I pulled open the sliding glass door and was instantly hit with bright Fire Island sunshine and Beyonce blasting from the iPod.

“Heeey!” chorused a couple of my housemates. I did a “share” for the first time ever this summer – went in with 6 other guys on a four-bedroom house, for 6 various weeks throughout the summer.

Three of them were already up, one walking around the pool in a pair of clear high-heeled shoes we’d found left in the house from last week’s share.

“There’s coffee,” said TastyCake, who was my roommate for the summer.

“And vodka!” announced GarrettJuice.

“It’s ten a.m.,” I mumbled, still waking up.

He looked at me. “So?” Though he was definitely the house mother of the summer, I’m not sure I’d ever seen GarrettJuice not sauced. He pushed a pitcher of what looked vaguely like lemonade in my direction.

“What IS that?” I asked dubiously.

“Vodka and Crystal Light!” he replied proudly. “We have to watch our carbs!”

I shook my head and headed back inside to the kitchen, opting for the coffee and the uneaten half of my sandwich from last night. When I returned to the deck, Britney was blaring and the boys were in a discussion about women.

“They’re all just so annoying,” TastyCake was saying, “every single one of them!”

“I totally agree,” called Madambien from across the pool, as he danced around in the high heels to Toxic without spilling a drop of Crystal Light Vodka from his plastic martini glass.

“Aren’t you generalizing a little?” I asked TastyCake.

“Nope,” he replied, “I really hate women. I barely like my mother and my sister. And they're lucky they're blood.”

I laughed, and took a huge bite of my sandwich. Madambien was circling the pool, strutting her stuff back in our direction. As I went to take another bite, he plucked the sandwich out of my hands.

“That’s enough of that,” he said, and without pausing took the sandwich back into the house.
I stared down at my now-empty hands, and then looked up at TastyCake.

“Were you just put on a diet?” he asked.

I shook my head in disbelief.

“I told you, carbs!” scolded GarrettJuice, clearly taking the sand-burglar’s side. “Do you know that house 2 down from us? The whole thing is filled with models. All of them! A house full of models! It’s disgusting.”

Despite being miffed about my missing meal, GarrettJuice had reminded me of a story my friend AllWorkNoGay had told me before I left for the island. I shared it with the boys.

Several years ago, AllWorkNoGay was visiting Fire Island, and met a boy at High Tea. This boy was gorgeous – adorable face, beautiful body – perfection. It turned out, he was a model for a famous fashion designer, and in fact staying at the designer’s huge house on the island.

“Would you like to come back to the house with me?” ModelBoy asked AllWorkNoGay.

“Of course!” AllWorkNoGay was funny, charming and great to hang out with, but knew that he was no super-model, and couldn’t figure out what the boy saw in him. Still, he wasn’t passing up the opportunity. When he got to the house, which seemed more like a mansion, he realized this boy wasn’t the only one the designer had invited to stay. It was an entire house full of stunning male models.

At first AllWorkNoGay thought he was in heaven, but he soon began to feel like the odd man out. He was definitely suspicious that he was the butt of their jokes when they kept offering him food, saying “Eat, Eat!” when none of them ingested so much as a celery stalk.

Finally, he pulled ModelBoy aside and flat out asked him, “Why are you with me?”

ModelBoy, without a hint of sarcasm in his beautiful honest eyes, replied, “I like the simple people.”

My housemates all laughed along with me.

“That poor guy,” said TastyCake.

Suddenly, the sliding door flew open and D2 burst out onto the deck.

“I'm so stressed out you guys! One of my tricks might live with one of my other tricks!”

TastyCake gave him a confused look, while GarrettJuice immediately began pouring him a cocktail.

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“O.K.,” said D2, sitting at the patio table and reaching for the drink. “I met this guy at Low Tea last night, and he was from Queens, and he was all about me, and we traded numbers, but then he disappeared, right? So then later at High Tea, I met this OTHER guy, who was also from Queens, but I thought, you know, whatever, there’s tons of people from Queens!”

He took a large gulp of his drink and went on. “So, I end up going home with the second guy, and we have crazy sex, and I’m there til like 4 a.m. And NOW, I just got a text from the FIRST guy, saying he’s lying in bed naked and inviting me over.”

“Slut.”

“Whore.”

“I’m so jealous.”

“Wait!” D2 cried. “So the first guy just texted me his address, and it’s the same house that I went to last night to hook up with the second guy! They’re both from Queens. Oh my god, they are housemates!!”

Although he may have expected sympathy, all D2 got was a big round of laughter. I finished my coffee and announced, “I think I’m ready for a cocktail now.”

It was a perfect summer Saturday in New York City. I was walking through Hell’s Kitchen with a cute boy, who I’ll call Shirley Temple, as he was an adorable actor who doesn’t drink. We’d just finished an early dinner at Arriba Arriba, and were deciding where the night would take us. I’m not sure if I was craving a second margarita, or if I just wanted to sit outside, but we found ourselves at Blockheads in Worldwide Plaza.

Blockheads had been one of my favorite summer locations for several years, because of the rare combination of outdoor seating and cheap drinks. It was also great for people watching: not only was it in the middle of uber-gay Hells Kitchen, but on one side of Worldwide Plaza is a Bally’s gym, so hot boys wearing gym shorts and tank tops are always walking in and out. Unfortunately, this summer it seemed that the secret of Blockheads had gotten out, and that night, like the last couple times I’d been there, the crowd was looking very straight.

I automatically scanned the area for cute boys, something I normally wouldn’t do while on a date, but we’d been playing a game of “Who Will See The Most People They Know In Hells Kitchen,” and I was determined to win.

I saw a cute-ish boy, who was indeed wearing gym shorts, with a t-shirt and baseball cap. I only looked at him long enough to determine that I didn’t know him, but that apparently was long enough to catch his interest. As we stopped in the middle of the plaza next to the fountain, the boy walked by and continued checked us out. A lot. He was obvious about it, and we both noticed.

"He was totally undressing you with his eyes," said Shirley Temple.

"Ha. Yeah, it was a little much," I agreed.

"And," ST continued, "he’s walking back."

Sure enough the boy had stopped, began talking to a girlfriend, and was now walking back toward us with the girl at his side. Then it got interesting.

He passed us, and as he walked by he began "adjusting" his t-shirt and waistband, such that his shorts "accidentally" slid farther and farther down his ass. He wasn’t wearing underwear. For a good 15 seconds, half his ass was totally exposed, right there in front of Blockheads.

"And now," ST continued deadpan, "he's undressing himself. "

I was dumbfounded. I’ve been flirting with boys a long time, and will admit to getting cruised by some very forward boys in some very interesting places. But flashing your ass in the middle of Worldwide Plaza? Seriously?

"We have to go." I said. "This place is way too straight."

My friend The Photographer and I were walking down Ninth Avenue in SoPA (South of Port Authority) to get dinner at Market Café. Out of the blue, around 39th street, we were stopped. He was a young guy with a cute face and what looked like a nice body.

“Excuse me guys,” he said, with what sounded vaguely like a Russian accent, even though he looked more Israeli, “Can I ask you question?”

We waited, half expecting a plea for money. After all, it was SoPA.

“Can you tell me – where is gay bar?”

I was uncharacteristically speechless. Really? Just like that, no hesitation, or anything?

Photog recovered first, but not really. “He would know,” he said, gesturing toward me. Sell out.

The truth is, I know the Hells Kitchen gay bars in my sleep. I can name them north to south, alphabetically or by drag queen headliner. I was, for some reason, dumbfounded. “Uhhh... Well, there are lots in Hells Kitchen,” I blurted, vaguely gesturing north.

“I need magazine, yes?”

“Uh, yes!” I said. “HX, or Next. You can find them at any bar. The closest one is ... uh...”

Finally, Photog broke in “Ritz?”

“Yes!” I exclaimed. “Ritz.” In actuality, I was skipping over HK, but that was technically a restaurant, and only a gay dance party on the weekends. And also skipping over Cleo’s, technically called Ninth Avenue Saloon, and always called tragic. “Ritz is on 46th street,” I went on, anxious to recover. “This is 38. Just keep walking up Ninth until 46, and make a right. It says “Ritz” with a blue awning.”

“Forty-six,” he repeated in his ambiguously Russian, sexier-by-the-minute accent. “I see rainbow flag?”

“Uh, no...” I stammered yet again, “No rainbow flag...”

Photog jumped in with “It’s decorated like a ship!” and made gestures with his hands like he was helming a pirate vessel.

I struggled to say something else, but nothing came. What was wrong with me? Where were the obvious lines that should have flown out of my mouth: What’s your name? Where are you from? How long are you in town? And of course: Gay bars are all dead on a Monday, but my apartment is alive and well!

With his typical ambiguous-Russian directness, he took his leave. “Thanks guys,” he said, and headed north.

