This weekend we had a classic gay brunch at Paris Commune with sexy subletter Eric S. and reigning Gay To Know, Dylan. Don’t you love those meals, where everybody is hung over, the waiters are hot, and other gays you vaguely know wave at you through the window or stop by your table? And you keep drinking water but you are so dried out you’re like a bottomless pit?
We’d all spent the previous evening with different boys, so there was much gossip, and comparing of notes. And we realized – while we loved living in Spain, they never had brunch, and it was terrible. It may be the gayest thing we’ll ever say, but if there’s no brunch, there might as well not be weekends.
(Okay, maybe not the gayest; we did recently say: “The Stilton Fondue at Artisinal is better than an orgasm.”)