Tag Archives: Ryan

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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This One Takes The (Cup)Cake

“Once that thing does a facial too, it’s mine.” 
—Kathie Lee Gifford on a remote-control bidet.

(this has nothing to do with this post, but it’s just too borderline amazing to pass up.Just  put that visual in your mind.  See what I mean? source)


Saturday, I convinced Ryan to go with me to Bloomie Nails for a mani/pedi.  Ryan balked at the idea of getting a manicure.  His response, “It’s just so gay.”

My response to him:

“You like dick.  You ARE gay Ryan.”

He tried telling me he’d rather chill and watch the USC football game.  Sigh.  

“Why don’t you ask Daniel?  He likes that sorta thing.”

“I want to go with you.

I didn’t want to be rude and tell Ryan that I had already texted Daniel before him.  Moreover what I couldn’t tell Ryan was that Daniel texted me back informing me that he had spent the night at the NYU dorms with the guy he met a few weeks ago.  

Again, let me remind you, like I did Daniel this morning–Daniel is thirty-four.  He has a GORGEOUS apartment, and he slept in a twin bed last night.  That better be some amazing sex because there’s no way in hell that you could get me to sleep in a twin bed with another human being. EVER.

“Michael?” he offered.

“You know what happened last time I went with him.”  

Michael and I were thrown out of the nail salon when the manicurist complained about his constant swearing, and asked him to stop.  He looked at her and smiled sweetly.  Then,

He told her to go fist herself.

“Oh.  Yeah.  Well, how about Christopher?”

I didn’t feel like explaining to Ryan that after Beige, I didn’t feel like hanging out with Christopher all that much.  Ever.  A shift had occurred. I felt horrible for thinking it.  And what I had been struggling with since Tuesday night was:

Can you ever come back to a friendship after a shift occurs?

“No. He’s probably busy with Alfredo doing wedding stuff,” I told Ryan.

Just when I thought I was going to have to make this trek alone, I heard a noise…

“Oh. My. God,” I said into the phone.

“What?” he asked, wondering what could possibly come out of my mouth next.

“Wait.  There it is again.  Do you hear that?” I said overly excited.

“Huh? What in the hell are you talking about?” he asked again.

“Right there. Do you hear that?” I shouted.

“JESUS CHRIST FARRAH! Are you drunk?” he said annoyed.

“Maybe, but what does that have to do with anything?” 

“For the last time, no, I will NOT go with you to some gay ass manicure,” he said even more irritated than before.

“Shhh,” I kept going.

“Farrah,” he said calmly.

“You know exactly what I’m about to say,” I scolded.

“What?  It was on the TV.”

“What channel are you watching?” I asked.  “Go. Tell me.”  I didn’t to give him enough time to think of a better answer.

“MTV,” he said.  I quickly turned my TV to MTV.  

“Nice try.”

“The song just ended,” he said, this time sounding anxious.

“Ryan, I hate to break this to you.  MTV hasn’t played a video in probably about ten years, let alone a New Kids On The Block video for Step by Step.”  

“Fine.  It was on my iPod.”

“Of course, it was.”  “Original Step by Step album or Greatest Hits?” I asked.

“Greatest Hits.”

“You’re not only gay.  You’re SUPER gay. I rest my case,” I said and gloated.

“But–” he began.

“I think I just found my mani/pedi partner for today unless you want this to be my status update on Facebook,” I interrupted.  

I’m not completely evil, I sweetened the deal, literally, and told him I’d treat to Billy’s Bakery afterwards.  He quickly agreed to my terms and an hour later we were on Eighth Avenue getting mani/pedis near the front window for all of Chelsea to see.  

Apparently, a vanilla cupcake and some blackmail was enough to forget the purported “gayness” of a manicure from even the “straightest” of gay men.


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C. U. N.ext T.uesday (No, seriously really. It’s a holiday weekend)

Last night, I went to my friend Ryan’s apartment just off Union Square.  Whenever I feel faced with one of life’s inexplicable dilemmas, I dart for the nearest taxi and park myself at Ryan’s.  

