This Month Is Just Full Of Stories That Are Too Good To Be True.

As much as we love America, we love New York even more. Things like this could only happen here.

This Is Only Topped By The Fact That The Emmys Put Tom Cruise Back In The Closet.

Sometimes we are so fucking proud to be Americans, we just want to cry.

Sorry We’ve Been So Bad About Posting This Week. You Can Spank Us Later.

Or, right now.

We thought we’d put in a little addendum on our last item. We ran into Michael Lucas at Beige on Tuesday. Now let us just say, he’s a really nice guy (with a big penis) and he will basically take anything you throw at him (like, for example, a big penis). He’s a really good sport and even though his pornography is boring, he’s always made it a point to be an activist.

Anyway, at Beige, we asked him about his little Israeli sex tour (see below). Apparently this is not his first.

“It was terrible the first time,” he told us in his absurd accent. “The boy I took to perform with was a real pain in the ass.”

That was delivered with a straight face.

“Wherever we went, all over the world,” Michael continued, “he only wanted to eat at McDonalds. Isn’t that funny?”

We thought about it for a moment. And realized that, yes, that is funny.

We Also Hear That Next Up, That Whole Illegal Immigrant Thing Is Going To Get Resolved By Sean Cody.

Sometimes, there are news articles that need no embellishment to achieve hysterical entertainment value. Take this one for example:

"Gay Jewish porn star Michael Lucas, 34, is to visit Israel at the end of the month to show solidarity and raise awareness of gay issues. Lucas who is the owner and star of Lucas Entertainment will be in Israel from August 29 to September 4 where he will be performing a live show with free admission to Israeli soldiers. "I am very proud to be going to my home away from home and entertain gay Israelis in a time of war," he said on his blog. "I will expose the reality that the people of Israel face right now, especially that of gay Israelis who are targeted by the hate of Hezbollah." His trip will be filmed as a documentary, and Lucas plans to shoot a gay porn film in the country."

...

No, that was not a joke. Michael Lucas has wisely realized what we should have known all along: that a deadly international conflict with roots in genocide, terrorism, and anti-Semitism can easily be solved with a little poorly-directed assfucking! After all, when we're watching a Lucasfilm movie, we have always found that in those quiet moments when we're tuning out the poor dialogue and pounding on the Fast Forward button, our thoughts always drift immediately to world peace.

And If It's Your Boss Asking, Obviously Assume He Wants Sex.

A good friend last night had a classic FAGAT conundrum: he was invited out to drinks by a prominent member of his field of work, and didn't know whether it was a date, or merely a networking opportunity.

This has happened to us, and we suspect many of you. It's an annoying position in which to find yourself. You don't know what level of flirtation is appropriate (can you laughingly squeeze his knee when he says something funny? Can you touch his shoulder when you get up from the table?? Can you blow him in the bathroom of Starbucks??? ). You also don't know how to read his signals. When he says, "I'm so glad we finally got together," does he mean, "I want to put you in my Rolodex?" or "I want to put you in my custom leather sling?"

We think there are a few ways to avoid this problem from the get-go. First of all, if you want networking drinks with someone, choose someplace boring. Nothing says "I'm not interested romantically" like getting a drink at Houlihan's in Penn Station. If you are looking for love, choose a place that's inarguably sexy, like a dark wine bar, or your bedroom.

Second, if you're not interested in sex, work in a comment about your boyfriend or someone you recently dated early in the conversation, that will put your date at ease. If you ARE interested, ask him questions about his family. No one does that on networking dates.

Third, avoid the problem altogether. Drinks are for sex. Lunch is for networking. Nobody ever asked someone out on a romantic first lunch date. And the reverse should be true.

And finally, quite frankly, who's to say you can't turn a networking opportunity into a flirty one? After all, nothing says "Give me a break on the Spencer account" like "I know you like to fart during orgasm."