We were silent for a moment, and then Photog blurted, “What was that?!”

“I have no idea. But I suddenly need some vodka.”

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.

As I pack my skimpy bathing suits and search for lube that comes in airline-approved 3-oz bottles, I can’t help thinking about the first year I attended Gay Days at Disney World.

My friend Mattitude had gone to college in Florida, so having him as my roommate that first year came with a distinct advantage: he knew all the locals. Even though Gay Days is a huge Circuit Party destination and attracts gays from all over the country, it’s also a huge draw for all the Florida gay boys living anywhere within 2 hours of Orlando. The locals are a tight clique, but being there with Mattitude was like having the key to the city – once you had an in, all the doors opened.

Friday night we went to the Beach Ball party, which takes place at Typhoon Lagoon, Disney’s water park. Though not the biggest, this is debatably the most popular party of the weekend, with good reason – hundreds and hundreds of gay boys, running around a water park, wearing next to nothing, with full access to all the rafts, pools, and slides. To make the formula for a perfect night complete, remove the few elements that usually ruin an amusement park (lines and children) and add in a massive dance floor, a DJ, and copious amounts of alcohol .

Saturday night the big circuit party was at MGM Studios. However, because of the high ticket price some of the local boys decided to skip the madness and hit a neighborhood bar called Parliament House. I had no idea what I was getting into, but looking at the number of cute Florida boys who were going, I quickly agreed. It turned out Parliament House was no little local bar. That night there were live performances by Kimberly Locke (who gave a surprisingly good show) and Bananarama. And as much as I love a cruel summer, what really put me over the edge was the disclosure that there was a Foam Party.

I had wanted to attend a Foam Party for years, but they rarely exist, especially in New York. It requires a room (or in this case a large, sort of fenced-in area in the back yard) that gets filled with what is basically soap suds. Everyone jumps in to dance and gets covered in the foam, and it becomes playfully sexual pretty quickly, because everyone is soaped up and slippery, and because usually the foam is at least waist-high and no one can see what’s happening underneath.

I was shocked to hear that the majority of the group wanted nothing to do with the foam.

“Are you kidding?!” I cried. “It’s amazing! It’s fabulous! It’s foam!”

“It’s disgusting.” They replied. “It’s gross.” “It’s slimey” “You may as well lather yourself with STD.”

Undaunted, I announced that I was going in. One guy in the group, a cute Russian boy with reddish brown hair and pale skin, seemed less reluctant than the others. I honed in on my target, certain I could convince him. It didn’t take much.

“Hey,” I flirted, “We’re wearing the same bathing suit!”

“Almost,” he said, looking at the stripes down the side. “The stripes are different colors.”

“Close enough!” I said. “I bet if we switched, no one would even notice.”

He laughed. “You’re probably right.”

“We should go in the foam and try it,” I winked.

3 minutes later, CzarsAndStripes and I were waist deep in bubbles, while the rest of the group headed back to Bananarama. It was entirely as fun as I expected. We danced, we flirted, we groped inappropriately. Despite the general consensus that the foam was gross, the pit was pretty full of soaped-up gay boys. Most of them were having the same innocent fun that we were.

But every once in a while, we heard a scream.

“AHHHH!”

We both looked, but it was hard to see through the sudsy cloud. A few minutes later, it happened again, this time from another direction, the scream from a different mouth. And then, a minute later, another. Sometimes the screams were followed by laughter, other times by cries of “What the fuck!?” or “What in gay hell was that?!”

Curiosity finally got the better of me and I reluctantly took my hands off CzarsAndStripe’s soapy bottom and moved toward the source of the screaming. For a moment it was quiet. And then out of the corner of my eye I noticed something moving. I turned just in time to see a figure, completely covered in suds, rise up from out of the foam, look around, and slowly sink back to the ground until he was completely submerged. Although I was loving the foam, even I thought it was a little gross to put one’s face completely under it. Plus, how did he breathe under there?

My thoughts were interrupted when, 10 feet from where I’d just seen the figure appear and then submerge like some creature from the gay lagoon, a blonde twinky boy screamed.

“AHHHHH! What bitch just grabbed my ass!?!”

I couldn’t help but laugh. This guy was actually crawling around under the foam, sneaking up on unsuspecting boys, and helping himself to a handful. I didn’t know whether to be appalled or to applaud.

“Maybe it’s time to go,” said CzarsAndStripes.

Part of me wanted to stay, but I agreed, thinking: there’s always next year.

The other day I had sex with a fuck buddy in his office overlooking Rockefeller center.

It was my favorite kind of sex: just plain fun. A blowjob is a blowjob, but when it happens sitting in an office chair or leaning against a desk full of work papers, it’s just somehow more enjoyable.

I’ve had office sex a few other times over the years, and stripping down with Rocka Fella reminded me of those experiences. Some were good, some were not.

Once, years ago, I met a guy online on gay.com. Though I usually meet guys in public before just going to hook up with them, I made an exception with this one because he wanted me to come have sex in his office, something I’d never done. Besides, I figured, an office is pretty public. At least, during the day.

I arrived at 10PM and met the guy, who of course was not as cute as his pictures. His face looked a bit worn, haggard for his age, which supposedly was 25. He led me through the large workplace, and after several twists and turns we ended up at his office, more of a cubicle but with 6 foot walls that gave it a private feel. Regardless, the building was empty. We chatted a bit, then started fooling around, but in the middle something happened. He opened a drawer, and pulled out cocaine.

“Look what I’ve got!”

I was surprised, confused and a little taken aback. Having never actually done coke, I didn’t recognize it or know at first exactly what he was doing. As he spread a line across the edge of his desk it dawned on me, and I felt a little uneasy, and then a little annoyed. I may not know much about drug culture, but is it normal to stop and do lines in the middle of sex? Finally, I realized the one thing I was most feeling: turned off. The whole experience, from first discovering he didn’t look like his pictures (worn haggard look no longer a mystery) to the unannounced appearance of the nose candy, had me totally unaroused.

“Hey you know what, I gotta go,” I said.

“What’s the matter, man, don’t you want some happy dust?”

“No thanks. That wasn’t the blow I had in mind tonight.”

The next time I had office sex, it was much better, though the title “Office Sex” is debatable. I was working for a free-lance theatre producer, who was just getting started and therefore running his business out of his apartment. He had gotten a big project, so he hired me, under the table of course, and every day I went to his apartment for a few hours to work. The work frequently consisted of me filling out forms and paperwork, while IWannaBeAProducer cruised on Manhunt, often commenting “Look at this one!”

At least it was a gay-friendly work place.

He hired a few other people on and off, one of whom was a cute blue-eyed boy with a smooth, solid body. One day BlueEyes was there, having just delivered some tickets, when IWannaBeAProducer announced that he had to run some errand for a few hours. He told me that he’d see me later, and told BueEyes that he would call when he needed him again. Twenty minutes after he walked out the door, BlueEyes and I were naked on the couch in the living room. Technically we were in an apartment, but it was also an office. And because neither of us lived there and because we could have been interrupted by the boss if he’d randomly came back early, I qualify it as Office Sex.

I did have one other experience in an office, which was fantastic. Several years ago I was briefly seeing a guy who was kind of a hipster back before everyone was trying to be a hipster. Tall and skinny, with long wavy hair and glasses, he was a laid back, Seattle-Grunge meets California-Surfer meets East-Village Art Fag. Cute and fun. MyFirstHipster worked for an advertising agency, and one night brought me to his office, an amazing loft on the edge of TriBeCa. It was total New York new-money chic: enormous open space, taking up half a city block. Hardwood floors, lots of floor-to-ceiling glass walls, trendy modern furniture. In the huge lobby area was a full size pool table, and near the door were leaning six silver scooters.

“C’mon, I’ll show you around,” he said, grabbing one of the scooters.

I looked at him blankly.

“What? We ride around the office on scooters!” He pushed off and glided down the hallway.

Office Sex with MyFirstHipster was really entertaining. We fooled around on his desk, in the kitchen, and in the lobby. And then we had sex on the pool table. It was really hot, but also the kind of fun, relaxed sex that you can laugh through. We did, the whole time making puns about sticks, balls, holes, felt, “in the pocket”, “breaking” him in, and things happening “right on cue.”

Last week, unfortunately, Rocka Fella did not have a pool table in his office. But we still had a great time.

When it was over, Rocka Fella walked me out of the building. As we parted ways on Fifth Avenue, he said, “You better not blog about this!”

I would never.

I was chatting with my friend Travelocigay as we enjoyed dinner outside at HK. We were having one of those deep intellectual conversations that only trendy gay New Yorkers can have.

“So you like your Blackberry?” he asked me.

“Eh, it’s OK,” I replied, “I’m thinking about switching to the iPhone. Either way I hate AT&T.”

“By the way, have you seen the Facebook app for Blackberry?”