Ryan lives like a straight frat boy.  In fact, there are no stereotypical gay elements anywhere in his apartment. No expensive Diptyque candles burning (one time Ryan complemented Michael on his Gardenia scented candle-he looked at the brand and called it, Dippy-tiki, honestly i couldn’t make this shit up if I tried); No wiping the kitchen countertop milliseconds after I put my hands on it (Daniel’s pet-peeve), and finally,

There is no decor, unless you count a couch from Jennifer Convertibles as a design aesthetic.  

Physically, Ryan is just plain hot–in that awe shucks kind of way.  He’s a little over six feet and he’s got that cornfed, muscular body–a body that’s muscular from actually playing sports (he plays hockey at Chelsea Piers and is part of a gay basketball league) and not doing endless sets at the gym.  Moreover, despite living in New York for nearly nine years, he has managed to shield off the dreaded infection…New York cynicism.  The biggest question I have about Ryan is:

Why can’t he put his penis in me?  


Come on, is he not the straightest gay men EVER?

Anyway, I brought over a bottle of Santa Margherita in the hopes that I could just sit with another human being, and not have to say a word and just be.  That is, in a nutshell, my relationship with Ryan.  I’m not saying he’s dumb by any stretch; he’s got a great job with Merrill Lynch.  He just isn’t one for the fine art of conversation.  

I continued to down my Pinot Grigio in silence, while he turned on House Hunters for MY benefit. (God I love Suzanne Whang-she’s got the best job on television. They put her in the alleyways of Beverly Hills and pretend it’s some exotic locale.  Hello? Can you say president of the fucking lucky club?) After watching back to back episodes, Ryan couldn’t take it anymore and asked if we could play Mario Kart for Wii.

If you’re unfamiliar, uncool, over the age of fourteen, or like most (not all) gay men and straight women–you haven’t a clue as to what it is.  Let me explain.  You’re given a steering wheel and the characters from the old school Super Mario Brothers characters get together and race these tricked out go-kart/bumper cars around a bunch of tracks.  Obviously the goal is to come in first place and achieve the fastest time.

Cut to an hour later, I still hadn’t won a single race, or for that matter, scored higher than sixth place. I was consistently either sixth, eighth or ninth out of a field of twelve.  After the last race, I stared at the empty bottle of Pinot and then at Ryan.

“You’re not going to try and make-out with me again, are you?”  he asked.

“No,” I said indignant.  I quickly followed with a hopeful, “Why? Would you have?”  

Ryan shook his head no. 

“I was just thinking that this stupid race in this video game is a lot like my life.”  Ryan looked me at me quizzically.  I continued, “I can never seem to break out of the middle.  Everything seems to be middle of the row for me.  Just when I think I’m going to break out and things are looking up I slide back down but not far enough that I hit some sort of bottom.”

Ryan followed with a quick, “You’re seriously crazy.  And you’re drunk.”

“No, honestly,” I said.  “Every date or relationship I’ve had has never been special. They’ve been average at best.  And my job?  I’m a junior publicist.  A JUNIOR?  I’m not a newbie and I’m not senior level.  Fucking middle yet again,” I said, and then I began to cry.  Yes, I’m mortified that I turned into that girl, but I couldn’t help it.

Ryan was speechless, until finally he asked:

“Are you getting your period?”

You see? What gay man asks that?  He’s straight, right?  At least so I thought, until Ryan did what most straight men were afraid to do when a woman is on the verge of hysterics.  He threw his arms around me and then squeezed me.  I cried some more until he finally broke away.  He said he had to check his email.  I think I freaked him out.  Actually, I know I freaked him out. Nonetheless, I continued to lay on his couch with the friggin’ Wii steering wheel in my hand and I didn’t say another word.  

After a few minutes of drifting in and out of consciousness, I realized that even though I may be “in the middle” in some areas in my life, that wasn’t what was making me so terrified.  Up until now, I had my pack with me and that made me feel secure.  We’d been each other’s support system.  And hand in manicured hand, we were navigating through that bewildering time in a person’s life when thirty is no longer within arm’s reach and that grown-up milestone of forty is on the horizon-leering like one giant impending, apocalyptic cloud.  

But suddenly, my pack had gone pfft in some big, gay, matrimonial haze.

The next thing I remember was Ryan tapping my forehead, like a little brother would do to torment his older sister.

“Hi.  Sorry.  How long was I out for?” I asked.

“Awhile,” he said and smiled.

Still groggy, I looked at him and said, “I guess that’s what happens when you drink and drive.”


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