Back to my old ways (had I ever left them?) I recently “met” a guy on Manhunt. He had a hot profile - cute face, great body, and his “about me” basically described him as a bottom who liked sex. I had actually noticed his profile about a year ago. I wrote him then, he wrote back, then he disappeared. He popped up a few months later - we exchanged quick emails, then again he disappeared. The third time we emailed, we actually traded phone numbers, I assumed with the intention to text each other. But we never did.

Until yesterday, when once again I saw him online, and typed a Manhunt-mail asking when we were finally hanging out. I pressed send, and was totally unprepared for what happened 2 minutes later. My phone started to ring. Sure enough, up popped his name, in my phone from 3 months ago.


What? He’s calling?! I panicked. “DECLINE”.

The ringing stopped, and a minute later I had a voicemail. “Hey, it’s ManhuntBoy, just seeing what you’re up to this afternoon. Give me a call.”

I pondered. He sounded normal, if a bit stoned. But nice enough. Maybe I should call him back. It went against my better instincts, but what was so bad? Sure, I’ve never been much for phone chatting, but I thought: maybe he just wants to hear that I sound normal, and maybe we’ll make a date.

I decided to go for it. I pressed the Call Back button. Little did I know I was about to embark on the Sexterview.

As soon as I identified myself, he started asking questions. Where do you live? Where do you work?

I played along, trying to keep the conversation light with my own questions, like Whats up? Hows it going?

He gave one word answers, and immediately went back to questions of his own. Do you workout? How tall are you? Are you an exhibitionist?

I answered, and then again tried to bring it to the conversational: What are you up to? Lazy Sunday?

He avoided my questions, and dove into his serious list.

Do you like to cuddle? You’re more a top? Do you like to suck cock?

I sighed, wishing I had stuck with my impulse. DECLINE. But it was too late now. I answered: Sometimes. Yes. Of course.

He continued, and I imagined him holding a clipboard and checking off boxes.

What gym do you go to? Do you live alone? Are you safe?

I gave up. I decided there was nothing to do but wait until the sexterview was over and the questions finally ceased. I answered, and the barrage continued.

Do you do groups? Where do you like to cum?

And then he got to the truly perverse.

“How old are you?”

“How old are you?!” I shot back, outraged.

“23.”

I sighed, and I swear I heard him flip a page. “So,” he continued, “You definitely like to cuddle, right?”

From now on, I’m sticking to texts.

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.

A couple months ago, I wrote a blog post about the number of men my friends and I sleep with, and whether it’s too many. After posting it, I didn’t think the subject would be resurrected so quickly.

Last month, Time Out New York published their “Calling All Singes” issue. “Meet 104 eligible New Yorkers inside!” the cover exclaimed. I quickly paged to the main article, anxious to look at the gays (TONY always features some gays when publishing an issue like this one.) I began scrutinizing the tiny headshots, paying close attention to the males who’s pictures had the little blue man symbol in the corner: men who liked men. I had only covered about half a page when my eye settled on a cute boy.

Hey! I thought. I know him. Actually, I’d slept with him not too long ago. How funny - someone I hooked up with is famous! Well, has a one-inch-by-one-inch photo in Time Out, anyway.

I continued browsing, noticing a couple cute boys on each page of the article. Then I noticed another smiling face.

Hey! I Know him, too! Actually, I’d slept with him, too. This one was a while ago, years in fact, but nevertheless, I’d had sex with 2 out of the hundred and four New Yorkers in Time Out.

Really?

I frantically scanned the article for the next ten minutes, to be certain that it was only two. It was. I put the magazine down, and laughed. It was funny, right? I decided it was, and Twittered about it.

Not long after, I sat down to dinner with my friend and colleague, AccidentallB. She’d seen my Twitter post.

“You’ve slept with TWO guys in Time Out?!” she exclaimed.

“So what?” I laughed. “You’ve slept with more than two people.”

“NOT the same,” she scolded. “How many singles were in that magazine?”

“A hundred and four.”

“And half were men,” she said. I nodded. “And,” she continued, “how many were gay men?”

I shrugged. As if I hadn’t counted. “Eleven.”

She smiled smugly. “Eleven. Two out of eleven.”

“So what?” I asked, for the second time, though slightly less confidently.

“So,” AccidentallB replied, “that's a random sampling of gay men in New York City. Do the math. You've slept with 15 percent of all the gay men in Manhattan.”

I opened my mouth to reply ... and then closed it. A second later, I tried again. “That’s not... Are you... How could I...”

