I woke up around 10:30 a.m., which was surprisingly early given the late ending to my night. Even more surprising, was the fact that I woke up without a hangover.

Craig visited our room this morning. After recapping the night, everyone got themselves ready for the day and headed to Ethan’s favorite brunch spot in the West Village. The restaurant was closed, so the group walked a thousand miles in the sun like Jews through the desert to find Ethan’s next suggestion. Despite the Big Gulp of water I had this morning to replenish my system, I was still parched as all hell. I needed a pick-me-up, so I stopped at a Starbucks along the way.

Finally at the restaurant and with food in front of me, everything was better. Good choice, Ethan. I have my concerns with Ethan, but I’ll give credit where it’s due. Everyone ordered cocktails with their meals, but that was the last thing I wanted this afternoon. Unless I’m going hard during the day and then having a quiet night in, my drinking is best reserved for evening hours.

After brunch, we split up into two groups and went shopping. Dan, Connor, Evan, and I ventured into SoHo. I wasn’t loving it. Don’t get me wrong, I love the boys. I’m fine with being in a group like that, but only at specific times and places. Weekend shopping in New York City was neither the time, nor the place. I was also beginning to experience a bit of anxiety. I wanted my alone time, but didn’t know how to request it. Fortunately, everything ended up happening organically. Sort of.

Due to a lack of Wi-Fi, I couldn’t re-connect with the boys after I had dipped into a store by myself. Eventually, we re-convened at Topman. Following a quick group trip to Opening Ceremony, I had decided to pull the trigger. I was now reaching Xanax levels of anxiety. I made up a lie about having to meet Greg in Central Park around 1 p.m., and the group split up after that. Perfect.

I actually did end up going to Central Park this afternoon. Greg wasn’t going to be there, but I knew of someone else who might. Let’s cut the bullshit. My crazy got the better of me today. Like the lunatic that I am, I took a direct train to Logan’s subway stop on the Upper West Side. Granted, the station was near the park. This was no coincidence, though.

I dragged my ass across Logan’s street. I’m talking about a slow-motion stroll right outside of his apartment. I wanted to egg the windows, but decided that vandalism would not be a good daytime look. Plus, the building was taller than I had remembered. It would have been too difficult.

I didn’t cry. In fact, I wasn’t even that upset. I think I muttered, “Fucking asshole,” to myself at one point, but that was about it. Although very creepy of me, walking past Logan’s apartment this afternoon wasn’t a “breakdown on the sidewalk” moment by any means. Perhaps I have moved on.

Would I have liked to have seen Logan this trip? Yeah. I would have. Not because I want to have one last go with him, though. I’ll be honest. At one point, I wanted to apologize to Logan for my actions. Now, I realize how detrimental that would be to my own happiness. If I apologized to Logan, I would essentially be allowing someone to make me believe that there is something wrong with me.

I have my issues. I know that. However, when it comes to Kurt in a relationship – one I actually put effort into – there is no problem. I’m a good boyfriend. Or “partner,” or “person I’m seeing,” or whatever the kids are calling it these days. If someone can’t see or appreciate all that I have to offer, why should I then go and apologize to them?

I walked to the end of Logan’s street, turned the corner, and continued to the park. Goodbye.

I ended up walking the entire length of Central Park. It was very reminiscent of my December trip. Hungover to hell from the night before, feeling depressed, and slowly carrying myself through the park while listening to Mariah Carey ballads.

I cried in Central Park today. It was a release for me. Lately, I feel like I’ve been crying almost every day. I don’t know if that’s a good thing, or a bad thing. I feel pressured.

Anyway, I continued my walk through Central Park from 96th Street all the way home to 42nd Street. It was a long motherfucking schlep. When I finally got back to the hotel, I decided I would skip my run tonight. I did a quick floor workout instead, then got ready with the boys. After a few drinks, we made our way to the Village.

We went to Stonewall tonight. It was really great, actually. The boys spent most of their time dancing on the second floor, but I stayed downstairs to watch the drag show. Naturally, I was picked out of the crowd to go on stage and compete in a game of musical trivia against a very feisty lesbian. Even though that bitch couldn’t name one song the drag queen played, I ended up losing. This girl had apparently come to Stonewall with everyone she knew, thus creating her own cheering section. I’m still bitter about it. I did learn some choreography to ABBA’s “Dancing Queen” though, so I guess not all was a bust.

While at the bar, I ended up meeting a cute guy from D.C. named Christopher. We talked for a while, and I had him buy me a drink.

“I’m so parched,” I said.

Christopher was tall, good looking, and a little bit shy – all of which turned me on. I like guys who are quiet at first, but then get freaky after you get them comfortable and one-on-one. I thought Christopher was likely in his early 30s, but it turned out he was 44. Not a big deal. In fact, I was more impressed than anything. I wonder what moisturizer he uses?

By this point, all of the Toronto gays had left for a second club. I decided to stay at Stonewall. Christopher and I made out for a very innocent five minutes, but that was it. I was getting impatient. Why was this guy stalling with the moves? When Christopher said his friends wanted to go to another bar, I didn’t put up a fight.

“I’ll text you later,” he said.

Considering I never gave Christopher my phone number, I wasn’t sure how that was going to work out. Truth be told, I didn’t really care. I was ready to move on from my tall Fountain of Youth.

