Tag Archives: Daniel

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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Italians Do It Better

There comes a day in every straight woman’s life when they must play the role of “girlfriend” for their gay friends.  Sometimes, a woman is an active participant in aforementioned farce, and other times she is not.  I’ve had the pleasure of playing both roles many times.  

Many, many, many, times. 

Last Sunday, I forwent brunch with all of the boys and trekked to Middle Village, Queens to visit Daniel’s parents for Sunday pasta.  

I know, I know, CARBS.  Sometimes, a girl’s gotta take a hit for her gays.  I’ve marched in the parades, emailed congressman, and…

I’ve attended so many HRC events that Michael suggested that instead of  using it’s actual name, Human Rights Campaign, they should rename it in my honor by calling it Hags Really Care.

So a little penne and gravy (what Daniel’s family calls tomato sauce) wouldn’t kill me.  But the conversation almost did.

Daniel’s parents are off the boat from Italy.  Is that politically incorrect to say?  His mother, Clara, never left the kitchen the entire I was there and mumbled things under her breath every two or three minutes. While Daniel’s father, Andrea, stewed on the couch watching the Italian channel, RAI.  All he did was bark orders at Clara from the kitchen:  

“Clara, bring me some wine!”  “Are we ever going to eat?  Where’s the goddamn food? I’m hungry.  Bring me the prosciutto.”   This explained Clara’s inaudible mumblings.

I think Andrea was just angry because this extremely macho “man’s man” had a woman’s name at least in the United States.  I, of course, made it a point to emphasize the American pronunciation of his name just to piss him off.  This didn’t go over with Daniel.  

“My father just said to me in Italian that he thought you were a real bitch,” he said to me in a whisper.

“If he weren’t your father, I’d tell him to go finger-bang himself until he got hemorrhoids,” I said just loud enough so ANdrea heard me.


Daniel looked as though he were about to throw up.  I grabbed his hand and then kissed his cheek to give them something in the cheap seats.  As my lips pressed against him, I thought, If his parents only knew that Daniel had a more rigorous skin care regiment than me.

As we sat on the couch, I pretended to know what the hell was going on in some ridiculous Italian game show.  By all accounts, we looked like an actual couple, we held hands publicly and bitched at each other through gritted teeth privately. 

This was a family that barely spoke.  Our entire first course was in silence.  I hummed a few times to make sure I hadn’t spontaneously gone deaf.  And the humming?  Didn’t go over well.  

I’ve seen a nicer reception from the Westboro Church at Gay Pride.

Finally while eating a hot bowl of pasta (heaven!), Andrea asked me about my job as a publicist.  After about ten awkward minutes of explaining about the life of a publicist and what it is that I do, he was frustrated and confused.  I hadn’t sold it well.  Perhaps because I wasn’t quite sure what the hell I was doing at my job. I hadn’t been particularly excited about my career as of late.  The only saving grace in that office is Mia.  But more on her later.  Who knows. Maybe it was time for a career change?  But at my age, what the hell was I going to do?

I felt like the American version of Bridget Jones, except with much better hair and teeth than the original British one.

We finished the rest of our meal with only a handful of polite pleasantries. I smiled and tried to engage his parents in conversation as best as I could, but I was flailing.  About an hour later, Daniel and I were on our way back to the city.  Thank you Jesus.  

I began to feel tremendously guilty as though I’d failed in my acting job and could have somehow screwed things up for Daniel.  I had let him down and that was the last thing I wanted.

About fifteen minutes into the car ride back, Daniel said:  “Thank you so much for doing this Farrah.  That was amazing!”

A bit dumbfounded, I squirmed in my seat and said, “I’m sorry, but we were at the same dinner?”

“Yes!” he said excitedly.

“Why in God’s name are you so happy?  That was horrendously bad Daniel.”

“I know.  Isn’t it great?”

“Um, I thought the point was for me to pretend that I was your girlfriend to keep up the whole ‘your straight’ thing.”

“Yes, but they actually disliked you SO MUCH that they never once brought up marriage.   They’ll never pressure me to get married as long as they think we’re together.  This is like Christmas morning. But better. Could you die?”

Yes, actually I could. 


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The American Spirit

Last night Daniel and I went to Splash, because I felt like dancing and he felt like picking up young college boys.  It was their Campus Thursday night.  Mind you, Daniel’s thirty-four.  

Daniel’s Italian-American and has that whole macho Italian vibe to him–even though he’s a big queen. He’s not out to his family, and despite the boys and I pushing him to do it, he refuses.  Daniel’s a “landscape architect.”  When I first met him and said “Oh, so like a gardner?”  I thought he was going to punch me in the face, seriously.  He clarified that he designs people’s gardens in the Hamptons, and other areas of Long Island.  He went on to say that he also works on terraces in Manhattan for the Park Avenue set.  I yawned in his face to let him know that I wasn’t impressed.  We were kindred spirits ever since.

Three go-go boys danced on the bar in front of us wearing red, white, and blue g-strings.  

“How patriotic!” I said nodding at the extra-large one wearing the red banana hammock.

“I’d love to show him just how proud to be an American I am,” Daniel said as his eyes widened.  He’d finally noticed the enormous thing that “mr. red” was packing.

“God, you really are showing your age by saying such douche bag things,” I sneered.