She looked back at me, cocked an eyebrow, and said nothing.

“Huh.” I sighed. “I really need to move.”

I was with a work colleague when I found a cell phone in the back of a cab.

“Should I give it to the driver?” she asked.

“No,” I sighed. “I’ll take it. I’ll do my good deed for the month.” I figured I could use some good karma.

I went back to my office and started looking through the phone - contacts, incoming calls, recently dialed numbers. Many were Italian names, with numbers that clearly dialed outside the U.S. Finally, I settled on the recently dialed number for Josie Cell, which also appreard in the contacts next to Josie Home and Josie Country.

“Hello?” a voice answered after four rings. I explained that I had found the phone in a taxi, and was trying to find its owners.

“Well that’s very nice of you,” she said. “Do you know who’s it is?”

“Um, no...” I replied. “Unless maybe it came up on your phone?”

“Oh! Well, the number did! It’s...” she proceeded to tell me the number. Useless.

“Well, I’m still not sure who’s it is,” I replied.

“Well, maybe if you read me some names in it,” she suggested.

“Sure,” I replied, trying to figure out how to set it on speaker phone and view the Contact List simultaneously. Who owns a Motorola Razr anymore?

Eventually, I figured it out and began reading her some contacts, no doubt butchering the names, which were mostly European. After only 5 or 6, she interrupted.

“Oh! It’s my mother’s phone! Or my father’s. Those are their people.”

I thought, “Their name didn’t come up on your caller ID?” but said nothing.

“Oh they’re probably in hysterics over it being missing. You’d never know it, but they are 85 and 92! They’re crazy artists who live in tribeca.”

“... Oh.”

“Thank you so much!” she went on. She gave me their exact address, which I wrote down though I had no intention of visiting. I was going for good karma, not sainthood. Then she gave me their home phone number, and their names. “Just call them at home,” she said, “and tell them you have the phone. They’ll send a messenger or something. Thank you so much!”

I disconnected, curious about these “crazy artists” who lived in what was probably a very nice loft in TriBeCa, judging from the address. Maybe I should deliver the phone in person.

“Hello?” a male voice answered when I dialed the home number. I once again explained I’d found a phone in the back of a taxi, this time adding that I’d gotten their home number from their daughter, and I thought the phone was theirs.

“Oh, thank you so much!” exclaimed the father. “That’s a very nice thing you’re doing. Where are you?”

I told him I was in the Times Square area, and he said to someone else in the room with him, “Can you go to Times Square?” After a beat, he said to me, “Talk to Christie, she’ll arrange to pick it up. And thank you!”

A second later, a female voice got on the line. Younger, definitely not the mother - a personal assistant? A Nurse?

“Thank you so much!” she said. “Tell me where you are, I’m happy to come up to you.”

I gave her the address, and she agreed to meet me within an hour. Then just as she was about to hang up, someone, presumably the mother, said something to her. She listened, then repeated it to me.

“Do you like olive oil?” she asked.

“Um... well, yes,” I replied, which was true. “I like it very much.”

“Well,” she said,”Mr. and Mrs. LostPhone make their own olive oil. They live half the year in Italy. They want to know if you’d like a bottle?”

SCORE!

“That’s so nice of them,” I replied. “I would love a bottle.”

“Great, see you soon!” she said, and hung up.

“HOMEMADE OLIVE OIL ON THE WAY!” I shouted to my colleagues as I hung up the phone.

“What??”

I told them the story.

“Crazy artists?”

“Half the year in Italy??”

“Homemade olive oil!?”

“You got it,” I laughed.

45 minutes later, we were dipping bread into some of the most amazing olive oil I’ve ever tasted.

“This is incredible!” cried a co-worker, licking her fingers. “It’s like crack in a bottle!”

“Better,” I said. “It’s Karma in a bottle.”

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.

The story of one New Yorker's first visit to Los Angeles. Part One here. Part Two here. And now the final chapter:

We actually set an alarm for Saturday morning, but we didn’t need it. One good thing about being on New York time in L.A. is that your body can sleep til noon, but you’re still awake by 9. It was Tourist Day, and I had quite a list. First stop: Enterprise.

They handed us the keys to our PT Cruiser – I looked longingly at the convertible, but we decided against the $150 upgrade. By 10:15 we were cruising down Sunset Boulevard toward Santa Monica.

We had coffee and breakfast on the Santa Monica promenade, and then headed to the Pier. We walked the length of Santa Monica Pier, and I took it all in. The homeless people, the pigeons, the strange men gutting fish...