This Week’s Offensive Joke From A Co-Worker:

Q: Why do the gays love Jesus?

A: Because he was hung like this:

This Very Same Thing Happened With "The Lizzie Maguire Movie." But That, Of Course, Was The Best Mistake We Ever Made.

So today we suffered from a phenomenon we suspect many other gays have encountered: Netflix shame.

We are generally pretty good about putting movies that want on our Netflix queue. We pick flicks that we've always wanted to see but know we'll never remember once we're in the store. But some days we get caught up in the mire of "Suggested Titles" and end up in a tailspin of softcore gay dramas. You know the kind - about the awkward summer camp arts and crafts teacher who is in love with the swimming counselor, and then, against all odds, they fall in love and also teach the young campers an important lesson about tolerance and voyeurism.

These movies end up on our list for various reasons - curiosity, vague workday horniness, and the ridiculous false hope that this one will have dialogue that feels like it was written by someone whose first language is English.

So today we got an email from Netflix letting us know that "Gone But Not Forgoton" was wending its way to our mailbox. This is the movie description:

"Drew (Aaron Orr) is a forest ranger who meets yuppie Mark (Matthew Montgomery) after he falls while rock climbing. Mark wakes up in the hospital with amnesia and sees that Drew has remained by his side since the accident. Drew offers to move in with Mark to help him out until he regains his memory, which propels the two men into a passionate affair. But things start to change as Mark's memory slowly returns. …"

In other words, "This film couldn't be gayer if it was packaged with track lighting, a fistful of poppers and a steelgrip dildo." Which is probably just about what we'lll need to make it through the whole thing.

Also, Ex Boyfriends Are The Only Ones Who Know What To Do When Your Stepmother Makes A Racist Joke…. (Tell One Back, Obviously.)

Earlier this summer we dated a very charming and handsome young man named Alessandro. He had a unique quality that we’ve never encountered in anyone else we’ve dated. He’s friends with all his exes. He has a lot of them - and frankly, they are a very handsome bunch. We feel honored to be counted among their ranks. They include DJs, models, Broadway stars, and reality television personalities. And now, bitter anonymous bloggers.

What we learned from Alessandro is that you have to get over the initial hump before you can become friends. Once you’ve gotten through those initial awkward phone calls and the forced coffee get-togethers, you’re home free. To do that, it’s perfectly acceptable to lie, fake your own extreme happiness, and pretend the ugliness of the breakup never ever happened (“Hysterical Cobb Salad crying scene at Cafeteria? What are you talking about?”).

But if you’re not as talented as Alessandro, here’s our own set of suggestions:

1) Wait until you have a new boyfriend to really make the effort. There is nothing worse than having to hear about your ex’s new love, and anticipating the dreaded silence after, “so what’s new with you?” (“I GOT THE NEW ‘WEEDS’ DVD!”)

2) Immediately commence relentless sarcasm. The faster you have taken the intimacy out of the pet names, the weird sexual proclivities, and the fact that you used to pop each other’s backne, the better. (Q: “Wow, you’ve been burping a lot. Who knew drinking chai would have the same affect on you as giving head?” A: “One thing’s for sure, this foamy beverage tastes a hell of a lot better than yours...”)

3) Start with email. Sort updates on what you’re up to are good to stay connected, without the hassle of having to sit face to face. Nothing says “I miss chatting but not fucking” like a forwarded New York Times article. (“OMG, have you READ the Modern Love about Shamu? And I thought YOU were an ass hat!”)

4) Pretend you’re in a competition for who can be nicest. Let’s be honest, you don’t want to be kind, no matter who did the dumping. But you do want to win. We often find this to be the most helpful idea. If you, for even one second, make them think “Gosh, my ex is so great,” you’ve won. [Note- this is exponentially harder after every alcoholic beverage (“I never told you this, but you should probably try brushing your teeth three times a day. I’m just trying to be nice!”), so it’s best to stick with coffee dates at first.]