“I’m gay.  I’m forever young,” he said and laughed.

“Is that what you tell yourself before they stick the poison in your forehead?”


Daniel shrugged and sucked down his Ketel One and soda.  I skipped the soda and went straight for the Ketel One.  Soda was for sissies.  

“Shall we?” he said and nodded towards the semi-crowded dance floor.

I hesitated.

“What?” he asked.

“Are we going to dance or are you going to leave me on the dance floor the minute some kid with bigger boobs than me dances by?” I asked.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

“Uh huh,” I snickered.  I continued,

“What starts as a nice night of “let’s hang out and catch up” turns into “if that guy  comes over pretend you don’t know me, and can I get money for a cab to his place in the Bronx?”


“I paid you back,” he said and walked to the dance floor.  I begrudgingly followed.

After a countless number of tribal beats with a few divas wailing over them, I’d burned enough calories for the day.  Besides, by that point Daniel was occupied with a twenty-three year old NYU grad student.  I didn’t bother to say good night.  Instead, I walked from Splash to my nearby apartment, but decided to stop in at the bodega across from my place to grab a pack of smokes.  Shut up. I don’t want to hear about it. It’s a disgusting habit. I get it.

“How you doin’ tonight?” I asked eyeing a pack of peppermint Chicklets, paying no particular attention to the cashier.  He gave me a strange glance. “Okay, then. A pack of American Spirits, please.” 

The cashier turned, grabbed the cigarettes and set them and a pack of matches on the counter. With a heavy accent, he barked, “Eight Fifty.”  It’s just that I don’t hear EIGHT and FIFTY.  All I can make out is “MATE TITTY.”


“Mate. Titty,” he repeated.

“I’m sorry. I don’t understand you,” I said. 

“Eight.”  He then paused for dramatic effect and continued, “Fifty.” 


I threw a twenty on the counter and hoped for the best.


He rang me up, and as he counted my change, he said, “Too late for you to be out.” 

“I’m sorry?” 

“It’s two thirty. Lady shouldn’t be out so late.” 

I wanted to say, “Look buddy, this is AMERICA and it’s my god-given American right to stay out all night and dance at gay bars if I should damn well please.”  Instead, I ended up saying something more like, “Can I just get my change?” 

“You don’t think I see. I see you for seven years. Only with gay.” 

“Only with gay? What does that even mean?” I asked.

“You know what that mean. It mean you come in and out of here only with gay people.  Where are they tonight?  Or they leave you?” 

This hits me like a ton of bricks. I’m silent. 

“Maybe you a gay?” 

“No, I’m not “a gay.” I said through gritted teeth.

“Why you have no boyfriend?” 

“Who are you the Korean Dr. Phil?” 


He puts my change on the counter. I quickly snatched it. 

“You waste your time with men who no love you back.” 

I’d had it. Call me a super bitch, but I had to say something.  So in my toughest, most brutal voice that I could muster, I said, “Oh shut up.” 

“Shut up? You shut up!” He said shocked as if I’d just called him a dog-licking cocksucker.

“Shut up!” I said again.

“You shut up!” he shouted, his eyes nearly about fell out of his head. 

“Sh-” I tried to get out.  

“You shut up!” he repeated, interrupting my verbal jab.  I grabbed my smokes and walked across the street to my apartment. I sat on the steps of my building and lit a cigarette. I took a deep drag and exhaled  What a day.

I grabbed my cell phone out of my purse and scrolled down to the name “CHRISTOPHER” and stared at it.  He would’ve cracked up if he had been there.  But maybe the crazy deli guy was right.  Where had all my friends gone?  Was the I only one who hadn’t grown up?  Had I lost out on realizing the American dream? 

I clicked the phone shut, stood up and faced the front door, dreading the six flights I had to walk up. Had I quit smoking and drinking the steps wouldn’t have seemed so daunting, but I will crawl on my hands and knees before that happens.  I started up the steps, and then saw the cashier sweeping outside the deli out of the corner of my eye.  He looked sweet and delicate. Maybe I had been bitch.  I could’ve been more understanding with the language barrier.  He probably hated working at that deli.  It wasn’t the reason he moved to this country.  I should apologize.  I turned to head down the stoop.  Then suddenly he shouted,

You shut up!” 


To break this endless cycle, I finally burst out, “FUCK YOU!” and darted up my steps like a naughty schoolgirl.

In my tiny studio, I poured myself another drink and collapsed onto the couch. I put my iPod on shuffle. Feeling nostalgic, I grabbed a photo album from under my TV cabinet and flipped through the pages for what seemed like hours.  I saw a picture of all of us from 1999–almost ten years ago.  I stared at the younger version of me.  My life was full of promise, I had more friends than I knew what to do with, and new beginnings happened everyday. At that moment, I felt none of that.

I felt so alone that I actually felt a physical pain in my chest.  It was weird because for the first time, I finally felt heartache, literally. 

The next thing I know it was morning and I was nearly late for work. The soundtrack from the Broadway musical Rent was playing in the background.  I’d put it on repeat during my “sad sally” moment.

I raced out of my apartment like a bad out of hell, headed for the subway to avoid being late for work.  In my mind, I sang, “Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes…How do you measure a year in the life?”

Measure in love. 


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