“Santa Monica Pier – check!” I announced.

We hopped back in the car and headed for our next destination: The Getty Museum.

I put the address into Google maps, and handed my iPhone to TightLips.

“Just follow the purple line,” I explained. “The blinking blue dot is us. It has GPS.”

Soon, we were winding through narrow streets, going up steep hills with beautiful houses on either side.

“These houses are ridiculous,” I observed. “They must cost millions.”

I watched as the road narrowed, and the curves became sharper.

“This can’t be right,” I said.

“It is!” Tightlips replied, scrutinizing the iPhone.

Soon were had slowed to about 20 miles per hour, going around curves so sharp that mirrors had been nailed to the trees so that you could see if a vehicle was approaching from the other side. And we always seemed to be moving uphill.

“This CAN’T be right,” I insisted.

“We are exactly on the line!” he said adamantly.

Then we went up another steep incline, around one final U-shaped curve, and suddenly were facing a huge metal fence with a locked gate that went right across the road.

“What the??” I stopped the car.

I looked to the right, and saw nailed to a tree a black box that looked like a mailbox. On it was a large printed sign: DIRECTIONS TO GETTY MUSEUM. Your GPS is Wrong.

* * *

30 minutes later we were out of the hills, on highway 405, and then pulling into the parking lot of the Getty Center. We didn’t really know what to expect, and the surprises started with the tram that takes guests up the mountain side from the parking lot to the museum. We felt like we were entering Jurassic Park. The Center turned out to be a campus of buildings with stunning architecture, beautiful gardens and fountains, and extraordinary views, even on an overcast day. We saw some of the exhibits, including a great photography display by Irving Penn called The Worker, and then strolled though the stunningly landscaped gardens.

“Getty Museum – check!”

We got back to the hotel around four, and changed into our Saturday-Night-Out-In-L.A. Outfits. A client of mine was hosting an event at the Grammy Museum in downtown LA, and had invited us to attend. We left early, as we had a few stops to make on the way.

The first stop was In-N-Out burger. Tightlips was salivating as we pulled in to the parking lot. I looked over the menu, which only listed four items, and ordered a double cheeseburger and fries. The burger was pretty fantastic. The fries, however, were a little soggy – I didn’t really like them.

“Maybe you’d like them better Animal Style,” said TightLips, pointing to a woman near us whose fries were covered with chili, cheese and who knows what else.

“That’s not on the menu!” I said to him.

“You just have to know,” he replied.

“That’s fucking ridiculous,” I exclaimed. “It’s a fast-food chain, not the Skull and Bones Society.”

He shrugged. I handed him the rest of my fries, which he gladly started eating. I made the obligatory fat joke.

“Hey,” he replied, “You’re lucky I didn’t order a four-by-four.”

Again I looked at the menu, then back at him questioningly, as of course no such thing was listed.

“You just have to know.”

“Secret Society of the In-N-Out Burger – check!” I said sarcastically, and we were off to Hollywood Blvd.

We covered the Walk Of Fame, scratching the rest of our Must-Sees off the Tourist list: Grauman's Chinese Theatre, the Kodak Theater, the Hollywood sign. We decided to each pick our favorite Star and take a picture. TightLips immediately chose Paula Abdul, and after only 20 minutes of searching, we found her. Mine was more difficult.

“I don’t really have a favorite star,” I told him. “I’m not the celebrity type.”

“You’ll find one,” he replied. We walked both sides of the boulevard, just as I was getting annoyed with the tourists in front of the Kodak Theater, TightLips pointed at the ground.

“Look!”

I gasped. “Absolut Vodka has a Star?!”

Hollywood Walk Of Fame – check.

The event was at the new Grammy Museum in downtown L.A. Although I was still mostly loving the city, I got to experience one of L.A.’s infamous downsides: traffic. After driving an hour for a distance that should have taken 20 minutes, we finally arrived at the museum, which was located in the same complex as the Staples Center.

I thought the Grammy Museum was pretty cool. TightLips was like Charlie in the Chocolate Factory. He ran around, gasping, pointing, screeching.. and when he saw the display of Beyonce’s grammy dress I swear he orgasmed – I was worried he would try to shatter the display case so he could try it on.

The centerpiece of the event was a private performance by Lang Lang, an amazing pianist who, among hundreds of other noteworthy appearances, performed at the opening ceremonies of the Bejing Olympics, where he was watched by over 5 million people. We got to watch him in a room of about 150 people, and he was absolutely stunning.

