One Saturday morning I dragged myself out of bed to make the trip with AuntPharm to the Brooklyn IKEA. As we navigated the maze of trendy swedish imports with his friend Decibella, (who at various points would bellow “I think I like this... GAAAAYS!! OPINION!!”) we began discussing dating.

“So,” AuntPharm told me, “now suddenly EverybodyLovesAden isn’t talking to me.”

“Why?”

“Because I went on one date with this guy that he’d been on a couple dates with. But I asked him first if it was ok!”

“And what did he say?”

“Well, he didn’t seem to mind too much... at first...”

“Clearly,” I dead-panned, “he minds.”

“I know,” said AuntPharm. “It's totally taboo to date your friends' exes.”

I was immediately resistant. “Why?!”

“Be-CUASE!” Decibella boomed, “It’s your EX!!”

“Thanks, that clears it right up,” I sarcastically quipped. She threw a sofa cushion at my head.

“Well,” asked AuntPharm, “Would you want someone dating XJosh?”

“Someone is,” I replied.

“I mean a friend of yours.”

I paused for a second to consider. Then I said, “but that’s totally different. He and I dated for like 2 years. Aden only dated that kid for what - a month? Three, maybe four dates?”

“Exactly,” agreed AuntPharm, “that’s why I think it’s OK that I go on a date with him.”

I nodded. “It depends on the relationship.”

“Was that EVEN a RELATIONSHIP!?” cried Decibilla. Neither of us answered. “GAYS!!! OPINION!!!”

“It was not,” declared Aunt Pharm. But I kept pushing.

“Maybe the real question,” I said, “is What defines a relationship?”

That remained unanswered for the rest of the day, and I decided to do a little informal research.

A few days later, I was out on the town with some friends, and as we were in a cab hopping from bar to bar, I threw out the question. “When you’re dating someone, at what point is it considered a Relationship?”

“If you had unprotected sex, it's a relationship!”

We all laughed at the absurdity of MinnieSoda’s response.

“Guess that explains why you’ve had so many boyfriends!” I quipped.

“Shut up!” he cried. Then, “Ok, seriously... three dates. After you’ve gone on three dates with someone, that’s a relationship.”

That satisfied the rest of the cab-full, but seemed a little cut-and-dry for me.

A week later, the subject emerged again when I met up with J-Blo at Vlada.

“How’ve you been?” I asked as the server presented 2 Absolute Madras, J-Blo's drink of choice.

“Well, Bazooka and I broke up,” he replied.

“Aw, I’m sorry,” I said, and meant it - I knew that J-Blo really liked him.

“Yeah,” he said. The he looked me in the eye. “All I ask... is that you don’t sleep with him.”

“WHAT?! Why would I... I wasn’t going to... I would never...”

“I didn’t mind,” he continued, “when you slept with Shirley Temple.”

“Wooooah!” I exclaimed, suddenly so far on the defensive I didn’t even gulp my cocktail before rebutting. “First of all, I didn't just ‘sleep with him.’ That was a full-fledged Summer Fling. Gay Pride to Labor Day. That’s the closest I’ve been to a relationship since... well, never mind. And speaking of relationships, you and he were not exactly...”

“It was a relationship!” J-Blo exclaimed.

“It was a threesome,” I reminded him, “that turned into some kind of crazy thrupple, that then went on to...”

“To become a relationship.”

I sighed. And downed my drink. Clearly J-Blo had defined that relationship. And clearly friends' exes were off limits.

It shouldn't have come as a shock to me. It wasn’t even 2 months prior that I’d hooked up with a cute twink, who had recently broken up with another twink, my cute-trick-turned-friend Kenny. For some reason, I thought that Kenny either wouldn’t find out, or wouldn’t care that I’d slept with his ex. And for a while, he didn’t find out. Then one night at 3am the chiming of my iPhone woke me up. It was a text from Kenny. “You fucked my ex boyfriend!?! We’re very mad.”

My first thought was: who’s We? I almost replied, but made the wise decision to leave it unanswered. In the months that followed, Kenny never brought it up, so I assumed he’d let it go... but his feeling at the time was very clear.

