Tag Archives: Christopher

The Wedding Is OFF?!?

Pardon the interruption….

As much as I bitched and bitched about Christopher getting married before me…I’m disheartened to hear that marriage may no longer be legal for gay and lesbians in California.  Daniel informed me today that it looks like the “Yes on Proposition 8” assholes are winning.  Apparently, their message of hate is resonating with young people.  

Sadly, my best friend’s wedding in California could be off. As I mentioned previously, Christopher plans to marry in California, and with some luck and help from Governor Patterson, gay marriages will be recognized in the state of NY.

The purpose of this blog was never intended to be a giant political statement.  It’s about sharing my life with my four gay best friends with you.  

However, I don’t look at gay marriage as a political statement, it’s a basic human right be it republican or democrat. Therefore, I implore everyone in NY, CA, FL, and every city in between to support “No on 8” and donate ASAP.

As much as I’m loathe to be a bridesmaid, I’d be even more sickened if Chris were unable to fly to California to marry the man he loves.

One last thing, and then I promise to hurl myself from this soapbox.  Where are donations from gay celebrities like Rosie O’Donnell? Ellen Degeneres? Melissa Ethridge? Elton John? Clay Aiken? I could go on and on.  As I sit here looking at my pug, Madonna, I also wonder where is the other Madonna?  Why hasn’t she spoken out? Or donated money considering it’s the gay dollar that has supported her from day one?

Before you send me hate emails about how much money these entertainers have donated and raised for various charity organizations, let me just say this, the solidification of gay marriage is historic and is a fight we all must get behind to ensure equal rights for all.

I’ll be back to regular scheduling programming in a hot minute.  My friends take precedence over my personal ramblings.





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Breakfast with J-Lo

I had missed one Sunday brunch and apparently in that sparse amount of time Michael had found himself a yet another boyfriend.  Michael is a serial monogamist.  (Except when he’s whoring it out in gym steam rooms.)  Daniel, Ryan, Christopher (sans Alfredo) Michael, and I sat at Cafe Cluny to get the skinny on his latest boyfriend.

“He’s just so incredible and is probably the most attentive man I’ve ever been with,” Michael cooed.

“I would hope so, considering you’ve been together for literally four days,” Christopher said taking off his jacket and settled into his chair.  It was nice to have Christopher back with out his fiance.  I couldn’t stomach yet another weekend of wedding talk.

“What he’s like?” I asked.  “Wait, let me guess dark hair and eyes.”

“Ha!” Daniel blurts out. “Dark hair?!?!?” Daniel continued.

“He’s got a few gray hairs,” Michael, still wearing his sunglasses, turned to me and said sheepishly.  

“Speak,” I said.

“Well…” he said taking a long gay pause.  “He’s older,” he added.  As if I didn’t figure that out from the gray hair observation.

“Older?” Daniel said surprised.  “Farrah is older.  This guy is Old Man Winter.”  Evil Queen.

“I’m sure that’s how your NYU boy-toy thinks of you,” Michael snapped back at Daniel. 

“Please, you wish you could have him,” Daniel shot back.  It’s like two dogs fighting over the same gay bone.

“Jesus, could someone please just tell me how old this guy is?” I asked.

“Fifty-six,” Ryan finally said.  He then turned to Michael and said, “Sorry. She’d find out anyway.”   

I swallowed hard. This was only four years younger than my Dad.  Michael could be dating my Dad.  

“Michael, I really want to know more about this guy–but could you for the love of God take your sunglasses off.  It’s like I’m talking to Anna Wintour.  And frankly you’re no Anna.”

Michael lifted his oversized Mary-Kate sunglasses and rested them on top of his head.  “Oh My God,” I gasped loud enough for the nearest four tables to turn around and flash me dirty looks.

“Too much?” Michael said.

“You look like Jennifer Lopez’s butch sister,” I said. “And not the pretty one.” 

“Who Linda?” Daniel asked to no one in particular.

Michael’s eyebrows were as about as thick as a paperclip.  Michael had visited his waxer, Sasha, yesterday.

“Was she injecting heroin at the same time she was ripping out your eyebrows?” I asked. 

“Charles likes totally smooth,” Michael explained.

