By Anthony Paull
There's one cool thing about accepting friend requests from random people you don't know – when you meet them, you already know if they're crazy. And if they're not – why waste time with them?
Seriously, don't you have enough lame-brained friends running boring-ass circles around your social life? Wouldn't you rather spice things up with a spit-fire for a change – someone who can suck the life force out of the biggest cock on the block?
I would, and I've met my match in the form of a gay boy named Gabe. A few days ago, Gabe asked to be my Facebook friend, and I accepted the request, only because he shot me a message first, raving about my column. And who doesn't like a little sunshine shot up their ass? God knows, it's been awhile since anything else has shot up there! So now, we're fast friends, spending oodles of time together. Gabe says he'd like to spend more, but he's too busy with life's mundane tasks – you know, like taking out the trash and making sure his boyfriend isn't nailing the Eurotrash neighbor.
"Apparently, I'm not entertaining enough," Gabe declares, after buzzing me into his pricey, stone-block condo, where I have to ask permission from the doorman to ride the elevator. On the way up, I meet a pug and his elderly, gay master. The pug's jeweled collar is worth more than my car, I think, but Gabe lives that kind of lifestyle. Everything is amazing. Everything is beautiful. But if anything is more beautiful than Gabe, we have issues. BIG issues. Whoppers! "I usually date down," he says, combing his gold locks with his fingers. "But now, I'm living with a guy hotter than me. And last night, I find out he's playing games with some guy in the unit across the hall."
"Games? What kind of games?" I ask, as he mixes me a cappuccino martini.
"Stupid Facebook games. Scrabble over an iPhone. He calls it words with friends. Why does my boyfriend need to play games with our neighbor? Seriously, that neighbor guy just arrived from France last month. He doesn't even know how to properly shower, but he sure knows how to Facebook!"
"Maybe it's just a game."
"Oh, please. And maybe my ass is just for exits. C'mon, Anthony. Would you have a problem with your boyfriend playing cyber Scrabble with some random queer?"
"Depends on what words they're using."
Not finding me amusing, Gabe demands that I slam my martini before seeing me to the door. That way he can exfoliate, take a disco nap and decide how to handle this unpleasant matter. Later, he calls me with his plan. Basically, he wants in on the game, and tonight, he plans to help his boyfriend come up with new, fascinating words.
"If you can't beat them, join them," he informs me. Yet later that night, the plan isn't working. "Can you believe it? They've been playing for weeks. Weeks! That's what my boyfriend said. And that Frenchman isn't even cute! I mean, hello, look at me! I'm a god! Would you cheat on me?"
I can't help but laugh. "Gabe, there's more to life than being beautiful."
"Bullshit," he remarks.
"I'm being serious. You're beautiful. Fine! I get it! But what else do you have to bring to the game table? You know, maybe if you had a game going with your boyfriend, he might not have time to play with others."
"You're right. I hate this," he says, breaking down. "It used to be easy. Being sexy was enough. Now, my boyfriend actually expects me to do things with him."
True, but doesn't spending time with someone you like, such as a boyfriend, help you know if "like" can turn to love? Isn't that how it works? Isn't there more to love than "face value"? Now, I can't speak for others, but initially I'm never attracted to the men I inevitably adore. Hence, why I fight off the keepers, and I'm alone, I suppose. But when a guy catches me with more than looks – with either his wit or his charm – I'm often hooked for the long haul, and I find just having a conversation with him is enough to get me off. The problem is: like Gabe, people say I'm too "put together" – that's why I barely get approached. But the truth is I'm looking to connect with a guy who may not have the perfect puzzle parts – just an average guy who'd much rather compete for my attention than compete over word games with "friends" on the Internet.
"I have an idea. Maybe you and your man can join a sport together," I suggest to Gabe. "What do you guys like to do for fun?"
"Fuck," he states. And that's exactly what they do – rather loud – later that night, when Gabe "accidentally" leaves the front door ajar for the Frenchman to hear.
"Ugh," I moan. "That wasn't what I meant when I suggested spending more time together."
"Yeah, but I screamed really loud. Like I was giving birth," he declares. "That way the Frenchman thinks we're in love. Wouldn't you think that if you heard me screaming?
"Maybe," I admit, reflecting a bit. "But I'd probably think you were more secure in your relationship if I heard you two talking instead."
