cuter then he looked in his online pictures, and more surprised when we started to hit it off. Soon we were connecting on a very deep level.

Me: I love hot food.

Harnessboy: Me too! If it’s meant to be hot, I want it piping hot!

Me: Exactly! Right out of the oven. And, if something is meant to be cold...

HarnessBoy: Ice cold!

Me: Totally.

HarnessBoy: Sometimes, when I’m drinking one of those 20 ounce bottles of coke, I get almost to the end but I don’t even finish it because those last few sips have gotten too warm.

I was thrilled. This was clearly a match made in heaven. In fact, I was so taken by this boy, that after our drinks I agreed to go back to his place. In Brooklyn.

Let me explain something: I don’t do boroughs. Call me a Manhattan Snob, call me crazy, I’ve just learned that bad things happen when I cross a river. Actually, that night may have been part of that lesson, among many others.

2 subways, 10 walked blocks and an hour later, we arrived at his place. It was nice, but I didn’t get much of a tour. He led me right to his bedroom. He opened the door, and immediately I saw it.

His bed was against a wall, and above it was a long, low shelf. At first I almost smiled, when on that shelf I saw a 20 ounce bottle of coke, unfinished, with a few sips left in the bottom of the bottle. But then I looked down the length of the shelf, and was horrified. Covering it, from one end to the other, were no less than 35 open, 20 ounce bottles of coca-cola, each with a few sips of warm liquid in the bottom. Quick math (which I hate to be forced into using) told me that even if he drank a whopping 5 bottles a day, some of those had been sitting there for over a week. My guess was many had been there longer.

I looked at him, with so many thoughts jumping to mind: I understand not finishing the bottle, I even understand if you’re drinking it in bed and go to sleep, and leave it on the shelf til morning, or even forgetting about it and going to work. But 35 bottles?! Over a week’s worth of disgusting warm backwash? Good god! Throw them out!

My next thought was: I need to leave. I need to just make up some excuse, tell him I’m not feeling well, and high-tail it out of the warm-coke-backwash collector’s apartment. Then I remembered. I was in Brooklyn.

I looked back at the wall of backwash. I looked at the boy. I looked back at the shelf. Finally, I sighed and said, “So where’s this harness?”

Excited, he quickly brought out two of them. The learning continued – I learned that they were heavy, cold, and could be very complicated to get into. HarnessBoy helped me, strapping the outfit around me, under my arms, around my waist. Finally, I looked in the mirror. Surprisingly it was kinda hot – I looked like a skinny, gay He-man. Then he put on his own. He looked at me expectantly.

I think he was hoping that putting on the harness would turn me into some crazy dominant master. That as soon as he strapped me in, I’d transform from Prince Adam to He-Man himself, throw him on the bed, and mount him like Battle Cat.

I’ve always been more of a Man-At-Arms. I really did think we looked cute in our costumes, it felt like Halloween. I asked, “Should we take pictures for myspace?”

He didn’t like that suggestion. So, he pushed me back on to the bed (Ow! What’s that buckle poking into my back!?) and laid down on top of me. Which was fine, until one of us tried to move. The metal rivets on his harness got caught in the metal buckles on my harness, and everything stated pulling and pinching and scraping. It was like teenagers with braces trying to kiss.

I was annoyed. Sex is supposed to be fun, and I wasn’t having fun at all. I got up, and made him take the harness off me. As he went through the arduous process of unbuckling and unstrapping me, I couldn’t help but look back at the shelf of grossness that I was trying to ignore. I realized with a sigh that it was really time for me to leave. And so I did.

After we had sex.

“WHAAAAAT?!” The straight friends I was telling the story to reacted with what seemed like horror, as they’d reacted to much of the story. “After all that, you still had sex with him?!?!”

“C’mon,” I replied sarcastically. “I was in Brooklyn!”

“If someone at a bar buys you a drink, you owe them conversation until the drink they bought you is finished.”

We were sitting at Phoenix when a friend who was visiting from Philadelphia told me his policy. I wasn’t completely sold on it at first.

“What if you don’t like him?” I asked. “What if he’s horrible, or hideous?”