“Okay that’s just plain pervy,” Ryan said and crinkled his forehead.

Ignoring him, Michael continued, “So I waxed nearly everything.  That’s why I couldn’t go out last night.  I literally applied a bottle and a half of Tend Skin to my entire body.”

I gulped down my water to avoid laughter.

“The eyebrows were an accident.  She told me she got a bit carried away.”

“Carried Away?” I said nearly spit out my water.  Before I could say anything else, Ryan interrupted.

“Okay, seriously.  You need to go in there and get your money back and have them correct it immediately. Maybe they have some sort of eyebrow extension or something, but you honestly look like the joker.” Ryan said. 

“Before the food arrives, really Michael, you have to put your sunglasses back on.  I can’t look at you while I’m trying to keep food down,” I said and gagged. I continued:  

“It’s like I’m sitting across from my nana who forgot to paint her eyebrows on.”

After this many years, I was allowed to be direct with my boys.  They hate me for it at the time, and most likely talk about me when I leave the table, but they do appreciate my honesty no matter how it is delivered.

In turn, Michael gave me the finger.

“I just don’t get why you did it.” Ryan said.  “You’re intelligent, you have a good job, you can practically quote the New York Times back to me, you go to the Met, you attend art openings.  Why all of the sudden, after thirty-five years, do you feel the need to feel like a dolphin?

“You wouldn’t understand,” Michael said annoyed.

“Try me,” Ryan said.

“You’re hot Ryan–as gross as that sounds coming out of my mouth–you’re generally someone that three quarters of gay New York wants to sleep with.  You have no idea what it is like to be me,” Michael said. 

“Here we go,” Daniel interrupted.  “I’m not participating in this pity party.”

“Do you guys know how absolutely fucking amazing it feels to be someone’s trophy boy?” Michael said.  The truth was most of the boys had been a trophy boy to someone at one point in their younger days except for Michael.

“I’m thirty-five years old–I’m literally in my gay twilight years according to New York gay scene standards.  But right now, as fleeting as it may be, I have a man that WORSHIPS me.  So if he likes me to be completely smooth from head to toe, goddamn it I will be.”

We were momentarily silent.  He was right.  To have someone be enamored with you at any age was an incredible feeling.  We should be happy that our friend found someone plain and simple.  We were immature assholes. 

Before we could express our deepest apologies, Michael finally spoke up and said:

“And he has a huge penis.”


Apparently, some things never change–no matter how old you are.


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Last Stop, Single-town

“Do you ever read The Times?”  I asked.

“Um, yeah of course,” my quasi-date answered.

“Which section?” I asked cautiously.

“Yeah, their news stories. Sometimes their sports section, but I like the Post better for sports.  Oh, and obviously the Sunday Real Estate Section.”

“And The Arts?” I said.

“Hmm. Yeah,” he said and paused.  “Well…” he started.

“Uh huh,” I said and looked him over from head to toe.  I didn’t think he was a gay boy, but my gaydar had been seriously off as of late.  He wore a white v-neck t-shirt with an Adidas track jacket over it; his jeans were normal, nothing crazy designer and his shoes were plain white Converse–but John Varvatos for Converse.  Hmmm.  He was either a butch gay boy or from Westchester.

“Okay, I lied.  I just said that to make myself look cool,” he said and grinned.  He sipped on his pumpkin spice latte and looked at me. Did straight guys drink such a fussy coffee drink? It’d been too long since I’d be around any.

“I have one final question.  And you must answer me honestly–no matter what you might think I will say or do,” I instructed.

He cocked his had back and his eyes narrowed.  “Wow. This is pretty heavy for ‘just a coffee,'” he said.  

An almost date.  Ugh.  I hated myself for calling it that when he suggested we get together.  I’d already put restrictions on it before I left my apartment.  I even suggested Starbucks–how very unorginal–but safe.  

I didn’t know him, and furthermore I didn’t want to end up in someone’s freezer.  

But sitting here looking at him– THE HOT SUBWAY GUY— with the rain pounding down on the glass outside and sipping on my latte–it felt almost too good.

“Do you read The Style Section?”

He stared at me long and hard.  “Why do I get the feeling that this is a loaded question?” he asked.