“Yes,” I said. “I downloaded it, tried it for about 15 minutes, found it stupid and annoying, and deleted it.”

“Oh, nooo,” he countered. “It’s fascinating!”

“Fascinating?” I mocked, sharpening my wits to ridicule his Mr. Wizard choice of word.

“Yes!” he insisted, before I could say more. “Listen to this. Once you download it, if you do the permissions and settings and whatever, it will scan all the contacts in your phonebook while it searches for friends.”

“So?”

“So,” he continued, “think of how many guys you have saved in your phone as... Guy from Splash or Hot Bartender or...”

I nodded, recalling that through the years I’d amassed several dozen contacts like Chris MH or Matt MH or Steve MH - their last names the same not because they are brothers, but because they are all part of the brotherhood of Manhunt.

Traveocigay went on excitedly, “So it scans all those numbers, and then matches the numbers with Facebook profiles. Because lots of people actually fill in their phone number on Facebook.”

“Wait,” I said struggling to put it all together, “but I’m not Facebook friends with those people.”

“No, but what it comes back with is information that you probably don’t know – like their full name, and often their main profile picture!”

I stared at him. “That IS fascinating!” I exclaimed.

“Watch,” he said, taking out his own Blackberry and searching for my name in his Contacts. He held up the screen, and there next to my name was the picture I had just uploaded to Facebook days prior.

“It continually updates them?” I asked, shocked.

“Yep,” he replied. “And look, it lists your work as well – I never would have put that in. It’s from Facebook.”

“It’s true,” I replied in awe. “I don’t list a lot of personal info, but I do have my company name listed as public. Amazing...”

“So now when I scroll to the trick I just saved as Big Cock Carl... wah lah! His full name, a thumbnail of his face pic, and look! He went to the same college as I did, and he’s a doctor!”

I said nothing, processing exactly how life-changing this could be for my social life.

“You’re downloading it immediately, aren’t you,” he said smugly.

“Immediately. Fascinating.”

New York is a cupcake city. And of the dozens of stores and bakeries that offer their own delicious versions, my all time favorite is Crumbs. Imagine my surprise when one day, returning to my apartment at 5:15pm, I spotted a basket wrapped in clear cellophane sitting in the hallway outside my apartment door. Looking inside, I could see 6 huge Crumbs cupcakes, along with a sleeve of cookies and an envelope. On the envelope were written only 2 words: To Orlando.

I picked up the basket and looked for an apartment number, a delivery slip, anything with a clue to its correct intended owner. Nothing. I brought the basket inside. My first thought as I set it down was, “ I can’t eat all these cupcakes, I’ll get fat.” My second thought was, “I can’t eat all these cupcakes, they don’t belong to me.” I debated what to do as I searched the package again for any indication of its intended recipient. Nothing at all but the envelope which was inside the basket, wrapped in the cellophane, To Orlando.

As much as I wanted to jump right to the conclusion that fate had left the delicious morsels for me outside my door, conscience took over and I decided to do the right thing. I googled the number for Crumbs New York, and dialed. As it rang, I thought that I would simply tell them the building it was delivered to, and they would know the correct apartment number. I’d deliver the basket myself, and the true recipient might be so thrilled that they would reward me with one of the 6 heavenly cakes.

I thought this all out as the phone rang. And rang. And rang. Finally, a voicemail. : “Crumbs is currently closed. Our hours of operation are….” I eyed the cupcakes hungrily. “If you’d like to speak to the operator at our main branch, press 1.” I pressed. It rang. And Rang. And Rang. “Thank you for calling Crumbs. Currently we are closed. If you’d like to leave a message…” I hung up, thinking, Well, I tried.

I left the basket on the counter and headed to the gym. When I returned 2 hours later, my roommate, MuppetDinnerTheater, was home. He was sitting on the couch, eyeing the basket.

“Who’s Orlando?” I asked as I walked in the door.

“I don’t know, but I love Crumbs,” he said.

“Ok, I’ll have you know that I tried to do the right thing,” I said, and told him about calling the store.

“Well,” he replied, “I’ll have you know that I came home at 11am, and the basket was already outside our door.”

“What?”

“And since it obviously wasn’t for us, I left it, figuring that somebody would figure out the mistake.”

“So,” I said, adding things up, “the basket sat there from 11am til 5:30pm. Nobody claimed it, and whoever left it didn’t realize or wasn’t informed of their mistake. Then, we tried calling Crumbs, and they are closed.”

MuppetDinnerTheater nodded, hungrily.

“So now,” I went on, “It is 7:30pm. We tried leaving the basket, we tried calling the store. We don’t know who Orlando is. What else can we do?”

“Well, I guess we can just leave them til tomorrow. Then either we can try calling again, or probably whoever sent them will eventually call when they realize they weren’t delivered.”

“Yes,” I said, “but here’s the thing. Clearly it was Crumbs' screw-up. Why would they just leave them in front of a random door? But more importantly, even if they get told their mistake – what will they do? Will they really come here tomorrow, get these cupcakes that will then have sat in the hallway and our apartment for 24 hours, and re-deliver them? Absolutely not. They already screwed up, they won’t correct it by sending day-old cupcakes. They’ll just send Orlando a new batch.”

“So...”

“So...” We looked at each other.

“WE SHOULD EAT THE CUPCAKES!”

We tore through clear cellophane and inhaled the delicious scent of the sugary frosting. There were 6 different flavors, one more delicious-looking then the next. We finally decided to choose 2, cut them in half, and each sample two different cake-icing combinations. We each took our first bite, and had that euphoric moment of tasting a truly delicious dessert.

“Mmmmmm.”

“Amaaaaazing.”

“Soooooo goooood.”

Our mouths were filled with the moist cake and creamy frosting. In minutes we were on a sugar high. As he stuffed another bite of cake and glob of frosting into his mouth, MupperDinnerTheater said, “Hey! Read the card!”

I reached for the mysterious envelope, leaving a smudge of chocolate frosting over the “To Orlando” as I tore it open. Inside was a simple white card. I opened it, and almost spit a mouthful of cupcake across the room as I read the 4 handwritten lines.

Hi Orlando,

Hope you are feeling better and the surgery went well. Get well Soon!

Best, Joanna

MuppetDinnerTheater stopped chewing, and stared at me, half-eaten cupcake in his hand. I stared back, and for a moment we were silent. Then he said, “We are going to hell.”

“Totally.”

Another minute of silence passed. Finally, he spoke again. “Do you want another?”

“Totally.”

I know plenty of hot boys, but ThoroughlyMuscledMilli is seriously up there on the list. He’s pretty much my ideal body type, the perfect mix of skinny twink with lean muscle. A couple months ago, my jaw dropped when I read his facebook info page saying he was in a Thruple– a three-way relationship. Already enthused by his physique, the thought of him having a crazy menage a trios every night of the week almost sent me over the edge. I played it cool and didn’t let on my titillation, but the next time I saw him, out at a club, I couldn’t help bring it up.

He was with one of his two boyfriends, and after saying hello, I asked about the other one.

“Oh he rarely comes out,” ThoroughlyMuscledMilli told me. “He’s more of a home body.”

“I’m sure he’s a nice body to come home to,” I replied.

He just smiled, so I pushed a little further.

“That must be a crazy apartment,” I said. “Like a gay Playboy mansion!”

“Actually, we’re pretty boring at home,” he told me. “Usually we just cook dinner, watch TV, and go to bed.”

I shot him a ‘C’mon, you’re kidding’ look.

“I mean, it gets interesting once in a while,” he admitted, referring to what I imagined were mind-blowing, life-altering, porn-star sex sessions. “But really, it’s usually pretty dull.”

I had a hard time believing him, maybe because I didn’t want to spoil my own fantasy, but eventually I thought perhaps I might be getting carried away. I knew that regular couples, even the crazy-hot-super-model types, eventually settle into a routine that, the longer they are together, rarely includes wild monkey sex on a nightly basis.

Still, the idea of a thruple fascinated me. It seemed like such a foreign concept, until I remembered that my good friend J-Blo had been in one only a couple years prior. With burning questions fresh in my mind, I called him to get the scoop.

“So you were in a Thruple, right?” I asked.

“A thruple? Is that what they’re calling them these days?” he laughed. “Yes, I was in a three-way relationship. It was hot. Lots of really fun sex.”

“I knew it!” I cried. “So it IS like being on the set of a Chi Chi La Rue film!”

“Well, once in a while. But it was also nutty as we all lived together in a tiny studio apartment.”

“That doesn’t sound too fantastic.”

“And of course, as anyone NOT involved could easily have predicted, it eventually all fell apart.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“Just lots of dis-trust, lots of suspicion, lots of jealousy.”

“Sounds dramatic.”

“It was,” he admitted. “But we’re all great friends now!”

I was dubious.