Following the performance, there was a cocktail reception on the roof of the museum. The space was nice – well decorated with cocktail tables and of course a full rooftop bar. And once again I loved that we were at an outdoor event in the middle of November. But I was underwhelmed by the views. Looking at the few paltry high-rises of downtown LA, I found myself missing the magnificent skyline of New York City.

We left the event and headed back to West Hollywood for our final night out in L.A. We again found ourselves fighting traffic.

“God, it’s 10:30,” I said, “is there ALWAYS traffic here?”

“Pretty much.”

When we finally arrived, we dealt with the next drama: parking. I was definitely missing the ease of public transit in Manhattan.

The club, however, for the second night in a row outshone NYC. We went to Cherry Pop at Ultra Suede, which was a great space with modern-looking décor and bars, as well as a pretty large dance floor. Around the dance floor were three raised stages, which featured rotating go-go dancers. At first I was critical of all three of them: the white guy with Mohawk, the black guy with the crazy outfit (Is that a wrestling belt, underwear, knee-high boots and a jacket that only reaches from shoulders to nipples? Yes, yes it is.) And the girl. A girl go-go boy? But soon they all won me over, ever her, especially when at random points in the middle of songs they would suddenly break into perfectly matched choreography – but only for about 10 seconds. A neat trick.

The music was great, and the crowd was very cute. There were a couple boys I thought about talking to, but that “foreign city” confidence I’d had the last couple nights seemed to be gone. It might have had something to do with the fact that I wasn’t drinking. It was strange not being able to jump on the subway or in a cab. I wondered, did people in LA not drink as much, or did they always have a designated driver, or did they just drive home drunk? All of those options seemed crazy to me, but I added it to my growing list of things in L.A. that just didn’t make sense.

The next morning, we returned the car and walked to Santa Monica one last time for brunch. We considered Hamburger Mary’s, but for some reason they don’t open at 10:30am so we chose Hugo’s, which had a sizable crowd waiting for tables. The GayCities iPhone app described it as “Healthy food to the stars.”

“Do you see any stars?” I asked TightLips as we were being shown to our table.

“That kind of looks like Phillip Seymour Hoffman,” he said, pointing at a man with white hair who looked nothing like Phillip Seymour Hoffman.

“And the woman he’s with looks like Tabitha from that Bravo hair-styling show,” I said.

“Perfect!” he cheered. “For purposes of story-selling, we had brunch with Phillip and Tabitha.”

The food was delicious, and it was another gorgeous sunny day. As we sat in the taxi to the airport, I posted to Twitter that I was very unhappy to leave L.A. and would be back soon. It was true, there was a lot about the city I really enjoyed. But there was also a lot about it I just didn’t get. And when our plane touched down at JFK eight hours later, I had a thought I often have when returning home from a trip: I’m glad to be back in New York, where things make sense.

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 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.

Tuesday night at XES for a friend’s birthday turned out to be sort of a Fire Island reunion. As one frequent guest of our house remarked, “It’s so weird to see you all in clothes.”

The Sexican and I were chatting about, of course, sex, when a housemate who shall remain nameless announced that he had recently slept with a 19-year-old. I shrugged, having made the same admission once or twice in the past. But Sexican, a little tipsy, acted horrified.

“Oh my gawd!! Nineteen???”

A sheepish nod.

“Wait. Did you BOTTOM with a nineteen-year-old?!”

Another sheepish nod, followed by a dash to the bar for more alcohol.

“I can’t believe it!” exclaimed Sexican.

“What?” I asked. “He’s a bottom.”

“I never bottom for someone younger than me!” Sexican cried. “That’s the Rule!”

“It IS?”

I had never heard such a thing, though perhaps I’d been following it inadvertently all these years. I usually tend to top, at least during one-night-stands, which I’ve had a lot of. And I’ve always tended to sleep with younger guys, which I’ve had a lot of. But was there a correlation? It seemed ridiculous that something as silly as age could determine what sexual position someone prefers on any given night, in any given encounter. But, it certainly seemed to resonate with some people...

As I thought about it, I recalled something that In Bocca Di Lucas had written once on his blog, Top To Bottom. Some quick research found me the post, Now Step I Forth to Whip Hypocrisy. He wrote about a partner of his that wanted him to bottom, apparently a request he gets fairly often, the reason being his looks. The point of his post seemed summed up when he, at height 5’4”, wrote: “I have just as much of a right as any other guy to like it better on top...just like all these 6'4" bottoms I've been meeting have a right to take it up the ass.” However, just one line before that, he himself admitted: “I am fully aware of the fact that I look like a bottom. I'm short, slim, boyish, and I have a killer ass.”