This past weekend we were with one of our epic exes, and we were reminded of how fun it can be to have one around. After all, you did once throw up on them while giving a drunken blowjob after a lobster dinner - and they still wanted to be around you. Now THAT’S friendship.

And The Whole Weekend, Even If No One Was There To Watch It In The Beach House, "Bring It On" Played On The Television.

We've just returned from a long weekend in Rehoboth Beach, DE.

For many New Yorkers, this beach getaway is an unknown quantity. We have Fire Island for a summer refuge, or Provincetown if you're ambitious. But for anyone south of Jersey, Rehoboth is the gay destination of choice.

It's a very cute town - beachy and fun, but family-oriented. There is a lengthy gay section of the beach, where hundreds of men (often in ill-advised boxcut trunks) frolic, gossip and sunbathe. But on the boardwalk and in the town they mingle seamlessly with thousands of families, tourists and residents. The design scheme is a mix of southern fun and rambling New England - think Kennebunkport meets Key West, except without the gin and clothing-optional resorts. Quite lovely, really.

The weekend confirmed what we feared about gay resort towns: when everybody goes to the same place for vacation, you don't get a break from your own society. By removing jobs, women, and most clothing from the equation, all the beach boys were left with was alcohol and drama.

Everyone was always buzzing about something. There was a boy who everyone called the "Fun Guy" because there was a rumor he had a highly contagious fungus. There was another boy who was very handsome but who has a very small penis, which was universally discussed in hushed tones because he had just made a new boyfriend and, really, how generous of the guy to be so understanding. Everyone was SO happy for them. And then there was the requisite gaggle of harmless pretty boys who mostly just smoked cigarettes and talked about themselves, and drifted from place to place in a big flock of fagulouness.

(Also, though no one said it, they were glad the fat one stayed home, because it brought down the median level of attraction to an undesirable level. They were only friends with him out of pity anyway - he isn't even really that nice.)

The other thing the weekend confirmed, which we were reluctant to recognize, was that gays everywhere are the same. DC gays have the same delusions of grandeur that NYC, LA and San Franciscans do. They suffer from the same high school foibles - jealousy, inexplicable resentment, promiscuity and late-night carbo loading. But they're also just as fun, smart, well-dressed, amusing and cute. They were universally friendly to a visiting Fagat, and for that we were impressed.

Wow. That's as close to a nice thing as you'll ever read on this blog. Maybe we should have vacation sex more often.

August Makes Us Think About Sex At Work

As you can tell, the heat is ruining our ability to blog. So we’ve turned to others for help.

First, check out this website for a great photo rundown of National Underwear Day.

Second, appreciate this joke our co-worker just told us:

Q: What’s small and green and consumes nuts?





A: Syphillis.

We’re Sorry, It’s Just Too Hot To Blog. Or Have Sex Indoors.

So we’ve been thinking lately about privacy.

We’re scheduled to spend the weekend in a beach house with a bunch of gays, one of whom we are crushing on. But because the house is so crowded, this could potentially entail fooling around, dorm-room style, with other people in the room. Oddly enough, while in college, this idea would have appalled us. Yet now that we are adults, living on our own, it’s not so upsetting.

And here’s why: New York effectively erases your personal boundaries with strangers.

If your roommates are home, you’ll find a way to stop even the springs in your mattress from squeaking. But if they’re away, you’ll wake the neighbors. You won’t even smooch at the dinner table with friends, but you’ll grope your date in front of a cabbie. Earlier this summer, we had sex on a rooftop, even though there was a house party two roofs away. One time we even met a person who had seen us, from another apartment building, through our window, having sex with our boyfriend. He turned white as a ghost when he saw the two of us at a bar.

What about this city desensitizes us like this? Have we stopped regarding our fellow citizens as human beings? Or does it make us all secret exhibitionists?

