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When it comes to friends with benefits, one of two things typically seems to happen: You become straight-up fuck buddies, only calling each other for a booty call, or one of you falls in love. I was pretty certain I didn’t see M in a romantic way, but I’d never really thought about it before. He’d never asked me on a date, and when we fooled around I was the one who came onto him....
M and I started hanging out more and more as I adjusted to city life. Whenever I wanted to go out, he was down. Rain or shine, he was always up to hang out. Most of our nights consisted of me getting drunk and passing out on his couch, but as our friendship progressed, we started spending real, quality time together: Meeting at 10 p.m. to pregame at his apartment became meeting at 6 p.m....
M was my first friend in New York. He was a great guy, sweet and gentle, but also protective. He was always there for me when I needed to talk, always the one to egg me on to come out when I was feeling blue, always the one to buy my drinks when I barely had the money for rent and off-brand mac and cheese. One night we went out, ending up at an underwear...
While at a house party one Friday night, I was introduced to a very cute boy. He was adorable, really. Short, tiny, blonde, tan—you just wanted to put him in your Marc Jacobs weekender and take him with you to the Hamptons. We spent a lot of time talking at the party, and realized we both lived off the blue line—him 145th, me 181st. Around 11 p.m., tipsy but not messes, we decided to get...
One night, I had plans to hang out with Curly B, a new friend of mine who had curly blonde hair and a shared love for “Heathers” (both the musical and the movie, of course—though he prefers the musical, while I prefer the movie. You can’t beat classic Winona Ryder.) He came over to my apartment, DVD in hand, and we watched it while drinking coconut rum and talking about New York—he only had a...
The other night I went out for drinks with a couple of friends. We ended up at Boxers Chelsea—my idea, because of their two-for-one happy hour. We got our first round of drinks (margarita, naturally) and decided to stand outside: It was a little humid out, but much quieter and easier to talk. About half a drink in, a guy came outside, business-like in a pale pink shirt tucked into navy dress pants, with a...
I met T via Grindr, how I meet just about everyone I’ve been on a date with. We exchanged a few innocent face pictures, messaged for an hour or so, and set up a date. It was something Nicholas Sparks would have written—without the girl dying of cancer or the ghost of his ex-wife trying to get him laid. (And yes, that’s a fairly accurate description of one of his books.) T met me on...
I remember my first Pride in New York–well, technically my second, since I spent my first New York Pride in Soho, selling reasonably priced shoes to tourists. The second I spent it with The Ex Fiancé and his friends, starting with a bottomless brunch and leading to the parade. It was so much bigger than Iowa Pride, bigger and gayer than ever. I had to leave the festivities early to go to work, where I...
“Hunt” really is an appropriate word when talking about looking for a new apartment. Sure, unlike a fox, the apartment isn’t running away, dodging you at every turn. (No, that’s what your landlord will do after you move in and he doesn’t fulfill his promise to fix that leaky sink in the bathroom.) But it does send you running through the city at full speed, wanting to find the “perfect” apartment before another wolf snatches it from...
Recently, a coworker and I went for a drink at Rebar, which occupies the space previously known as G-Lounge. Delighted at the sight of a frozen margarita machine, we ordered two and took a seat at one of their corner tables. I agreed to the drink on one condition: no talk about work. Naturally, we bitched about work for half an hour before ordering another round and getting off of the subject. “How long have...