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.”

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.”

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.

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 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.

I broke my own rule, and went directly to the apartment of a trick I met on Manhunt without meeting him for drinks first.

He was cute when he opened the door, and looked just like he did in his pictures. I breathed a sigh of relief. Then I entered the apartment.

Dresses. Bright, glittery, gaudy dresses, strewn everywhere. A make up table, overflowing with cosmetics. A huge mirror. High heel shoes. Wigs.

“Oh, sorry,” he said, catching my stare, “I live with a drag queen.”

My immediate thought was: That’s like saying ‘I’m just holding this porn for a friend.’

My next thought was: Am I about to hook up with a drag queen?

“This is a lot of stuff,” I said.

“Yeah, she’s at a show tonight,” he said. “I design her costumes.”

Skeptically, I began to investigate further, trying to be subtle. There were indeed two bedrooms. QueenysLittleHelper was leading me, presumably, to his. Entering, there was a similar mess, but it was slightly different. Less dresses, more... fabric. The same marabou, silks and satins, but they were parts rather than dresses. Fortunately my good friend MartiniFun is a costume designer, and I recognized the typical tools of the trade. Fabric scissors, measuring tapes, little boxes of pins. And standing in the corner were two dress forms.

As he began to put his hands on me, I once again sighed in relief. I wasn’t about to sleep with a drag queen.

I may as well have.

As soon as I laid on the bad I felt little bits and pieces sticking to my back and arms.

“What the...?” Sequins. Beads. “Are these rhinestones?”

Instead of apologizing, he just kissed me. We had sex, but it seemed that every time things got hotter and heavier, so did the costume nightmare. With every thrust, there was an explosion of sequins, tinsel, and false eyelashes. Bedazzled fabric was flying through the air. Boa feathers drifted about. Glitter rained down.

When it was over we showered, but I was still flicking mirrored bits of sequin and tinsel off my clothes as I walked home. And those tiny persistent flecks of glitter stuck around for days. What a drag.