The abnormally warm weather this past weekend found me rollerblading with XJosh and Marabou when the topic came up again.

“Thruples are the new black!” announced Marabou.

“Really?” I said skeptically. “I only know of one right now.” I referenced ThoroughlyMuscledMilli.

“There’s also Albert and Armand,” XJosh informed me.

“They’re in a Thruple now?!” I replied. They were a couple that XJosh and I had met back when we were dating, almost 4 years ago. Both were actors.

“Yep,” he replied. “With another actor.”

“I’m sure that’s not dramatic” I said sarcastically. “But I guess I’m not surprised. They had a regular third fuck buddy for a while, it was almost a thruple.”

“Apparently they still have a guest star now and then,” said XJosh. A fourth!? My gay porn fantasies immediately sparked anew.

“Yeah, but we hear there’s all kind of rules now,” chimed in Mariboo.

“Rules?”

“Like if they bring someone in, everyone has to agree on the boy,” he explained.

“So it’s like a panel?” I asked. “With three judges?”

“Yup, like American Idol.”

“More like American I’d do.” They rolled their eyes. I suddenly made a decision. “I need to be in a Thruple!” I declared.

“Ha,” remarked XJosh. “Let us know how that works out for you.”

“What!” I replied. “Just because I can’t even find a single – with whom to be a couple – doesn’t mean I can’t jump right to thruple. I’m sure it will work out brilliantly.”

He groaned. “I’m sure it will.”

This weekend I was enjoying the first truly beautiful New York day of 09 on the 44th street pier. I was standing with a group of gays, just talking, chatting, hanging out, when up walked a friend of ours with his dog. Suddenly, all conversation stopped, and it was all about the little monster. No chatting could continue, as it was constantly interrupted by shouts of “Condom, Stop it! Condom, sit! Condom, don’t eat that! Condom, what’s in your mouth! Condom, why can’t you be good?!”

Much like a small child, when a dog is present it immediately commands all attention, regardless of how many people are there, who they are, or what they’d rather be talking about.

There is a guy I’ve known for several years, an artist who lives downtown. I’ve always found him gorgeous, and over the years we’ve had a complicated relationship that skirted the lines between acquaintances, friends-with-benefits, a couple attempts at dates, and just friends. Through it all, he’s owned a dog. And through it all, the dog ruled the relationship.

Multiple times I went to his apartment for dinner, or drinks, or to “catch up,” all of which I saw as possibly opportunities for naked time. I liked going to his place as I have a roommate, and he has always lived alone. Every single time I’d go there however, the conversation was always about the dog. “Isn’t Poochie cute? Isn’t Poochie sweet? Oh I spent the day with Poochie.” Or worse, rather than talking to me, he would talk to the dog. “What are you doing Poochie? Do you want to go out? Do you want a snack? Are you being a good boy?”

HELLO! I’m sitting here, I’m drinking a bottle of wine with you, I’M being a good boy – why don’t you come over here and rub MY underside? I always found it infuriating, and even though I would try to hook up with him a few times a year, I think the dog was a serious part of the reason our relationship never progressed further.

It wasn’t just the artist though; almost all dog owners I know are the same way. And cat owners are no better. In fact, sometimes they are worse.

A couple months ago I hooked up with an adorable boy I met online, we’ll call him Puss ‘N Booty. I went to his apartment, again because he lived alone, and discovered he had a kitten. Cute as a button and annoying as shit. (The cat, not the boy. Well, in a way, both.) Needless to say, the cat jumped all over the apartment, all over him, all over the bed – and of course he lived in a studio so there was nowhere else for the cat to be. Again, it was all about the pet, though this time was a bit different, because the cat was annoying Puss ‘N Booty as well, especially as we were trying to hook up and the cat kept jumping on the bed.

“Pussy, get out of here! Pussy, go away! Pussy, stop being bad!” He would grab the cat and lightly toss it off the bed – it of course landed on its feet, looked around for a minute, and jumped right back up. Because it was a kitten and not yet spayed or declawed, it was full of energy and just wanted to scratch things. Several times, while we were having sex, the cat would jump on the bed and on top of one of us. Puss ‘N Booty would act annoyed and throw it off, I would actually BE annoyed, and eventually I started to do whatever I could to just speed things along and get it over with.

When we were finished, laying there still naked, the cat jumped on the bed, and landed right around my knees. It looked right at me. I stared back. Some survival instinct automatically moved my hand to cover my exposed crotch.. just at the cat lunged, claws tearing my fingers.

“Ouch!” That bitch just tried to scratch my balls off! Puss ‘n Booty grabbed the evil creature for the millionth time and threw him of the bed, which was lucky because if I had grabbed the thing and threw it like I wanted too, it wouldn’t have landed on its feet. But instead of taking out my annoyance on the boy’s pussy, I just got dressed and left. He was hot, but I refuse to go back.

But for all my bad experiences with pet owners, by far the worst (or best) story happened to my friend MartiniFun. We were on vacation together in Atlanta, and one night while we were out we both met guys and went home with them. The next afternoon, we caught up over Bloody Marys.

“OK, so we make out for a while on the dance floor, and then he drives us back to his place,” MartiniFun told me. “We walk into his apartment, it’s cute, and up runs this dog, all excited to see him. Then, I see that he has a second dog, also trotting up. Ok fine. So we go into his kitchen, and I see that he also has a cat. I’m like ‘Oh you have a cat too?’ and he says ‘I have three.’”

“Jesus it’s like a zoo in there!” I exclaimed.

“Just wait,” he continues. “So we start making out again, and after a few minutes he drags me to the bedroom. He opens the door, and I see like four fish tanks.”

“Fish?!”

“Not just fish. Fish, frogs, turtles... and then I hear this squawking – and see behind the bed is a cage with two birds in it.”

My jaw dropped. MartiniFun just nodded, and said, “Oh yeah. It was Noah and the fucking arc in there.”

“What did you do??” I cried.

“What do you think – we had sex! But wait. So it starts out ok, we’re fooling around, and then we start going at it, but as we get more into it, he starts moaning and groaning, and when he does that the dogs start barking. And at first he tries to ignore them, and then he yells at them to stop, but nothing works. So finally we stop, he gets up, puts both dogs outside the bedroom, and closes the door.”

“They were in the room?” I asked.

“Oh yes,” he replied, “and so were the cats. They still are at this point. So he gets back in bed, and we start going at it again, and now it starts getting really intense and he starts morning and groaning, and so outside the door the dogs start barking. But we ignore them, and keep going, and soon we’re really going at it, and he’s getting louder and louder, and as he does the dogs are barking louder and louder, and soon they’re fully howling outside the door. And he’s screaming ‘Ignore them! Faster! Harder!’ Ok, so now we’re going crazy, and the bed starts shaking and banging against the wall, and somehow it must have also been hitting against the birdcage... because the next thing I know the door of the birdcage is somehow open, and the two birds are out of the cage and flying around the ceiling.”

“What?!” I shouted.

“Seriously. And then the cats, who have been on the floor, jump onto the bed, and are leaping in the air trying to catch the birds. And he’s ignoring the whole thing, screaming ‘I’m close! I’M CLOSE!’ So I just ... kept going. He’s screaming, birds are flying, cats are leaping, dogs are howling, turtles are snapping ... I had sex on Animal fucking Planet.”

“Wow,” I said, stunned.

“I’m making a new Rule!” MartiniFun announced. He loved to make rules. “From now on, no sex with men who have pets!”

I raised my glass. “No dogs, just doggie style.”

“Cheers.”

My boss is a charming 60-year old gay man. He's fun, witty, treats his employees well, and he adores me. I love my boss. Most of the time. But once in a while, things get a bit out of hand.

One day Bossy came into the office and told me he had met someone at his gym. Lonni is the lead singer of a new gay pop rock group called Whore's Mascara.

"We're friends now," Bossy told me excitedly, "Lonni wants me to come to one of his shows. You should come with me, I'll introduce you – he's veeeery cute!"

Bossy's partner, who I’ll call Partner, also works in the office. He rolled his eyes at Bossy's match-making, and also at the idea that Bossy would ever go to a Whore's Mascara show – Bossy is strictly the early-to-bed, early-to-rise type, asleep by 10pm and at the gym by 7am. Then one Friday morning Bossy tells me that Whore's Mascara is performing at The Ritz at 10pm on Sunday night.

"That's not so late," he said.

I laughed. "The Ritz is right in my neighborhood," I told him. "If you go, I'll go."

"Maybe I will," he replied.

That Sunday evening found me in the West Village, celebrating a friend's birthday at one of the worse venue choices ever – Marie's Crisis piano bar. As I winced while hordes of insipid queens screeched out agonizing renditions of bad showtunes, my cell phone vibrated. A text message. From Bossy.

You goin to whores?