I was almost ready to report back to AuntPharm with the results of my research, when I found myself out one night in a group with a rare manifestation: two gay brothers. Both were very smart, very charming, and very attractive. Of course, they were also very popular with all the gays, wherever we went. As the night of drinking went on, I couldn’t help but take the opportunity to question one, in between my flirting with him.

“So,” I asked, as innocently as possible, “do you two ever fight over guys?”

“Yeah, we occasionally cross with the same guys,” replied Tweddle Cute. “There’s a rule.”

Jackpot.

“The rule is, as long as one of us hasn't had sex with him, its ok. The other can... whatever. But if a guy has had sex with one of us, he's off limits to the other.”

I should have known. As in so many cases, it all came down to sex.

I told AuntPharm all my findings, ranging from three dates to wacky relationship to just sex.

“Overall,” I said, “You were right. Dating a friend’s ex is totally taboo.”

He nodded solemnly. Then he said, “Two gay brothers?”

“Mmm hmm.”

“Hot brothers?”

“Mmmm Hmmmmmm.”

“Just sex?”

“Just sex. If someone has sex with one, he’s totally off-limits to the other.”

“Wow,” mused AuntPharm. “Imagine if you had that rule - anyone you’d had sex with was off limits to all your friends. We’d all have to turn straight just to get laid.”

On a typical Saturday night of bar-hopping in New York City, a friend’s birthday brought a few buddies and I to Evolve. Formerly know as O.W. or Oscar Wilde bar, Evolve is located on the Upper East Side, a section of Manhattan which is rarely gay and rarely frequented, a least by us.

“Oh my God, look at that go-go boy,” a friend exclaimed.

“Hideous!”

“He’s so ... old.”

“And just not cute.”

“Is he flexing his pecs to the beat?!”

“EWWWWW!” we all chorused. We couldn’t stop looking at the train wreck on the make-shift stage.

"He’s really not a go-go BOY," I pointed out.

My friends jumped in with, “Go-go man?”

“Go-go guy?”

“Go-go home.”

We soon did, or at least off to another bar, but I left wondering: are we too judgmental?

It reminded me of the night in January when Martinifun and I went out in Miami before leaving on the gay cruise the next morning. We went to Twist, one of the larger and more popular gay bars in South Beach. One room in the back was full of rotating go-go’s who may or may not have done a little more than dance, if the right amount of cash were offered. But as we looked at them, we couldn’t believe anyone would pay them for private time. There wasn't one we found attractive. We reached that agreement just as a host announced over a microphone: "Welcome to Twist! Hope you’re enjoying the dancers - we got some of the hottest guys in the United States!”

We gave each other wide-eyed looks, and gulped our margaritas.

Back in New York, a new gay bar opened in Hell’s Kitchen.

“Have you been to Bartini?” asked GarrettJuice, as we sipped grape vodka at The Ritz.

“That’s that name of it?” I exclaimed with disgust. “Awful!”

“It’s a cute space,” he replied. “It’s the crowd that’s the problem.”

“Not cute?” I asked.

“Oh they’re all cute,” he replied. “They’re just all bottoms. I look around the room like Cute? Bottom. Cute? Bottom. Cute? Bottom. It's Bottomtini.”

I slammed my empty glass on the table. “We’re going immediately.”

Bartini did turn out to be a cute space, and on a Saturday night was indeed filled with lots of cute boys. We stood at the bar, looking around.

“That bartender is hot,” GarrettJuice said. “Do you think he's good in bed?”

“No,” I replied after watching him for a moment. “See how he shakes that martini?”

“Lazy?” Garrett observed, as the bartender listlessly waved the shaker back and forth.

“Exactly. He's lazy in bed.”

“Probably just lays there,” added Madambien.

Just then, one of their friends who was visiting from out of town walked up.

“What are you talking about?” he asked. We explained our theory about the bartender.

“Y’all are crazy!” he exclaimed. “That bartender is hot, and I bet he’s great in bed. You New Yorkers - y’all are just too judgmental!”

“Shut up,” replied Madambien, “you’re crazy!”

