Recently I’ve been spending some time with a certain guy. We’ve known each other for a few weeks, and we have a “friendship with benefits,” you might call it. Once or twice a week, we have some fun together. It’s practically an ideal situation, because neither of us wants a relationship right now; so I get my solitude, and I also get to have a regular sex partner.

Last night he spent the night at my place. He came over in the late afternoon, and we had a couple of hours of fun.

Several hours later, at night, we were rustling ourselves together for a night of gay-bar-hopping. He’s newly out, and he’d never experienced New York’s gay bar scene before, so I was going to show him around a little.

Now, here’s the thing. I think I’m decent looking, and some people have agreed; but I’m way insecure, and I think he’s way better looking than me. Put us side by side and I lose any competition. Now, before we went out, he asked me what the “rules” were going to be — if he wound up “playing with someone” at one of the bars, would I be OK with that? He was already going to spend the night at my place, so I knew I’d ultimately have him for myself, but I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to go to a club with a guy and have that guy make out with another guy while I just stood there, looking in the other direction and sipping my drink. I’m shy, and I’m awful at going to a bar alone and striking up conversations with random strangers. Yet we’re not dating, so I couldn’t really tell him no. So I told him that it would make me feel awkward but that of course he was free to do what he wanted. Anyway, a little while later, he told me that it would probably be “dickish” of him to fool around with someone else if he was with me. Okay, good. Problem solved.

We went to Wonderbar (where I’d been the night before) and Starlight, both in the East Village. At Wonderbar, there were a few different guys who seemed to be checking him out — he pointed this out to me; I didn’t notice it myself. It bothered me that he was pointing this out. First of all, he seemed to be tooting his own horn, and that’s a real turn-off to me; if you’re good-looking, you don’t have to flaunt it. Second of all, and more importantly, I was envious of him and his looks. I was feeling insecure about myself. And I guess I can excuse the first thing, because as a newly-out gay man, he must feel like a kid in a candy store.

And eventually, he did wind up making out with someone at the bar: me.

We were standing there sipping our drinks, talking, and eventually, he moved his head closer to mine and it happened. And it happened again. And again. And then continuously for a while. And when we got to Starlight, we did practically nothing but make out.

I’m so envious when I see two guys making out in a bar, knowing that they’re getting play and I’m not. But I love it when I’m one of the guys making out. I get to be the object of envy; I get to rub it in people’s faces that I’m getting play. Hah! I get to say. Look at me!

At one point, when we were still at Wonderbar, I went to use the bathroom, and when I came out, a guy was talking to him. Apparently the guy, who hadn’t seen us making out before, had asked my friend if we were boyfriends. My friend told him no, which of course was true, and I think the guy got his hopes up. But later on, the two of us were kissing again. After we kissed, I saw the guy say something to his friend. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but the expression on his face was something like, “Oh, well.”

So, okay. These other guys were looking at my friend, and yet I got to be the one who made out with him, and I got to be the one to take him home with me. I got to be the object of envy.

But did it make me feel less insecure?

No.

I was making out with a great-looking guy, and although it gave me a thrill, it didn’t make me feel better about myself. Was anyone checking me out? No — why would anyone be checking me out if they could be looking at him?

If you’re insecure, no external event will make you feel better about yourself. You interpret everything in the light of that insecurity. Sure, the guys who were checking out my friend got to be envious of me, but what does that matter? Next week, my friend can go back to one of those places and pick up someone else. Someone hotter than me. I was only the guy for that night.

I kept trying to remind myself not to be insecure. People very well could have been checking me out. The odds are that at least some people were. But even if they weren’t — or even if more people were looking at him than at me — I shouldn’t let that affect my self-esteem or the value I give to myself as a human being. It doesn’t matter what other people think of you; all that matters is what you think of you. Yeah, that’s one of those Mr. Rogers-type lessons, and it’s not at all profound, I know. It’s common knowledge.

But I forget that piece of common knowledge all the time.

I’m working on remembering it. I’m trying to get to a point where I feel secure in who I am so all that Mr. Rogers-type stuff comes as second nature to me. I’m working on it. I’m not quite there yet, but I’m getting there. It’s a step-by-step process.