I was shocked. He was actually going to leave his apartment at 9:30 on a Sunday night to go to a bar? He was my boss, so I couldn't really say no. But going to a bar with him might be awkward. As I paused to consider my options, someone dragged their nails down a near-by chalkboard. No, it was just some flaming gay man trying to hit a high note intended for a soprano. I texted him back.

I'll meet you there in 30 minutes!

"I can't believe I'm here!" Bossy announced after I walked into The Ritz. "I haven't been out this late in years!"

"I'm proud of you!" I replied. He smiled. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad.

"Partner didn't know what to think when I left," Bossy told me. "He thought for sure I was going out to have an affair!"

"Uh-huh." I said, looking for a cocktail. And starting to feel a bit awkward.

"I told him – I'm just going out with David!"

"Oh good," I smiled again.

"So now, he thinks WE'RE having an affair! HA!"

Awkward feeling continuing.

We got our drinks and found some seats. Just then Lonni walked by. Bossy jumped up.

"Hi!" Apparently they did know each other, as Lonni, who turned out to be a boyish-looking guy in his mid 20's, greeted him warmly. Bossy introduced us.

"This is my friend David."

Heeeeeey," said Lonni, with a laid-back, California-surfer, too-many-drugs kinda dwawl, "nice to meeeeet yoooooou. You just just relaaaaaax. We'll get started sooooon. Til then: get luuuuuu-bricated."

He waved and drifted away, leaving Bossy and I staring at each other, pondering exactly how to get lubricated.

Awkward feeling intensifying.

We decided to sit and wait for the show to start. We chatted a bit, talking about where Bossy used to go out, what bars were still open in New York, etc. I made the mistake of once again letting down my guard, thinking this wasn't so bad. As if he had a sixth sense, Bossy abruptly changed the subject.

"So what's going on with Michael’s ass?!" he asked. Referring to one of my co-workers, his employee.

"Uhhhhh... I... uhhhh... dunno..."

"It is getting FAT!" he announced.

In an attempt to close my dropped jaw, I pulled my drink to my mouth. And finished it.

"I think I'll go to the bar," I said cheerily.

"No! Sit down. I'll go. What are you drinking?"

"Are you sure..."

"WHAT ARE YOU DRINKING???"

"Citron and soda," I replied. "Thanks!" And he was off.

He returned a few minutes later. Mercifully, before the conversation hit another landmine, the performance began. Surely, I thought, we were safe now. We'd watch the show for an hour, and then both head home. Whore's Mascara is a fun time. Their music is sort of edgy-pop with dirty lyrics. Very dirty lyrics. Which would be great... if I weren't sitting with my boss.

"Don't be so full of yourself. Be full of me."

Ok, it's innuendo. Maybe he doesn't even get it.

"There's a dance party up your butt! I'm gonna Come! Come! Come! Come!"

Intense awkwardness.

Finally I decided to just focus on the visuals. The group is 3 singers, 2 guys and a girl. Though that night, they had a second girl. She was a skinny little dancer, dressed in a tight tank top and teeny-tiny little short shorts. She didn't dance as much as stand on a box and gyrate, and stretch, and bend over. Which would have been fine. Until she sat on the box and went into a very wide split ... and we could clearly see her maxi-pad sticking out of either side of her crotch under the shorts!

I tried not to look at Bossy. I tried to entirely eliminate my peripheral vision. It was useless. He was laughing, and leaned over to me. And the pinnacle of awkwardness was reached.

"I think they could cut that dancer from the act. She seems to be… unnecessary. She's sticking out."

“I’ve worn a harness before.”

Most of my friends looked a little shocked. Especially the straight ones. In fact, a couple of the straight ones didn’t even know what I meant.

“You know, it’s like leather straps, and usually it crosses over your chest, and you usually see them with some kind of metal studs or spikes on them,” I tried to explain.

“Why the hell were you wearing that?!” someone asked.

“For fun?” I replied. “It’s actually a funny story.” I sipped my drink and began the tale.

It was about 5 or 6 years ago, and I was cruising profiles on some website or another. I saw a picture of a boy, mid-twenties, good body, wearing a harness. I started chatting with him, and asked him about it. He told me he loved them, that he owned several. I was intrigued. I’d never worn one before, and didn’t really understand the point of them. Also , I’d always thought they were for hairy leather daddies in clubs like The Eagle, but here was a this young, smooth guy wearing them in several pictures, and looking pretty good.

Finally HarnessBoy said “You should come over and try one of mine on!”

“Maybe we should meet for a drink first,” I replied.

A few days later we met for a drink at Pastis. I was surprised to find that in person he was even cuter then he looked in his online pictures, and more surprised when we started to hit it off. Soon we were connecting on a very deep level.

Me: I love hot food.

Harnessboy: Me too! If it’s meant to be hot, I want it piping hot!

Me: Exactly! Right out of the oven. And, if something is meant to be cold...

HarnessBoy: Ice cold!

Me: Totally.

HarnessBoy: Sometimes, when I’m drinking one of those 20 ounce bottles of coke, I get almost to the end but I don’t even finish it because those last few sips have gotten too warm.

I was thrilled. This was clearly a match made in heaven. In fact, I was so taken by this boy, that after our drinks I agreed to go back to his place. In Brooklyn.

Let me explain something: I don’t do boroughs. Call me a Manhattan Snob, call me crazy, I’ve just learned that bad things happen when I cross a river. Actually, that night may have been part of that lesson, among many others.

2 subways, 10 walked blocks and an hour later, we arrived at his place. It was nice, but I didn’t get much of a tour. He led me right to his bedroom. He opened the door, and immediately I saw it.

His bed was against a wall, and above it was a long, low shelf. At first I almost smiled, when on that shelf I saw a 20 ounce bottle of coke, unfinished, with a few sips left in the bottom of the bottle. But then I looked down the length of the shelf, and was horrified. Covering it, from one end to the other, were no less than 35 open, 20 ounce bottles of coca-cola, each with a few sips of warm liquid in the bottom. Quick math (which I hate to be forced into using) told me that even if he drank a whopping 5 bottles a day, some of those had been sitting there for over a week. My guess was many had been there longer.

I looked at him, with so many thoughts jumping to mind: I understand not finishing the bottle, I even understand if you’re drinking it in bed and go to sleep, and leave it on the shelf til morning, or even forgetting about it and going to work. But 35 bottles?! Over a week’s worth of disgusting warm backwash? Good god! Throw them out!

My next thought was: I need to leave. I need to just make up some excuse, tell him I’m not feeling well, and high-tail it out of the warm-coke-backwash collector’s apartment. Then I remembered. I was in Brooklyn.

I looked back at the wall of backwash. I looked at the boy. I looked back at the shelf. Finally, I sighed and said, “So where’s this harness?”

Excited, he quickly brought out two of them. The learning continued – I learned that they were heavy, cold, and could be very complicated to get into. HarnessBoy helped me, strapping the outfit around me, under my arms, around my waist. Finally, I looked in the mirror. Surprisingly it was kinda hot – I looked like a skinny, gay He-man. Then he put on his own. He looked at me expectantly.

I think he was hoping that putting on the harness would turn me into some crazy dominant master. That as soon as he strapped me in, I’d transform from Prince Adam to He-Man himself, throw him on the bed, and mount him like Battle Cat.

I’ve always been more of a Man-At-Arms. I really did think we looked cute in our costumes, it felt like Halloween. I asked, “Should we take pictures for myspace?”

He didn’t like that suggestion. So, he pushed me back on to the bed (Ow! What’s that buckle poking into my back!?) and laid down on top of me. Which was fine, until one of us tried to move. The metal rivets on his harness got caught in the metal buckles on my harness, and everything stated pulling and pinching and scraping. It was like teenagers with braces trying to kiss.

I was annoyed. Sex is supposed to be fun, and I wasn’t having fun at all. I got up, and made him take the harness off me. As he went through the arduous process of unbuckling and unstrapping me, I couldn’t help but look back at the shelf of grossness that I was trying to ignore. I realized with a sigh that it was really time for me to leave. And so I did.

After we had sex.

“WHAAAAAT?!” The straight friends I was telling the story to reacted with what seemed like horror, as they’d reacted to much of the story. “After all that, you still had sex with him?!?!”

“C’mon,” I replied sarcastically. “I was in Brooklyn!”

“If someone at a bar buys you a drink, you owe them conversation until the drink they bought you is finished.”

We were sitting at Phoenix when a friend who was visiting from Philadelphia told me his policy. I wasn’t completely sold on it at first.

“What if you don’t like him?” I asked. “What if he’s horrible, or hideous?”

“If you take the drink, you owe him a conversation,” Philly explained. “That’s the rule.”

“And of course you’d never turn down the drink.”

“Say no to free alcohol? Are you crazy!?”

At first, I thought he was the crazy one. But as I thought about it over the next week, the idea made some sense . If you accept a drink from a stranger, clearly you owe them at least a thank you, and perhaps some polite conversation. If you can’t muster that, shouldn’t you just refuse the cocktail?