“Because it is.  Now, answer me. And remember, TELL THE TRUTH.” 

“You’re quite a character Farrah,” he said.

“And you’re stalling,” I said.

“No, I don’t read The Style Section.  Has that taken me out of contention?” he asked and laughed.

Thank God.  

Had he said yes, I would’ve known I was dealing with a closet case, and frankly that role has already been filled by many a wife and girlfriend.  Paging Dina McGreevy?   

“You’re still in the running to become America’s Next Top Model,” I said in my best Tyra.


“Oh my God.  You really are straight!” I blurted out.  Foot, meet my mouth.  I’m sure you two will be fast friends.

“The last time I checked I wasn’t into man-ass, but that could change at any minute.”

“It’s just that had you known that was a line from America’s Next Top Model I would have doubted your heterosexuality and frankly I’ve dated enough gay boys to last me a lifetime, and as lovely as you may be I’m not taking any applications for my gay posse.”

“I’m sorry, your what?” he asked.

Before I could answer him, my phone rang.  “Oh. I’m sorry. I normally wouldn’t answer that, but maybe something bad happened.”  Hot Subway Guy shot me yet another peculiar look.  “Hi Carrie.  Something bad happened?” I said in my most worried voice.  Hot Subway Guy’s eyes widened.  “I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” I said before hanging up.

“Is everything okay?”  he asked in a tone mixed with apprehension and fear.  “Is your friend alright?”  

“You’re three for three!” I said excitedly and smiled from ear to ear.


“That was from Sex and The City,” I said.

“Another one of your tests?” he said this time sounding more irritated than anything else.

“Well, I should get going,” I said and latched my purse.

“I thought you said that I passed your test,” Hot Subway Guy said even more confused than before.

“Oh. You did! Yay!” I said and buttoned my jacket.

“Okay…” he said.

“It’s my friend Christopher.  I told him I’d run to Barney’s with him to pick out something for his NY Times wedding photo.  He and his boyfriend are getting married in about eight months.”  I stood up and grabbed my umbrella.

“Very cool,” he said a little dumbfounded.  “Wait, so that’s it?” he asked and stood up.

“Well goodbye,” I said.  “Thanks. It was fun.”

He stared at me in stunned silence before he said, “That was definitely…  Yeah, that was definitely something.”

“We should do this again sometime,” I said and walked toward the glass door.  

Before we could have that awkward, should we or shouldn’t we kiss goodbye, I leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. It was safe.  Oh screw it. Who am I bullshitting? 

It was lame.


“You’re quite a character,” he said and lifted his jacket over his head to block the rain.  He darted out of the Starbucks before I could say another word.

I’m going to be single for the rest of my life.


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My Bitch

I bought my female pug six months after I moved to Chelsea.  I bought her from a breeder in the Midwest who actually looked like a pug herself.  She came from a large litter and was quite rambunctious, often picking fights with her brothers and sisters. The breeder couldn’t rid of her fast enough.  

“She’s a real troublemaker,” the breeder said at the time.  Such a pain in the ass, in fact, that I even got her at a discounted rate if I agreed to take her sooner.  I’ve never been one to turn my back on a good sale. 

Three weeks later, I picked my new puppy up at the American Airlines cargo area of JFK.  I was so excited to welcome her into my life.  Unconditional love, a constant companion, I was absolutely certain that it was going to be bliss.  As the two of us rode in the back of a yellow cab headed into the city, I took her out of her travel crate and held her against my chest.

“Welcome to New York baby girl.  The most glamourous city in the world,” I said in between holding my breath from the stench of Curry and pine-scented air freshener courtesy of our taxi driver.

And then she peed on my shirt. 

My first night with the puppy was hellacious.  In fact, she didn’t want to sleep at all.  I tried the alarm clock wrapped in a blanket trick.  I tried covering her crate.  But she continued to whine and howl.  I brought her into bed with me and all she wanted to do was eat my hair.  I couldn’t take it anymore, and at three o’clock in the morning I took her outside onto the sidewalk of Eighteenth Street.  She was in heaven.  