“Yeah,” added Garrett, “You’re from the South, you don’t know anything!”

I just shrugged.

I bumped into The Sexican at a house party in Chelsea, and as we sipped our cocktails the conversation immediately turned to our dating lives.

“Oh just the other night I met this really hot guy,” he was telling me. “We met at a bar, and he bought me a drink, then I bought him one... we were talking, flirting, touching - it was going really well!”

“Mmmm hmmm,” I prompted, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“And he was hot - soooo hot. Just SEXY.”

“So?”

“So, we finish our drinks, and we go outside, and he has a motorcycle! Sexy!”

I laughed a little, but nodded in agreement.

“And THEN,” the Sexican says, dramatically holding his drink in the air, “he gives me his CARD.”

“What!?” I exclaimed.

“I know.”

“His business card??”

“I KNOW.”

“A guy with a motorcycle shouldn’t even HAVE a card!”

“I KNOW!” He took a huge gulp of his vodka. “I wasted all night on this guy! I was sure I was getting laid! And he gives me his card!?”

“I guess that’s one of the risks of meeting a stranger in a bar,” I said. “You just don’t know what they’re thinking.”

“There’s a lot about them you don’t know,” he replied.

Really, he was right. It reminded me of a conversation I’d had months earlier, when MuppetDinnerTheater and I decided to go out for a cocktail, and for some reason chose Cleo’s. Now officially named Ninth Avenue Saloon, Cleo’s was the first gay bar in Hell’s Kitchen, established years before HK became gay and trendy. And in 20 years, nothing has changed except the removal of “Cleo’s” from the sign, leaving just Ninth Avenue Saloon. The decor, the bartenders and the crowd are all exactly the same. No one knows what happened to Cleo.

MuppetDinnerTheater and I took two stools at the dark bar, ignored the toothless old men eyeing us from either side, and ordered two drinks.

“Why did we come here again?” I asked.

“Because the drinks are cheap, and strong,” he replied.

“Cheers.”

He was right, on both counts. But after a few sips, I couldn’t help looking around. We brought the average age down to about 57. He saw the look of distaste on my face as I scanned the crowd.

“It’s not so bad,” he said.

“C’mon, you could never meet anyone here,” I replied.

“Oh, I have.”

I waited.

“The last time I was here I was flirting with this guy. He was sitting right here when I came in!” MuppetDinnerTheater said, then started to laugh.

“And?”

“And he was cute...” he went on, “and he was buying me drinks...”

“And?” I asked again.

He started laughing, hard, knowing the absurdity of what he was about to tell me. “And he only had one leg.”

“What?!”

“I mean, he was cute...from the waist up.”

“Did he have a peg-leg? Was he a pirate?” I asked, now also laughing.

“No! Well, not exactly...”

“Oh my God. Did you sleep with the Peg-Leg Pirate?!”

MuppetDinnerTheater shot me a dirty look. I’m still not sure if that signified a yes or a no.

Either way, for quite a while that topped the list of my friends’ Crazy Guys I Met In A Bar stories. Until last week.

I was having Thai food in Chelsea with two friends, one of whom lives outside the city and always drives in. I’m always fascinated by people who drive their cars around Manhattan, as the concept is so foreign to me. We were discussing sex of course, and the topic of older men came up. AutHoMobile jumped in with a story.

“I just met this older guy at a bar the other night,” he told us. “He was 49. Which is definitely older, but not crazy-old.”

We nodded.

“Plus, he was hot. So, I was totally fine, we’re having drinks, things are going great, we decide to leave the bar. So we go to my car, and totally start hooking up. Big time.”

“Big time?” I asked. “In your car?”

“Of course,” said AutHoMobile. “So, things are hot, pants are off, he’s blowing me, and everything is totally great ... until he starts really getting into it and suddenly goes: ‘Oh yeah, finger my tight forty-nine-year-old ass!’”

I almost sprayed vodka soda across the table.

“He did not!!”

“Dead. Serious.”

Five minutes later, when my hysterical laughter subsided, I managed to say, “Wow. From now on I’m only meeting men online, where people are normal.”

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.

“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.

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.