“If you take the drink, you owe him a conversation,” Philly explained. “That’s the rule.”

“And of course you’d never turn down the drink.”

“Say no to free alcohol? Are you crazy!?”

At first, I thought he was the crazy one. But as I thought about it over the next week, the idea made some sense . If you accept a drink from a stranger, clearly you owe them at least a thank you, and perhaps some polite conversation. If you can’t muster that, shouldn’t you just refuse the cocktail?

The following week, I was flipping through HX and landed on the horoscope page. I automatically glanced to my sign.

Sagittarius

It’s easy to forget that a good time doesn’t have to cost an arm and a leg. Stick to your budget, queen! Hit up some open bars and never turn your nose up at someone who offers to buy you a drink – no matter how fugly!

It seemed even the stars agreed that turning down free booze was bad form. And the more I thought about it, the more I agreed with Philly’s theory.

Saturday afternoon I sat down for brunch at Philip Marie in the West Village with J-Blo, TightLips, and EverybodyLovesAden. I brought the subject up as we sipped our Unlimited Mimosas.

“If someone buys you a drink at a bar, do you owe them anything?” I asked.

“No!” exclaimed J-Blo adamantly.

“I have to sleep with someone just because they buy me a drink?” asked EveryBodyLoves Aden.

“What if you want to sleep with him?” asked TightLips.

“OK wait,” I said. “Of course if you are attracted to them and want to talk to them, then it’s not like owing them – it’s something you want to do. But let’s assume it’s someone you are not particularly attracted to. You just walk away – you don’t even say thank you?” I directed the last question at J-Blo, in response to his initial refusal.

“Well of course you say thank you,” J-Blo conceded.

“And then you walk away?” I followed up. “Or do you chat with them for a minute or two?”

“Well, I’d talk to him,” J-Blo admitted, “but I talk to anyone. That’s how I roll.”

“I wouldn’t take the drink,” said EverybodyLovesAden.

“Me either,” agreed TightLips. “Not if he was ugly.”

“You’d turn down a free drink?” I asked. “Just because you didn’t want to talk to someone for 5 minutes?”

“Yep,” said TightLips.

“Not me,” chimed in J-Blo, “I’d take the drink for sure.”

I told them Philly’s rule. “If someone buys you a drink, you owe them conversation until you finish the drink they bought you.”

EverybodyLovesAden replied, “Fine. I’ll just have them buy me a shot.”

I gave him a sarcastic look. Just then, two servers approached the table at the same time. “Let’s ask them!” said EverybodyLovesAden. He posed the question to the two girls, and seeing them chatting with us, a third server walked up to us as well. I started keeping score.

Two of servers believed you owe the drink-buyer nothing. One said you owe them conversation. I noticed the results were similar to our table, where two of my friends would refuse the drink, and only one would accept and then converse with the buyer. Chatting with a generous stranger was clearly an unpopular choice.

EverybodyLovesAden, always the comedian, chimed in with another theory. “The other thing you could do is take the drink and talk to the guy, but say things to make him really uncomfortable. Like: ‘I just love shitting on a corpse and then fucking it.’”

“AHHHHHH!” we all exclaimed, horrified. Sometimes, I wonder why Everybody Loves Aden.

Much later that night, the three of us arrived at Irving Plaza in Union Square, the site of a new monthly party called 7 Deadly Sins. The night’s theme was Greed. After dancing for a while, I left the boys on the dance floor and wandered up to the balcony. I spotted a very attractive guy, and after looking at him for a minute, I realized I’d met him in January on the gay cruise. He was visiting from Seattle.

I said hello, and he was surprisingly thrilled to see me: gave me a huge hug, all smiles, asking how I’d been. We went to the bar, chatting. I decided to buy him a drink.

As we walked back to the railing over-looking the dance floor with our cocktails, he took out his cell phone. I watched as he began reading and responding to texts. I waited patiently, through one, then a second full song. Finally I interrupted him.

“So, how long are you in town?” I asked.

He didn’t respond for a moment, then replied, “Til tomorrow night.” And resumed texting.