It was like a totally different dog.  She hopped around playfully.  She rolled on her back for strangers as they walked by.  She didn’t bark once. She loved New York at night.  I, on the hand, was ready to head straight back to JFK and bid her adieu.  Fortunately for her, I brought her back upstairs, and took a Tylenol PM (this was before Ambien, thank you) and went to bed.  Fortunately, it was the weekend and I didn’t have to work.

The next morning I woke up a bit groggy from the Tylenol and the puppy was out cold.  Literally, I thought I’d rolled over and killed her in my sleep.  She didn’t move.  Then she farted.  She was definitely alive and well.

I decided to let her sleep as I got ready to meet Christopher for some Saturday afternoon shopping.  As I walked to the bathroom, I noticed my laundry bag on its side.  As I went in for a closer look, I noticed my most expensive bras and panties were strewn about my floor.  I looked at my couch and saw that the leg had been chewed, and my stack of old Vogue magazines were shredded.  My studio apartment looked like a crack house.

Who in the hell did she think she was staying up all night, making a mess of things and sleeping all day? Me?

I finally woke her highness up and took her for a walk on Eighth Avenue.  She wanted no part of it.  Every time I moved, she put on the brakes.  I think I literally dragged her for two blocks.  However the minute any gay man stopped to say hi to her, she was the life of the party–jumping around, shaking her little butt, and giving kisses at will.  The minute they would leave, I’d bend down to pet her.  She’d sit on the sidewalk and stare–no kisses, no jumping, no nothin’.  Even my own dog was indifferent towards me.

As we got closer to Twenty-third Street we were stopped by a lesbian couple.  Same drill as before with the gay boys, constant flirting, if not more with the lesbians.  I was beginning to get a complex.

By the time I reached Christopher, I was ready to stop at FedEx and send her back.  She hated me.  Of course, she LOVED him.  I explained to him what had happened over the last twenty-four hours, hoping for some sort of sympathy.  I got none.

“What did you expect? She’s a puppy for godssake.” He sniped.

“Some appreciation, maybe?  I don’t know.  Some love perhaps?” I said.

“What did you name her?” Christopher asked while holding her in his arms.  She laid it on extra thick with him; nuzzled his neck, let out an adorable bark, and then would occasionally lick him if he focused too much on me.  Attention whore.

“I don’t know.  I’m thinking of naming her Bitch.”  I said dead serious.

“You don’t have a name for her yet?” he asked horrified.

“No Queen, I don’t.  I thought I’d see what fit her personality.” 

He stared down at her wet nose and looked into her eyes.  “Let’s see, she’s a Midwestern gal, she’s a night-owl that prefers to be out and about at 3AM, she has a private party in your apartment and you’re not invited, she likes to sleep all day, gay boys and lesbian women both seem to adore her, and she has no particular interest in straight people.  Well, we could call her Farrah but that might be weird.”

“Cute,” I said.

Christopher paced back and forth and then suddenly it hit me.

“Madonna!” I shouted.  “It’s perfect.  It’s so her.”

Christopher grinned and then nodded in agreement.  “Hello Madonna, I’m Christopher.”

“Give her to me. Give her over!” I said and reached for my little girl.

I grabbed her and raised her up to my chest again.  “We’re going to rule this city, you and I, Madonna.”

Finally, I felt some sort of kinship to her.  It would be the closet I’d ever be to Madonna.  I gave her another little squeeze, and I could’ve swore I felt her lick my neck.

And then she peed on my shirt.


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The ME in measels

“Love is like the measels; we all have to go through it.  Also like the measles, we take it only once.”

-Jerome K. Jerome


Beige is New York’s longest running and legendary gay night at B-Bar on Tuesday nights.  To call it a gay night per se, would be a misnomer.  To the casual observer, it’s a mix of gay and straight; Upper East Side and Alphabet City, club kid and wall street wunderkind, and everything in between.   But to those who went regularly, like me, beige had no hard, steadfast rule.  The beauty was in the ambiguity.  

After Sunday brunch, Christopher and I made plans to meet for drinks around 1030 Tuesday night.  He, of course, protested about the late hour.  I reminded him that we were getting older, not dying. 

As we walked up to the door, two young gay boys stood on the corner impatiently pacing back and forth. “Where is she?” the lanky one who was rocking a fedora asked.