The boys had taken an Uber to some mystery club on the other side of the city. Realizing I had no idea how to get there via transit, I quickly made friends with a girl who was sitting on the sidewalk outside of Stonewall. Such is my social life without an international data plan. We looked up the location of the bar on her phone, and soon discovered that it was going to be a 20-year journey for me to get there with my MetroCard. My night at the mystery club was officially cancelled. Sorry, boys.

While talking over the cigarette my new girlfriend gave me, a homeless man came up to us and asked for money. The girl gave him some cash and a few cancer sticks. The guy wasn’t too impressed with me – I called him “baby” – but he loved the girl.

“That was really nice of you,” I said.

“It’s a fucked-up world,” the girl responded. “We need to help each other.”

Still sitting outside Stonewall, I had a That’s So Raven vision. I remembered that a guy I was talking to on Tinder earlier said he was going to be at a club called Pieces tonight. Well, it turned out that Pieces was right around the corner from Stonewall. My new friend jumped at the chance to show me the way, and we ventured down the street together.

After a wild fucking goose chase, which was essentially one large circle around the entire block, we finally found Pieces. Why was it that difficult? Pieces was literally across the street from Stonewall, yet this local girl – holding a phone with Google Maps on it – couldn’t find the damn place. Oy.

We said goodbye at the door, and my friend disappeared into the night. Things moved along after that. Once inside Pieces, I quickly found Tinder Guy and began flirting with him. After a very good drag show, I even managed to get a drink out of the guy. Unfortunately, that wasn’t what I had come to Pieces for. Yet again, this guy was stalling.

What the fuck is with these guys? Especially tonight’s Tinder Guy. I had come to meet him at a gay bar after we matched on a dating app. What did he think I was doing? Looking for a gym buddy? No! I wanted his fucking tongue.

I was so confused. Tinder Guy bought me a drink, but wouldn’t make out with me. What gives? Frustrated, I tossed back my gin and returned to the bar alone. I was officially done with Tinder Guy. Moving on. To be honest, I don’t even think he noticed me leave.

While waiting to order another drink, I turned to the guy beside me.

“If you know anyone who will make out with me, why don’t you go ahead and put their name and number in my phone,” I joked, casually passing my unlocked iPhone to the stranger.

Much to my surprise, the guy took my phone and started typing away.

“Who’s Dean?” I asked, looking at the new profile in my contacts.

“That would be me,” the guy said.

“Very clever,” I smirked.

“Do you want to come outside with me while I have a cigarette?” Dean asked.

“Sure,” I responded.

I followed Dean through the bar. We found a quiet spot around the corner, and talked on the sidewalk while Dean smoked. We also made out. I got what I wanted!

After a decent amount of tongue, we ventured back inside Pieces. Dean bought me a drink, and we talked with a couple of drag queens at the bar. Over the course of a fairly long conversation, it turned out that Dean was in a long-term relationship with the cuter of the two queens. Not only that, but they wanted to bring me home for a three-way. I was hesitant.

“Alright, but what’s going to happen here?” I asked. “How is this going to work? I’ve had a threesome before, and it was really slavey. I’m not into that.”

“I really just like to watch,” the drag queen boyfriend said.

“Our apartment is only three blocks from a subway station,” Dean added. “It will be easy for you to get home afterwards.”

I decided that I had nothing better to do. Once the boys agreed to pay for the Uber to their apartment, I finished my drink and we were on our way.

When we arrived at the apartment, it was at something like 145th Street. Either that, or Massachusetts. The place was far. We didn’t waste any time, though. After walking through the door, we moved straight into the master suite of the three-bedroom unit. One of the rooms was rented by another drag queen, and the third room was used solely as costume storage. That seemed economical in New York City.

It didn’t take long before the three of us were on the bed together. Clothes came off, and penetration had commenced, all while a very handsome out-of-face drag queen sat by my side and watched. It was hot. The boyfriend had also steamed up the bedroom with his post-drag shower, so things were nice and sweaty.

We all finished around the same time. Foolishly, the boys made the mistake of asking me to put on some music. I don’t think they had ever listened to “Vacation” by the Go-Go’s after sex, but I suppose there’s a first time for everything.

Belinda Carlisle had barely made through the second verse of the song, and Dean was already asking for another round between the sheets. I said no. I couldn’t. Physically, I mean. I was hurting. I hadn’t fucked a guy since – May? Even then, I wouldn’t consider that a real fuck. At least Dean was actually hard, which seems to be an increasing rarity in the sexual world these days.

Now, it’s almost 6:30 a.m. I’m writing this on my train ride home. I tried to scam myself another cab ride out of Dean and his boyfriend, but they said they, “Didn’t have Uber.” Hmm, where have I heard that one before? Instead, the boys gave me instructions to the subway. I walked the three blocks to the station, got on the wrong train, and lost about 45 minutes. I am so screwed for tomorrow. Oh, well.

I haven’t been eating very much over the past two days. Maybe there will be a Fire Island miracle tomorrow, and I won’t look like the fat ass bitch I saw in the mirror of the Topman fitting room this afternoon.

The train is stopping. I need to go home. I need my fucking bed.

Goodnight xo

@yalittlenasty Instagram post from tonight.