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.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I could get used to this!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It did. They were cheerleaders.

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

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

“So who’s the catcher?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ow!!” he exclaimed.

“What?”

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

We looked at him incredulously.

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

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

“That’s fucking crazy!”

“You’re so stupid!”

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

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

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

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

I had uttered the magic words.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I gotta go,” he said.

I stared. “Huh?”

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

“Bye Bye...”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But they’re so hot!” I whined.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He raised an eyebrow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course you’re HERE,” D2 said.

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

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

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

“They are!” I replied.

Totally.