Tag Archives: Michael

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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Work. It. Out.

“…I simply don’t understand his need to constantly respond with ‘work’ after every sentence that comes out of his mouth.  It’s insane.  Utterly.  Insane.” Michael said while at lunch with Ryan and I.

“You didn’t notice it at the bar?” I asked.

“No, that’s the thing.  I don’t remember him saying it there,” Michael explained.

“Are you sure he didn’t?  Or were you just too drunk to notice or too horny to care?” I asked. 

“Probably a little bit of both, I suppose,” he said.  “I noticed it when I got in the cab.  I told the driver to go to Sixty-Eighth between Columbus and Amsterdam and that’s when I first heard it; a faint ‘work’ almost like a creepy whisper.  I thought I had imagined it.”

“And it continued?” I asked.

“Well, I brought him a glass of Merlot while he was sitting on my couch.  When I handed it to him, I said some cheesy line like, “I’m so glad I ran into you tonight.”

“I’m truly amazed and stunned you even have sex with lines like that.  If it were only that easy for straight women,” I said.

“ANYWAY, as I was saying, after I said that I expected him to return the complement or at the very least kiss me.  But all I got was a “work.”

“You certainly know how to pick ’em my dear,” I said.

“Did you at least get laid?” Ryan asked ignoring the prior mention of the word “work.”

“Almost,” Michael said.

“ALMOST?” Ryan said exasperated.  

“When I said to him let’s go into the bedroom, he smiled seductively at me and said, ‘Let’s do this.’  I’m thinking thank-fucking-god finally.”

“Honestly, the two of you are a match made in heaven with these skills,” I laughed and took another bite of my veggie burger.

Yes, I’m a vegetarian.  Or as Daniel likes to refer to me as “a VAGetarian.”

“But just before we got into my bedroom, he said it again!”

“No!” I gasped.

“Yup, and that was the last I saw of my hard-on for the rest of the night,” Michael said.

“Okay, don’t ever say that to me again. EVER.”

“I still don’t get what you mean,” Ryan said while chewing on an air-baked french fry.  Oh Ryan, so pretty, so successful, but oh so not versed in gay vernacular.

“Let me demonstrate,” I said.  “Ryan, tell me what you’re doing right now.”

“Eating lunch,” he said looking at me as though I’m wearing an “I’m with stupid t-shirt” look.

“Work” I said with a certain flair that was usually reserved for the most flamboyant gay guy.

“Huh?” Ryan said.

“Actually, I think you mean ‘WERK’,” Michael explained.  I rolled my eyes as if to tell him to shut the hell up.

“What are you guys talking about?” Ryan asked, still not getting it.

“I’m going to go get a refill of on my lemonade,” Michael said getting up from the table.

“WORK!” I shout to him as he walks to the counter.

“You guys are weird,” Ryan said and shakes his head.

“Were you depraved of all things gay in your twenties?” I asked Ryan.

“Well, not all things…” Ryan began.

“Work!” Michael interrupted and sat back down at the table.  Ryan flashed him a cold stare and I laughed.

“Definitely not all things gay because I’ve seen his closets.  It looks like Abercrombie and 2Xist threw up in there.”

“And let’s face it, you don’t get much gayer than Abercrombie and 2xist,” I chimed in.

“I’m sure their marketing departments will be thrilled,” Ryan said sarcastically.  Michael and I looked at each not sure what to say.  Ryan added, “No really, profoundly thrilled.”  

Seeing the perfect opportunity, I said, “Work.”

Ryan threw down his French Fry on his plate and stood up and looked at Michael and I long and hard.  “I’m gonna go to the gym.  You guys have given me the worst headache.”  

Then he took a long, dramatic drawn-out pause– otherwise known as “gay pause.”  


Then he said, “And you wonder why you’re both single,” and headed toward the door.

Michael and I looked at one another like scolded children, and then turned back to Ryan who had just pushed open the door.

“Ryan?” I called.

Ryan turned over his shoulder and looked at us.