And anyway, it was a hell of a great night. We came back to my place and didn’t wind up falling asleep until 6 in the morning.

So, to hell with insecurity. Sometimes you just have to enjoy things for what they are.

Last night I hung out with my gay friend CanadaGirl, whom I’ve known since college. (I was going to refer to her as TorontoGirl, but for some reason that sounds like the name of a Neanderthal.) We went to a gay UVA alumni cocktail party, which was hosted by another UVA alum and his boyfriend at their cute little East Village apartment with walls painted in soothing Martha Stewart colors (pale blue living room, mango bathroom). We were among the first to arrive, but eventually around 20 people showed up. Lots of mingling with some people I hadn’t seen in a while and some I’d never met.

CanadaGirl and I both got nicely soused. When we were in the kitchen, fixing ourselves drinks, mine went terribly wrong. I can’t remember what I was trying to make, but it wasn’t right, and each time I tried to add something to fix it, it wound up getting worse. It was some combination of lime juice, orange juice, a liqueur resembling Triple Sec, and tequila, and it was pretty bad. But CanadaGirl was so generous that she offered to switch drinks with me; she drank my gross concoction, and I drank her gin and tonic, which was much better than what I’d attempted. Sometimes simplicity in drinks is best.

Eventually CanadaGirl had to meet her gay friend Dave at a nearby East Village bar called Phoenix, and she invited me along. She tripped and fell on the way over but wound up being fine.

The bar was a really nice change from the Chelsea bars. The Chelsea bars are all attitude and tight shirts and more attitude, and they show us that we can stop the research, because human cloning has already been achieved. The East Village gay bars are more relaxed, more diverse, less glitzy, less “gay.” I just went to my first East Village bar a few weeks ago, Wonderbar, and it was refreshing. Phoenix was similar but a little grungier — it could have passed for a straight bar in a working-class city. I wouldn’t have pegged most of the people there as gay if I didn’t know otherwise. But there was still some nice eye candy, as well as a short and stocky MTV veejay who lost the vote to that guy Jesse a few years back but wound up become a veejay anyway. (I didn’t know who he was; the others pointed it out. He sort of looked like Oliver Platt.) There was a pool table, along with some pinball machines and a Ms. Pac-Man console (guess that was the one giveaway — if it were a straight bar, it would have just been Pac-Man).

Dave and his boyfriend were both good guys, charming and witty. I wound up not having to pay for any drinks, because first Dave bought me one and then later CanadaGirl bought me two. Eventually we left and went to Wonderbar, which might not have seemed like a gay bar if not for two guys who were alternately liplocked and smiling sexily at each other.

Shortly after, nicely roasted and toasted, I wandered across town to the PATH subway station and came home. I was hungry, so I heated up some rice, ate it, read for a while, and went to bed. All in all it was a good night. Sometimes it’s great to be alive.

And tonight I get to have sex.

I’ve added something else to this site — now you can read all about me. There’s a link in the sidebar to it as well.

Tonight I was a sloth and watched TV. I had a dilemma between 8:00 and 9:00, as I wanted to watch “Survivor” on CBS at 8:00 but also wanted to catch the 20 minutes of live sketches done by the cast of Saturday Night Live on NBC at 8:40. So I wound up flipping between them both. I saw Kel (good-looking military intelligence officer) get voted off the continent of Australia, and I saw Darrell Hammond impersonate Bill Clinton. When doing Clinton, Darrell Hammond can make the crowd titter with anticipation just by sitting in an armchair without even opening his mouth. Then he says, in hoarse, charming, laid-back Clintonese, with a grin on his face, “Good evening.” And the crowd bursts into laughter. After two words. He’s so good.

Tomorrow night I’m going to a cocktail party hosted by a member of my alma mater’s gay alumni group. It should be fun. Those of us in New York get together about once a month for some social event. Everyone seems to wind up living in New York City… this place is the center of the universe. Even my 10th anniversary high school reunion is going to be held in New York. And my high school was in Tokyo, Japan. See? Everyone comes here.

And on Saturday night, I’m having sex.