I stood for another long minute, looking at him. Finally, he closed his phone. Then he looked around, picked up his drink, sipped it, put it back down. And then he opened his phone again.

I was shocked. Again I interrupted as his fingers tapped across the tiny keyboard.

“So did you do anything last night? Go out anywhere?”

This time he waited even longer to respond. Finally, just as I was about to repeat the question thinking he didn’t hear me, he looked up from his phone and at me and replied, “No.”

And he went back to texting.

Although I was stunned at his sudden 180 flip to cold behavior, I knew how to take a hint. He was hot, but I don’t waste my time pining after boys who are clearly not interested in me. Even when I do believe they owe me some conversation.

“I have to say hello to someone,” I muttered, and walked away. As I did, I couldn’t help but glance back at his glass. His drink was far from finished.

There are days when I wake up, think about my behavior the night before, and roll my eyes at myself.

On a recent Tuesday night, I found myself at the HX Mixer at XES.Not 10 minutes in, I bumped into an ex-trick, who promptly introduced me to a very cute redhead. Anyone who knows me will tell you: I love redheads.

Things got better when I found out that Red worked for another gay magazine, and better still, worked in the department that handled invites to their frequent New York parties. As we chatted, he and I headed to the bar.

“What do you want?” I asked.

“Vanilla vodka and ginger ale.”

“You’re not gay, are you?” I asked with a smirk. He didn’t seem to mind being made fun of. A good sign. A minute later, I handed him his cocktail.

“How much do I owe you?” he asked.

“How about this,” I suggested with a smile, “I’ll give you my email address, you put me on the party mailing list, and we’ll call it even.”

He laughed. “Are you sure? I would do that anyway.”

“I’m sure,” I replied with a smile. Anyone who knows me will tell you: I love to be invited to parties.

Suddenly, it was time for the raffle. On the way in to the party the staff had asked everyone for a business card. I was sad to discover that I didn’t have any on me. As Peppermint, the night’s drag queen host took the stage, I was even more disappointed, when she announced what the prizes would be.

“Firrrrrrrrst,” she growled, “we have some Aaaaaaaaaandew Christian underwear!” Damnit. I love underwear, especially when it’s free. “Theeeeeeeen, we have some gift certificates, aaaaaaaaaaand... a trip to Brazil!”

I was pissed. Of course the chances I would have won were slim to none, but knowing that my card wasn’t in the bowl just made me bitter. Something had to be done.

Red and I found ourselves standing very close to the stage, right near Peppermint. As she drew the first three cards and began calling names of the underwear winners, I noticed her assistant, a boy from the HX staff, who was handing out the prizes. He was a young gay, cute in a dorky sort of way. He had an arm full of underwear, more than enough for the winners. As soon as he finished handing underwear to the first round of winners, I went up to him as Peppermint prattled on about the trip to Brazil.

“Hi,” I said, smiling.

“Um, hi,” he said, smiling back.

“So, if you have any extra pairs of underwear, I could give them a good home.” After I said it, I was slightly appalled that a line so cheesy escaped my lips, but in a crowded bar with the music pumping and a drag queen screaming, it seemed to work. Sort of.

“Well...” he said, looking at me, then looking at the 4 remaining packages of briefs in his hands, “Can you fit into an extra-small?”

The truth was, I couldn’t. Sure, they’d probably be ok around the waist, but really too tight in the crotch. But that wasn’t the point. It had become a game. And anyone who knows me will tell you: I LOVE to win games. I went into full Drama Queen mode.

“Huuuuuh!” I gasped dramatically, “are you calling me FAT?!?!?” And with that I grabbed his free hand and placed it on my hips, nudging it just slightly toward my ass. Shameless.

“Oh!” he gasped, “Um, I guess you can, um, of course!” And with that, he handed me a free pair of red extra-small Andrew Christian hip-cut underwear. Which I would probably never wear. I was thrilled.

“Thank you Sweetie,” I cooed. I may even have winked at him. Despicable. “I’ll let you get back to your job.”

I left the bar that night with the cute redhead’s phone number and a cute red hip-cut number. My dignity was nowhere to be found.