The following week, I was flipping through HX and landed on the horoscope page. I automatically glanced to my sign.

Sagittarius

It’s easy to forget that a good time doesn’t have to cost an arm and a leg. Stick to your budget, queen! Hit up some open bars and never turn your nose up at someone who offers to buy you a drink – no matter how fugly!

It seemed even the stars agreed that turning down free booze was bad form. And the more I thought about it, the more I agreed with Philly’s theory.

Saturday afternoon I sat down for brunch at Philip Marie in the West Village with J-Blo, TightLips, and EverybodyLovesAden. I brought the subject up as we sipped our Unlimited Mimosas.

“If someone buys you a drink at a bar, do you owe them anything?” I asked.

“No!” exclaimed J-Blo adamantly.

“I have to sleep with someone just because they buy me a drink?” asked EveryBodyLoves Aden.

“What if you want to sleep with him?” asked TightLips.

“OK wait,” I said. “Of course if you are attracted to them and want to talk to them, then it’s not like owing them – it’s something you want to do. But let’s assume it’s someone you are not particularly attracted to. You just walk away – you don’t even say thank you?” I directed the last question at J-Blo, in response to his initial refusal.

“Well of course you say thank you,” J-Blo conceded.

“And then you walk away?” I followed up. “Or do you chat with them for a minute or two?”

“Well, I’d talk to him,” J-Blo admitted, “but I talk to anyone. That’s how I roll.”

“I wouldn’t take the drink,” said EverybodyLovesAden.

“Me either,” agreed TightLips. “Not if he was ugly.”

“You’d turn down a free drink?” I asked. “Just because you didn’t want to talk to someone for 5 minutes?”

“Yep,” said TightLips.

“Not me,” chimed in J-Blo, “I’d take the drink for sure.”

I told them Philly’s rule. “If someone buys you a drink, you owe them conversation until you finish the drink they bought you.”

EverybodyLovesAden replied, “Fine. I’ll just have them buy me a shot.”

I gave him a sarcastic look. Just then, two servers approached the table at the same time. “Let’s ask them!” said EverybodyLovesAden. He posed the question to the two girls, and seeing them chatting with us, a third server walked up to us as well. I started keeping score.

Two of servers believed you owe the drink-buyer nothing. One said you owe them conversation. I noticed the results were similar to our table, where two of my friends would refuse the drink, and only one would accept and then converse with the buyer. Chatting with a generous stranger was clearly an unpopular choice.

EverybodyLovesAden, always the comedian, chimed in with another theory. “The other thing you could do is take the drink and talk to the guy, but say things to make him really uncomfortable. Like: ‘I just love shitting on a corpse and then fucking it.’”

“AHHHHHH!” we all exclaimed, horrified. Sometimes, I wonder why Everybody Loves Aden.

Much later that night, the three of us arrived at Irving Plaza in Union Square, the site of a new monthly party called 7 Deadly Sins. The night’s theme was Greed. After dancing for a while, I left the boys on the dance floor and wandered up to the balcony. I spotted a very attractive guy, and after looking at him for a minute, I realized I’d met him in January on the gay cruise. He was visiting from Seattle.

I said hello, and he was surprisingly thrilled to see me: gave me a huge hug, all smiles, asking how I’d been. We went to the bar, chatting. I decided to buy him a drink.

As we walked back to the railing over-looking the dance floor with our cocktails, he took out his cell phone. I watched as he began reading and responding to texts. I waited patiently, through one, then a second full song. Finally I interrupted him.

“So, how long are you in town?” I asked.

He didn’t respond for a moment, then replied, “Til tomorrow night.” And resumed texting.

I stood for another long minute, looking at him. Finally, he closed his phone. Then he looked around, picked up his drink, sipped it, put it back down. And then he opened his phone again.

I was shocked. Again I interrupted as his fingers tapped across the tiny keyboard.

“So did you do anything last night? Go out anywhere?”

This time he waited even longer to respond. Finally, just as I was about to repeat the question thinking he didn’t hear me, he looked up from his phone and at me and replied, “No.”

And he went back to texting.

Although I was stunned at his sudden 180 flip to cold behavior, I knew how to take a hint. He was hot, but I don’t waste my time pining after boys who are clearly not interested in me. Even when I do believe they owe me some conversation.

“I have to say hello to someone,” I muttered, and walked away. As I did, I couldn’t help but glance back at his glass. His drink was far from finished.

There are days when I wake up, think about my behavior the night before, and roll my eyes at myself.

On a recent Tuesday night, I found myself at the HX Mixer at XES.Not 10 minutes in, I bumped into an ex-trick, who promptly introduced me to a very cute redhead. Anyone who knows me will tell you: I love redheads.

Things got better when I found out that Red worked for another gay magazine, and better still, worked in the department that handled invites to their frequent New York parties. As we chatted, he and I headed to the bar.

“What do you want?” I asked.

“Vanilla vodka and ginger ale.”

“You’re not gay, are you?” I asked with a smirk. He didn’t seem to mind being made fun of. A good sign. A minute later, I handed him his cocktail.

“How much do I owe you?” he asked.

“How about this,” I suggested with a smile, “I’ll give you my email address, you put me on the party mailing list, and we’ll call it even.”

He laughed. “Are you sure? I would do that anyway.”

“I’m sure,” I replied with a smile. Anyone who knows me will tell you: I love to be invited to parties.

Suddenly, it was time for the raffle. On the way in to the party the staff had asked everyone for a business card. I was sad to discover that I didn’t have any on me. As Peppermint, the night’s drag queen host took the stage, I was even more disappointed, when she announced what the prizes would be.

“Firrrrrrrrst,” she growled, “we have some Aaaaaaaaaandew Christian underwear!” Damnit. I love underwear, especially when it’s free. “Theeeeeeeen, we have some gift certificates, aaaaaaaaaaand... a trip to Brazil!”

I was pissed. Of course the chances I would have won were slim to none, but knowing that my card wasn’t in the bowl just made me bitter. Something had to be done.

Red and I found ourselves standing very close to the stage, right near Peppermint. As she drew the first three cards and began calling names of the underwear winners, I noticed her assistant, a boy from the HX staff, who was handing out the prizes. He was a young gay, cute in a dorky sort of way. He had an arm full of underwear, more than enough for the winners. As soon as he finished handing underwear to the first round of winners, I went up to him as Peppermint prattled on about the trip to Brazil.

“Hi,” I said, smiling.

“Um, hi,” he said, smiling back.

“So, if you have any extra pairs of underwear, I could give them a good home.” After I said it, I was slightly appalled that a line so cheesy escaped my lips, but in a crowded bar with the music pumping and a drag queen screaming, it seemed to work. Sort of.

“Well...” he said, looking at me, then looking at the 4 remaining packages of briefs in his hands, “Can you fit into an extra-small?”

The truth was, I couldn’t. Sure, they’d probably be ok around the waist, but really too tight in the crotch. But that wasn’t the point. It had become a game. And anyone who knows me will tell you: I LOVE to win games. I went into full Drama Queen mode.

“Huuuuuh!” I gasped dramatically, “are you calling me FAT?!?!?” And with that I grabbed his free hand and placed it on my hips, nudging it just slightly toward my ass. Shameless.

“Oh!” he gasped, “Um, I guess you can, um, of course!” And with that, he handed me a free pair of red extra-small Andrew Christian hip-cut underwear. Which I would probably never wear. I was thrilled.

“Thank you Sweetie,” I cooed. I may even have winked at him. Despicable. “I’ll let you get back to your job.”

I left the bar that night with the cute redhead’s phone number and a cute red hip-cut number. My dignity was nowhere to be found.

"If you meet your next boyfriend on Manhunt, I will eat a necktie."

I stared back at this pompous, cocky person who was mocking me right to my face. He happened to be one of my best friends, who I'll call MartiniFun.

"You're on!" I exclaimed.

"It will NEVER happen," he replied. "Manhunt.com is for fucking. That's it. You find someone to have sex with, and you never talk to them again. The site's tagline is 'Get On, Get Off'!"

I pinched the stem of my maraschino cherry and swirled it around my manhattan. "Some people on manhunt might want a boyfriend. Look - this profile says 'Not looking for hook-ups, looking to date.'"

"Really?" MartiniFun exclaimed, with sarcastic disbelief, "Which profile is that, the guy laying spread-eagle on the coffee table, or the one dipping his balls in the cool whip container?"

I sipped my cocktail and decided right then that I would prove him wrong, and serve him a hot plate of Necktie, no matter how long it took.

The first suitor who I thought could potentially fulfill my quest was Personal Chef. He was cute, charming and crazy in bed. It was all going well until I invited him as my plus one to a dinner party. It was at that point he revealed himself to be crazy out of bed as well. Drunk, immature and a big crazy mess. By the end of that night I had 86ed him.