(Sounds good to me!)

So some people, I reasoned, determine position preference based on body type, which is purely physical. Others clearly rely on age, which encompasses both the physical and the emotional. And I soon realized that other people associate it with the totally emotional quality of personality.

I was walking in Chelsea with Travelocigay, after we had finished dinner at Tia Pol, an amazing tapas restaurant on Tenth Avenue. He wanted us to meet up with some friends, and pulled out his cell phone to call one of them. I listened to his end of the conversation:

“Hi... Where are you? ... Walking on Tenth... Tia Pol... Where are you? ... Ohhhh... Where is that? ... Ohhhh... Yeah, we should meet up... Ummmm... How long will you be? ... Um...”

Finally I could no longer take the indecisive babble.

“Where are they!?” I demanded.

“Nisos,” he replied.

“When are they done?” I questioned, already mapping Chelsea in my head.

“They’re on dessert,” he said.

“Ok, were going to G. It’s a block away, tell them to walk over whenever they’re done.”

Travelocigay relayed my message and hung up. Then he turned to me and said, “I love that you’re a top!”

Who can say whether being a top or a bottom is determined by age, or height, or attitude. Maybe it’s a combination. Maybe it’s a spur-of-the-moment decision. Or maybe it doesn’t matter, and once they’re at that point, boys just wanna have fun.

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.

The weekend of October 10/11 2009, I attended the National Equality March in Washington, D.C. It was a fun, moving, crazy, amazing, drunken, special weekend, and I had no idea how I would ever write about it. Until I realized that I’d been writing about it the whole time – via my endless Twitter and Facebook updates.

Sat at 10:40am
David is on the Bolt Bus headed to DC for the National Equality March. Weekend of updates to follow!

Sat at 12:15pm
David is somewhere in south jersey. Made friends with a cute lesbian couple. No children on the bus thank god - nice and quiet.

Sat at 1:42pm
David’s gay bus to DC is at a rest stop outside Charleston, DE. I wonder if this update will get flagged for "gay" & "rest stop".

Sat at 3:04pm
David has arrived in DC and is heading for the Ritz Carlton Pentagon City. Ya gotta have connections, people.

Sat at 6:09pm
David is relaxing at the Ritz before a night out in DC, and kinda laughing at all the boys taking those 6am buses tomorrow.

Sat at 9:04pm
David is having cocktails and dinner with the gang at SETTE in Dupont Circle. March tomorrow!

Sat at 11:37pm
David is standing in line to get into Town, apparently the hottest party in DC since the Democrats.

Sun at 1:20am
David is DISGUSTED that DC clubs still have black lights. Is it 1993??

Sun at 9:28am
David is hungover and annoyed at B**** for throwing open the hotel curtains, but glad it's not 6am. Suns out in DC!

Sun at 10:22am
David cut himself shaving. On March day! I'm sure by the end of the day I'll have given blood, sweat and tears for Equality.

Sun at 11:15am
David is at the holding area for the march. Amazing energy! And lots of cute boys.

Sun at 12:04pm
David just realized we are at the very front of the march. And we're off!

Sun at 12:17pm
David: March is off to a slow start - it's more of a Stroll For Equality so far.

Sun at 12:20pm
David: Actual rainbow in the sky above the march! Crowd goes crazy!!

Sun at 1:40pm
David is closing in on the Capitol. Not sure what it is about this stretch, but there's cute boys EVERYWHERE.

Sun at 2:00pm
David is at the rally. Lady GaGa just passed by getting escorted to the stage.

Sun at 3:46pm
David: Lady GaGa on stage at the Equality Rally! Crowd goes crazy.

Sun at 8:47pm
David: Phone died, no surprise. I was seen on cspan! Proud of all those NYers who made the day trip but glad I hoteled. Goin out!

Sun at 10:34pm
David is heading out in Dupont Circle. Where is everyone? What's the DC hot spot tonight?

Sun at 11:46pm
David is sitting with the boys in the "VIP" section at Cobalt. We look like we're judging American Idol.

Monday at 10:19am
David is on Cspan at the Equality March. Clearly seen in the video on YouTube.

Tuesday at 12:09pm
David is wondering what to have for lunch. Wow, updates are so much less interesting when I'm not in the middle of a March for Gay Equality.

"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.