Maybe we should start rating one another. Sometimes, the women who live on either side of our bedroom have sex at the same time. We get moaning in stereo. We don’t know either of them, but sometimes we want to cheer them on. Because our neighbor to the east has a boyfriend who clearly satisfies her. But our neighbor to the west clearly needs to teach her man a few things – mostly about rhythm. We’re often tempted to yell through the wall: “pace yourself, or you’ll never make it!”

Then again, she knows that we like to play Erasure’s Greatest Hits during sex. So perhaps we’ll refrain from judging.

We Don't Know What They Were Doing In There, But It Certainly Wasn't Smoking.

So even though it was over 100 degrees on Tuesday, we went to Beige to see what was going on. We were completely unsurprised to see that a crowd of die-hard fags had made the pilgrimage. Dylan P, Daniel V, Drew E, Andrew F, GoGo Mike, Erik Von K, Jesse S, and Jacob B all showed. Somehow, Von convinced us to go with him to Boysroom, which is (thankfully) a block from our house. We showed up, and the place was empty except for a pale, skinny, underage gogo boy getting his stomach licked by an elderly gentleman, a waiter in his underpants, and Jay McCarroll.

We’ve had incidents with the “Project Runway” winner before. This time was no different. After a few moments chatting us up, he asked us if we wanted to fight him, and then tried to initiate a staring contest. We have to give him credit, it was sort of awkwardly brilliant. And then we saw the underage gogo boy walk in on him pooping in the bathroom accidentally, and that made it even better.

Anyway, check out the Village Voice’s article on Boysroom. It’s got some decent eyecandy, at least. But we miss the old place. The first night we ever went there, we lit a cigarette for the guy sitting next to us, because his hands were too busy directing the head in his lap. That’s our kind of joint…

This Is A Skill They Should Clearly Teach In Home Ec.

So we just heard from a friend of ours who was at the Elizabeth Arden Spa on 5th Avenue. He went in for a routine massage, and had a nice male masseuse. It was all very lovely, until the last part, when he got a happy ending. Which was, we suppose, also lovely, but maybe sort of upsetting, too.

It’s not that we’re surprised or offended by the idea of getting a handjob at the end of a massage. In fact, we’re not even really bothered that it occurs at an old-lady place like Elizabeth Arden. But hearing about from a friend made it suddenly very real for us. We now have a million questions – like:

How do you make it know that this is what you want?
Do you make eye contact during the maneuvers, or do you keep your eyes closed?
How is it possible not to laugh?
Are you allowed to moan?
Who cleans up?
How much extra do you have to tip?
How is it possible to be comfortable enough for it to work?
Isn’t there any urge to, you know, reciprocate?

And finally, isn’t it awkward afterward? Because, in our experience, handjobs are almost always followed by awkwardness.

Thank Goodness We Were In Disguise

The best thing happened to us on Friday. We were bathing suit shopping in Soho (FYI - almost no stores there sell bathing suits) before we headed to the beach. We were lugging around our weekend bag, and we were wearing our fake glasses. Sometimes shopping is better done incognito, we reasoned - but of course our fake glasses make it more difficult to SEE.

After an upsetting experience at Vilebrequin where we found the perfect gingham (that's right) trunks, but couldn't afford them, we popped into Dolce & Gabbana. We pushed through the door perhaps a little more angrily than usual, and hooked a right. Immediately, we slammed very hard, face first, into a person. "Oh my God, so sorry!" we yelped as we floundered backward forcefully, getting tangled in our bag.

Then we looked up, and realized that the person we had smacked was... us. We had walked into a MIRROR. We turned slowly in horror to see whether anyone saw. Four gay D&G employees stood nearby gaping, mouths covered.

We shrugged it off, and did a dignified lap around the store, with four sets of eyes on us the whole time. The minute we got out the door, we fled down the street.

There's nothing worse than people laughing at your misfortune. Except, of course, when they don't. And when the gays stop laughing with you, you know things are really bad.