Then came ChelseaRon. When I first met him, and we went on a couple dates, I thought he really had potential.

"I'm going on my third date with this one," I told MartiniFun one night. "But don't worry. I'm perfectly willing to let you chop up the necktie, and bake it into a pie. Or maybe turn it into a nice stew."

"I'm not worried," he replied arrogantly. "It won't last."

Once again, he was right.

It's not like I was actively searching for a boyfriend on Manhunt - far from it. But I'm always up for a date, or at least a drink, before jumping into bed with someone. And if that date leads to a second, or a third, or even to a (gasp) relationship, I am open to that . And if I can be open to it, yet occasionally browsing Manhunt, then why can't someone else with a similar mindset be browsing as well? Is it so wrong to suppress my cynicism for a few nano-seconds and think that two such browsers might meet in cyberspace?

Last night I texted MartiniFun.

D: I've met someone. He's tall, cute and sporty.

MF: Like Sporty Spice?

D: No, like he plays soccer, runs, all that stuff.

MF: Sounds hot. Where did you meet him?

D: Necktie Soup!

MF: Riiiiight. We'll see.

Yes we will.

It’s easy to get laid on a gay cruise.

The second night of the Atlantis Freedom 2009 Caribbean cruise, the party theme was Brazil. Everyone always dresses up for all the themes, some wearing crazy, over-the-top outrageous costumes, most wearing something that suggests the theme but shows a lot of skin. It just so happened that my costume last Halloween was Tarzan, so when I read about the Brazil theme, I threw my loin-cloth-skirt-thing into the suitcase and was ready to go.

I was only on the pool deck that night for about 10 minutes, cocktail barely begun, when I spotted a young, twinky, half-naked boy with sandy blonde hair. Wearing a Tarzan costume. It was almost too easy.

I walked over, said hello, and made some comment about too many Tarzans. He laughed, smiled, touched my arm. We chatted, drank, found excuses to touch some more.

“What’s under your skirt?”

“What’s under yours??”

We danced face to face, hiding growing excitement. In less than 2 drinks, TarzanBoy and I decided to leave the dance floor.

On an Atlantis cruise, everyone shares a stateroom with a roommate. TarzanBoy seemed certain his roommate was still up on the dance floor, so we headed to his room. Sure enough, it was empty. At first. We were in there for a good 15 minutes, long enough to lose both Tarzan costumes, but not quite enough to get into too compromising a position. Which was lucky, as of course we heard the keycard in the lock, and in walked the roommate.

He took in the scene rather quickly, muttered drunkenly “Don’t mind me, nothing I haven’t seen before!” and stumbled directly to his bed and pulled the covers over his head. He may not have minded, but it had been too long since I’d been in a dorm-room-with-roommate-in-the-next-bed-pretending-not-to-listen situation. Fortunately Tarzan felt the same.

“I’m sorry,” he mouthed silently. “Your room?”

I nodded. As we pulled on our loin cloths for the starboard journey, I wondered about my own roommate. I had left him up on the pool deck at the dance, and I hoped he was still there. We arrived at my stateroom and I slid the keycard into the lock. Darkness.

Again we lost the costumes. Again we jumped on the bed. Again, after 15 minutes, we were interrupted by the door. My roommate. But this time – it was a knock.

Two days earlier, knowing that there would be a slight possibility that I might have the opportunity for a nautical trist while on a week-long cruise with 3,700 gay men, I’d come up with a plan. When we first got onboard, my roommate and I decided that if either of us brought someone back to the room, we’d simply put up the Do Not Disturb sign. Of course it wasn’t fair to kick the other out of his own room for hours, so if you were to come back and see the sign, you would simply knock, and come back 15 minutes later.

It was a brilliant system… except that I felt a bit guilty as it was the second time my roommate had been made to knock. That day. So, I jumped up, grabbed a towel, and answered the door.

“Hey I just need my wallet,” Roomie said. “I’m going to the casino. I’ll be gone a couple hours.”

Music to my ears. After Roomie left with his wallet, TarzanBoy and I had a lovely, uninterrupted 2 hours of fun. We were just getting out of the shower when there was another knock. I let Roomie back in, and TarzanBoy left a few minutes later.

“Wow,” said Roomie when the door closed, “I can’t believe he was here all that time.”

I looked at him. “It was only 2 hours. You do KNOW what we were doing, right?”

“Duh. But I dunno, 2 hours? After like 45 minutes I just get bored.”

I rolled my eyes, thinking ‘45 minutes? Me Tarzan, you lame.’

On a recent Friday in New York City, the evening began with cocktails upstairs at the Duplex on Christopher Street. TightLips and XJosh brought their whole crew from Astoria, and we began drinking, chatting, and gossiping. It didn't take long for the conversation to get interesting.

"How the hell do I reply to this guys text?" asked EverybodyLovesAden, snapping his phone closed.

"What's the problem?" asked XJosh.

"Well," explained EverybodyLovesAden, "He's just this guy that my fuck buddy knows. And the other night we had a threesome, and now this guy is texting me. He like, I dunno, wants to hang out or something?"

We all laughed.

"Well, what's the problem?" I asked. "So hang out with him – wasn't he hot?"

"Yeah, he was hot," said EverybodyLovesAden, "but I don't know anything about him. I barely know his name. Ron."

I immediately thought of a boy I knew named Ron, who I had been on about 4 dates with. The last date had actually been fairly recently. The sex was fun and he was pretty hot, unfortunately our personalities didn't quite click, so I didn’t see it going anywhere serious. Still, I thought about hanging out with him again. That is, until EverybodyLovesAden’s story gave me a strange uneasy feeling.

"Ron huh," I said to EverybodyLovesAden, "I know someone named Ron. I wonder if it's the same guy."

He chuckled, and so did TightLips.

"Like there's only 1 gay Ron in New York," TightLips laughed.

"I dunno," I replied, "where does he live?"

"I told you I don't know anything about him," said EverybodyLovesAden, "but my fuck buddy lives in Chelsea, so probably around there."

My Ron also lived in Chelsea. Of course, so did half of gay New York.

"Is he cute?" I asked.

"Duh," said EverybodyLovesAden.

"Ok, how tall is he? On the shorter side?"

"Ummmm," EverybodyLovesAden considered this. "Maybe, but I wouldn't say short…"

"How about his body," I asked, now somewhat obsessed. "Toned? With very little body hair?"

"Oh my god," said EverybodyLovesAden, rolling his eyes, "You've just described nine-tenths of Chelsea."

Despite his brushing me off as being silly, I had a sinking feeling that I was right. I just needed a way to prove it. I took a long sip of my cocktail.

"I wonder if it's David's guy," giggled TightLips. "That would be amazing!" I shot him a dirty look.

"So how are you going to reply to the text?" Asked XJosh.

"AH HA!" I shouted.

They all looked at me like I was crazy.

"The TEXT." I emphasized.

They didn't change their expressions.

"He texted you," I explained, like I was talking to a room of first-graders, "so that means you have his number in your phone. I have MY guy's number in MY phone, so all we have to do is COMPARE, to know if it's the same guy!"

TightLips kept giggling, while XJosh said "Ohhhh, good idea." EverybodyLovesAden pulled out his cell phone.

As I began scrolling through my contacts to the R's, I suddenly felt a bit nervous. Of course I wanted to be right, because I love nothing more than being right. But at the same time, part of me was hoping it wasn't the same guy. It was completely irrational of me: I had no ties to this person, I'd certainly slept with other people and I’m sure he had too, and certainly through the years I'd slept with some of the same boys as EverybodyLovesAden. But somehow as his number appeared on my screen, I felt really nervous.

"OK," said EverybodyLovesAden, waiting for me to read the number.

"I…" I hesitated. "I'm afraid to look!"

"Oh give it to me," exclaimed XJosh, who was sitting between us. "I'll look."

I sighed, and handed him my phone. EverybodyLovesAden did the same. He looked for a second at mine, then looked at EverybodyLovesAden's. He looked up. "It's the same guy."

"BWA HA HA!" TightLips burst into hysterics. "That's amazing!!"

"I knew it," I mumbled, shaking my head.

"Wow," said EverybodyLovesAden. "Sorry?"

He looked at me. I looked at him. Then we both started laughing too. What else was there to do?

My mother thinks that I drink too much. When she accuses me of this, I purport to have no idea what she’s talking about. But I guess to be fair, I should take an un-biased look at a random week of my life. Let's take this week.

Sunday night – Work event, followed by a couple drinks.

Monday morning – tired, slightly hungover.

Monday night – Drip pool party at the Grace hotel. Super fun party with lots of hot boys (and girls) dancing, splashing and wearing nearly nothing.

Tuesday morning – exhausted, hungover, totally worth it.