And in unison, Michael and I shouted,



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Free Radicals

I can always count on my friend Michael to go with me to the gym.  It’s not so much that Michael actually likes to workout.  He just likes to have someone listen to him complain other than his cat.  (Yeah, I know. Have you met many single gay guys, or straight guys for that matter, with cats?  Uh huh.  Let’s leave it at that.)

Michael is in his mid-thirties, about 5’8, nicely toned, and for the most part extraordinarily average.  He wears “smart glasses” and is often mistaken for Ashley Banfield minus the blond Meg Ryan haircut. He has his own design business in Midtown.  He’s been single for the last three years.  The most interesting thing about Michael as of late is that he won his cat in a custody battle.  He actually went to court to fight his ex for A CAT. (Don’t say it. I’ve already thought it, said it, and am now blogging about it.)  Wait, it’s too good to pass up. I must. Are you still not getting it?

A gay man went to court to keep his pussy.

I can’t get a man to hold the door open for me, let alone go in front of a judge.

As I did leg squats, Michael stood next to me and watched.  “I just don’t get why Christopher wants to go through with the whole marriage thing,” he said.

“I don’t know.  Maybe he’s actually in love,” I said sarcastically as my left leg began to buckle.  

“Gays used to be radical and wanted to be different and not conform to societal norms.  Whatever happened to that?” He asked rhetorically.  He continued:

“Today’s gays have turned into a bunch of solophobics.” 

A few guys turned and sneered.

“Hey, could you keep it down? I still have good standing in this city–and I’d like to get into Beige at B-bar without a problem.  Solo-phobics?  Are you making up words now?”

In his most petulant voice he quipped, “It’s people who are discriminatory against single people.  You of all people should know what I’m talking about.”  

Okay, I’m not going to lie. That stung.  I’d been single for five years and my last “relationship” lasted only three months–six weeks of which he was away in London on business.  And by business, I mean a British girl named Gemma.

I think my sufficient eye-rolling quelled any further discussion of the “solophobe.”  I lowered my voice, and said, “May I remind you that you were leading the calvary into coupledom not too long ago.”   I glanced over at him mid-lunge and saw that he was on his Blackberry perusing personal ads on Craigslist.  He pretended not to hear me, and I pretended not to see him looking for online sex.  “Okay, fine. I’m going to the juice bar to get a double espresso,” I said utterly annoyed and exited.

Twenty minutes later and two mind-numbing espressos later, I felt like Amy Winehouse on crack.  (Was there any other kind of Amy?)  I saw Michael emerging freshly showered as evidenced by his wet head and his pink-hued face, but strangely and disgustingly I might add, in the same workout clothes as when I left him.

“Where were you?” I asked.

“Steam room,” he replied.

“But,” I started.  “Ohhhhh,” I said backing away from the obvious.

“I’m bringing back the sexual revolution,” he said defiantly.  “I’m part of the new gay radicals.”

“That sounds like the name of some sort of EMO boy band, not a political movement.”  

As I reached for another slurp of my espresso, a young woman about twenty-two entered the juice bar.  She had that bohemian-chic look about her, minus the chic.  Calculated trying to look uncalculated wasn’t really my thing.

Her outfit was cute-ish, I suppose. In that “I just belted my bathrobe kinda way.”

As she waited in line, she stared at my empty espresso cups.

“Wow. Someone needed a boost!” she said.  She was the type of girl who ONLY spoke in exclamation points and capital letters.

I smiled politely and glanced at Michael who looked dazed as if he was still sitting in the steam room.

“You really need to be careful,” the young Mary Kate Olsen doppelganger said in a frantic tone.

“Don’t worry. I’ve tried plenty of drugs that have much more speed than this,” I said deadpan.

“No, there’s A TON of free radicals in coffee,” she said exasperated.

Stunned, I said, “I’m sorry, what?”

“Yeah, free radicals.  They’re everywhere. And they’re bad!”

I cocked my head in Michael’s direction once again.  He was back to his Blackberry and Craigslist.  

“So I’ve heard,” I said.


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