“You should know.  She’s your hag!” the shorter one quipped.  I felt my fingers tighten, and my hand suddenly make a fist.  

As we waited for the doorman, Derek, to take care of some people ahead of us. I said:

“I resent the word “fag-hag.” 

“Then what would you classify yourself as?” Christopher asked as he pulled out his Blackberry to send a text message to Alfredo, who by my request, was asked to stay home in order for us to have a night out. If love was indeed like the measels, Christopher had the worst case that I’d ever seen.

“I don’t know. I like “fagnet,” I said pondering the newly coined phrase.

Christopher looked up from his phone utterly perplexed.  “What the hell is a “fagnet?” 

I cleared my throat as if I were a professor about to give a lecture, “It’s a woman of any sexual persuasion whom gay men gravitate towards.” 

“And how is that different than a fag-hag?” he asked still unconvinced.

“A “fagnet” has gay guys obsessing over her. And a “fag hag” obsesses over the gay.”

Christopher and I burst into laughter simultaneously. It felt like old times, familiar; like home.

“And who shared this pearl of wisdom with you?” he asked while still laughing.

“I don’t know. Some drag queen standing outside of BBQ on Eighth Avenue.” 

The line finally had opened up, and I was certain Christopher and I were set to hit our stride once again.  We immediately hit the bar and ordered a round of drinks and did a lap.  We found a perfect spot under a tree lit with Christmas lights in the patio/garden.

We sat and bullshitted for about twenty minutes and he intermittently texted with Alfred.  I did the best I could to ignore it and downed my vodka and soda.  I was ready to hit the bar for yet another round.  The night was just beginning and the music was getting better and the crowd cuter.  The lines of beige were beginning to fade, or at least so I had thought.

“Do you mind if I take off?” Christopher asked out of nowhere while staring down at his phone.

“We just got here less than an hour or go!” I said as I heard my voice raise.

“Farrah, I have work tomorrow,” he said.  I felt my face drop.

“But you always had work before.  You’ve pulled all nighters and shown up to the office drunk.  What’s the problem now?” I said irritated. 

“The problem is that I’m not twenty-five anymore and I’ve moved on from this.” 

“This?  You mean our friendship?” I asked, afraid to hear the answer. The blurry lines of beige suddenly had become more rigid.

“No. Not at all.  But our friendship doesn’t have to be all about being fabulous and social,” he said.

“Wow.  That’s never how I’d describe us.”

“Look, I’m tired. It’s been a long day.  I love you, but I just want nothing more than to go home and lay in bed with Alfredo, and pass out.”

 As Christopher spoke, I saw the two guys that were standing outside an hour earlier with their girlfriend.  I stared at her.  She laughed.  She looked at them with so much joy and pride.  I felt like going up to her and telling her to run, she’ll only be heartbroken in the end.  But I didn’t, because that was my journey, not hers.

“Okay,” I said trying to sound a bit more civil.

“I’ll talk to you on i.m. tomorrow,” he said and kissed me on the cheek.  “Are you staying?” he asked.

“Yeah, I think maybe just a bit longer.  I’m sure I’ll end up seeing Daniel here,” I said and faked a laugh. “Bye honey.  Tell Alfredo hi.”  And off he went.  I never saw Daniel.  And I didn’t order another drink.  I just sat there under a September Christmas tree, alone.

If love made you leave your friends, I never wanted any part of it. I loved them too much.

Maybe I didn’t totally mean it.  But it’s not like you can only get a little bit of the measels, you either get it or you don’t– much like love.

I walked out onto East Fourth and Bowery and hailed a cab.  As if it were fate, when I sat in the back of the cab, Sade’s “By Your Side” was playing.  It was enough to send me into tears. And it did.  God, I hate being such a baby sometimes.

As I dug into my purse looking for a kleenex, I found something that I hadn’t seen before.  It was a business card that read, *Justin Holcomb.  Damn.  Even I was impressed that the hot guy from the subway had managed to slip his number into my purse in between picking up my tampons and me ready to dial 911 on him.  This was certainly interesting and unexpected to say the least.

I sure hope I’m not coming down with something…like the MEasels.

(*name has been changed*).


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