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."