Tuesday night – Last-minute invite from XJosh to see Rock of Ages with him, TightLips and EverybodyLovesAden. After that show, cocktails were REQUIRED. A drink at Barrage.

Wednesday morning – tired, no hangover.

Wednesday night – Cocktails at a work event, which impaired my judgment enough that afterward I agree to meet JBlo at The Ritz for the Rewind party. SO FUN – great mix of “retro music”, everything from the 70’s through the 90’s. Danced til 1am.

Thursday morning – exhausted, hungover.

Thursday night – work event, followed by a drink at Barrage.

Friday morning – Today. Tired, no hangover.

Friday night - The plan is a friend's birthday in the east village, which means drinks. The plan is also to not have too many, as Saturday morning I have to work.

Saturday morning - no doubt tired, hopefully not hungover.

Saturday night - friends are coming in from Philly. Must show them a rockin good time. No doubt involving lots and lots of cocktails.

Sunday morning - SLEEP IN (I deserve it.)

Sunday night - The Premiere Party of "Jonathan, Just Because" an internet short film by friends including Josh & Josh. I helped plan the party, which will be fabulous - and involve lots of cocktails.

So that is my week. Looking at this evidence, in a un-biased way, factoring in mathematical equations, deductive logic, and cute-boy-to-cocktail ratios, what is our conclusion? Is my mother right - do I drink too much? The verdict, of course, is no: I'm not an alcoholic. I'm a New Yorker.

Friday night I went to The Hose to check out the Amateur Strip Contest and general debauchery. The Hose is the newest gay dive bar in the East Village, and is trying to build a reputation for sleazy fun. TightLips, J-Blo and I wandered Avenue B for a bit before discovering the unmarked door that led up a steep staircase to the party’s main room. It was very crowded, with a mix of east village hipsters, grungesters, and handlebar moustache-ers, to the endless amusement of my friends. The “strip contest” was a disorganized 15-minute mess of guys awkwardly dropping their pants while the mentally unstable whack-job of a host shouted insults at them. Unique, anyway.

There were a few cute guys there, and after the tragedy of the contest (which no one seemd to ‘win’) I chatted with one of the cute ones, who turned out to be an actor/singer/dancer. Of course.

“That strip contest was awful,” said TripleThreat.

“They don’t make em like they used to,” I agreed.

“Remember Boysroom?” he asked.

“Yes!” I cried. “Now that place was FUN. They knew how to have a strip contest.”

“Oh I know,” replied TripleThreat. “I was in it once.”

I could sense a good story was coming.

“So I was out with friends, drunk, and they convince me to join the contest,” he said. “I must have done well, because it came down to just me and one other guy. Now, this other guy... was like my opposite. I’m your little gay white-boy dancer, and he’s this big black muscle guy dressed like... well, a thug. So they call us back on stage for the final round, and I go first. And I dance my ass off (while flashing my ass to everybody), doing splits, leg over my head, I mean all out. I finish, the crowd loves it, and I’m thinking I’ve got this in the bag. So Thug comes up, and he’s just kinda standing there, all attitude, drinking his Corona. For like half the song he seriously just stands there drinking his beer. Then finally, he puts the beer bottle down on the stage, turns around, drops his pants ... and sits on the bottle. Then he stands up, with the Corona in his ass, and starts thrusting the bottle in and out of his hole. I just turned around and started to walk out. And my friends stopped me, thinking I might still win! One was like, ‘Do you want a Corona?’”

“Wow,” I sighed. “I miss that place.”

“How do you do it? How do you sleep with so many hot twinks and make it look so easy?”

Well, I don’t think I really sleep with THAT many young skinny gay boys... but ok, it happens once in a while. Still, I firmly believe that if I can do it, YOU can do it. Just follow the steps.

Recently I had sex with an extremely attractive 21-year old. Here’s how it happened.

Step One: Don’t be afraid to try when you’ve got nothing to lose (and usually, you’ve got nothing to lose.)

I met Kenny several weeks ago at a party hosted by my friend J-Blo (that's short for Justin The Blogger. He wanted a nickname - and he's got one!). Kenny was one of, if not the cutest boy in the room, so I immediately asked J-Blo to introduce us. He did, I flirted for a while, bought Kenny one drink, flirted a bit more. He seemed mildly interested, but clearly was not really into me, and certainly not going home with me that night. Having lost nothing (except maybe 1 drink) I moved on. (If the boy you re pursuing shows immediate interest, skip to Step Three.)

Step Two: If at first you don’t succeed, try *once* again.

I was browsing online profiles on a popular website a few weeks after the party, and there was Kenny. In most of his photos he was shirtless, which I enjoyed. I decided to try once more. This step is open to interpretation – if he had clearly blown me off at the party, I would not have contacted him again. But because he was mildly interested, I jumped back to step 1 – nothing to lose.

I complimented his pictures. Within minutes, he wrote back. Sometimes, a 2nd try is all it takes.

Step Three: Once you have their attention, be fun and conversational, but be direct.

I complimented his photos, made a joke about dating websites, and commented on the freezing weather. He thanked me, lol’ed at the joke, and agreed about the weather, saying he was so cold in his dorm (!) at that moment. I told him he had an open invitation to warm up at my place with a cup of tea. He found the idea of afternoon tea so charming that 3 emails later he was on his way to my apartment.

The next step risks making me sound like a psycho killer, or more like someone who should be featured on “To Catch A Predator.” But really, think about where the vast majority of dates take place: bars. Why? Because alcohol is a social lubricant. Everyone is happier, easier to get along with, and a little bit more fun when they’re drinking.

Step Four: Add booze.

If following these instructions while at a bar, this is where you would simply buy your boy a drink. In the case of Kenny, I adapted. He arrived at my apartment for afternoon tea, announcing, “I brought scones!” (Super cute – major points for him.)

I asked, “Would you like to add some whiskey to our tea, and turn them into Hot Toddies?”

He readily agreed. We spent the next hour drinking, chatting, drinking, giggling, and drinking.

Step Five: Find an excuse to get him to the bedroom.

Had we been in a bar, this would be Find an excuse to get him to your place. I find that keeping a somewhat stocked home bar always helps, as in “How about we go to my place for a free drink next?” usually works well. In this case, already in my apartment, I suggested he look at the pictures from my recent cruise on the laptop on my bedroom. He didn’t once suggest I bring the laptop to the living room.

Step Six: Get him naked.

Depending on the boy, this step may be unnecessary – some are stripping down the moment they enter the door. In Kenny’s case it required a bit more finessing. While looking at pictures on my screen, we went back to discussing his online profile pictures, which I insisted needed to include some pictures of his cute butt. He tried arguing that it wasn’t cute, and so while he was laying on his stomach on my bed, I grabbed my camera and snapped a few quick shots. He looked at the digital screen.

“Hey, those are pretty good,” he admitted.

“They’ll be even better without your jeans,” I replied.

He paused, and I could sense this was the moment of truth. The he said: “Well, I am wearing really cute underwear.”

He slid his jeans off and went back to lying on this stomach and looking at my laptop, while I took some more shots of his ass in his tiny boy briefs. Then, knowing he was past the point of protest, I slid the briefs down to expose he pert little butt, and snapped a few more. I showed him the camera. He approved. Then, I straddled him, sitting on his thighs and spanking his bare behind.

Step Seven: If you are sitting on top of a boy who is wearing no pants and slapping his bare ass, and you still need instructions on how to get laid, clip off your balls, place them in a martini glass above your television, and spend the rest of your days watching re-runs of The Golden Girls on Lifetime.

Sex with Kenny happened. It was good. His ass was great, and I took lots of pictures of it. When we were done, we lay there, and he took the camera and started scrolling through the digital pictures. “That one’s good. That one’s good. Ew, no! Bad, That one’s OK, that one’s good...”

“I’ll email them all to you,” I said, reaching for the camera, “you can choose the best ones and put them on your profile.”

“Wait wait,” he said, still pushing buttons on the camera. Suddenly, the camera made a sound I’d never heard before, three loud tones in quick succession: BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

“What did you do??” I cried.

“I erased them,” he replied, with the hint of a satisfied smile. “All.”

I was dumbfounded. “You whaa... I didn’t even know my camera could do that!” It was true – I would never think to erase the memory card before downloading the pictures, so I’d never even checked to see if it was possible. Apparently, it was. “Why?????”

“I don’t like the idea of you having naked pictures of me. Sorry.”

Step Eight: Always expect the unexpected. Right up until the bitter end, no matter how well things are going, always be ready to be caught off guard.

Kenny had beaten me at my own game. The pictures were gone, his pants were back on. Ok, so it wasn’t a total loss – I did have an afternoon of fun drunk sex with a hot twinky boy. But I still somehow felt like I’d been beaten, and I *really* hate to lose. I guess no matter how good you think you are, or how many times you do this, there’s always something to be learned.