But as much as Annie and Nicole meant to me as sources of information and guidance, it worked both ways.  And when they left the city, I lost a role that I had been playing par excellence for years: the role of the gay best friend.

(Well, I’m not gay.  Now.  But you know what I mean.)

I had been playing the role of the gay best friend from just about the time that my testicles descended.  Forever, I was “the nice guy” (read: the asexual guy).  At my peak, in my early high school years, I would spend hours a day on the phone, talking to all the girls in the neighborhood about their boyfriend problems, while secretly lusting after them: 

Girl: “I don’t know, I like Billy and all, but sometimes, you know, I don’t think he, like, understands me.”
Me: “Well, that certainly is a conundrum.  Have you ever spoken to him about this?”
Girl: “I tried to, but we don’t really talk.  All we ever do is have sex.”
Me: [grimacing, pushing the mute button and whispering "Goddamn it!" through clenched teeth] “Well, maybe it’s time for a change, you know?  Maybe you should find someone that you have something in common with, someone who you can talk to.  Like my favorite Grateful Dead song says: ‘Once in a while you get shown the light/In the strangest of places if you look at it right.’”
Girl: [understanding] “Oh…I get it.  You’re saying I should start dating outside the neighborhood?  Like maybe some of the Italian kids from 16th & Jackson?”
[Jason pushes mute button, begins sobbing, rubbing genitals]   

I rocked this role and this role only until I learned an important lesson in college: if you want chicks to make out with you, you have to get drunk and get them drunk.  This worked out pretty well, and at one point (I believe it was the summer between my junior and senior years) I was ranked the #4 Lover in the World in my weight class (behind a Chinese guy, a Canadian guy, and some dude from Tucson).  Not too shabby.

This didn’t mean that I gave up my gay best friend role.  I still was the GBF to my female friends, but then I’d get drunk and try to get their friends to let me take pictures of them in my clothes.  And maybe a deer skin or something.  Yeah, a deer skin.  That’d be hot.

Then Annie and Nicole left New York.  And I was sad.  Coincidentally, about that time I stopped getting ass.  That also made me sad.

BUT – though Annie is still stuck in the Pacific Northwest, Nicole is back in New York City.  And I’m a gay best friend again.  Yay!

Last night, Nicole took me to dinner for my birthday at the Mercer Kitchen.  There, I gorged myself on all sorts of delicious foods: a shrimp salad, a steak, mac and cheese that may actually be better than Schiller’s, and some cake.  Oh, and a lot of booze.  Which was nice.

But what was nicest of all is that Nicole and I got to re-bond and I was able to get back to being a gay best friend.  While dinner for me was waiting to see if my ex-girlfriend and current girlfriend would call to wish me happy birthday (they didn’t, but at least I won a bet with Nicole and now get a bottle of booze of my choosing; Nicole said they definitely would, that they had to, and I said no way, that I am pretty terrible; the lesson being never underestimate my ability to disappoint, piss off, or otherwise alienate women), Nicole took the time to ask me all sorts of questions about love and guys.  Nicole has just started seeing a guy who’s constantly texting her and trying to get her to go out.  It’s a little much.  

Nicole: “So I don’t know what to do.  I mean, I like hanging out with him but he’s a little too much right now.”
Me: “Eh, just fucking blow him off.”
Nicole: “I don’t want to do that.”
Me: “Ignore his texts for a little while then surprise him with a random expression of warmth.  That’s how you have to do it.  Trust me.  I know everything about women.”
Nicole: “No you don’t.”
Me: “Have you slept with him?”
Nicole: “No!”
Me: “So be a dick, then sleep with him.  You’ll have him all confused and will own him.  You’ll be like the puppetmaster or some shit.” [starts singing circus theme song]
Nicole: “I don’t want to sleep with him.”
Me: [disgusted] “Look, sleep with him, don’t sleep with him – whatever. [turning away] Waiter, can you bring us another bottle of this wine? [turning to Nicole] You’re paying for this, right?” 

I admit: I’m a little rusty.

But the good news is that the more we talked, the more we drank, and the more we got drunk.  When I’m drunk I’m sensitive, and I think I was able to help Nicole out in the end.

Me: [slurring a little] “Let me tell you something: omnia vincit amor.  Do you know what that means?”
Nicole: “‘Love conquers all.’”
Me: “Wrong!  It’s Latin for ‘love conquers all.’  I took Latin.”
[four seconds of silence]
Nicole: “So what does that – “
Me: “Love conquers all, Nicole.  Love. Conquers. All.”
[five seconds of silence]
Me: “Four years of Latin. 
Nicole: [sighs]
Me: “You can’t stop love.”

After dinner, at which I swore that I would murder Nicole if a troupe of Mexicans came from the kitchen singing Happy Birthday to me, we went to the Pegu Club to meet friends Jeremy and Meredith.  There, buoyed by the martinis and the wine, I decided to start drinking whiskey.

My first drink was a Manhattan, which was delicious.  Then another Manhattan, which was also delicious.  Then something called a Sazerac, which I decided I would have one a day of for the rest of my life.  Somewhere in there, I peed myself a little bit.  I was warm, happy, and, like I said, I peed myself a little bit.  It was awesome.  

I don’t really have an ending here, since I don’t really remember the rest of the night.  But as I was being helped into a cab, I remember Nicole looking at me and saying, “Thanks.”  I assume this meant for the advice I gave her about her man issues.  Or perhaps she said it sarcastically, because I stepped on her foot and possibly broke her toe.  I can’t really say.  I’m very hungover.

But the point is two-fold.  First, I had a lovely birthday after all.  Second, I am fully willing and able to once again become a gay best friend.  Now that Nicole is back in NYC, I look forward to giving her all sorts of advice on men and relationships.  Of course, I’m going to have to bone up by watching some reruns of “Sex and the City,” but I’m not ashamed to admit that I don’t mind that.  Not one bit.

And maybe I’m turning a corner.  Now that the birthday is over, perhaps my depression from the past few weeks is lifting.  Maybe I’ll get back to my normal self and stop sulking.  Maybe I’ll get out of the house more and stop masturbating so goddamn much.  Maybe things will be different from here on out.

So we have a solution.  As long as I go out every night for a delicious expensive meal (for free) and drinks lots of whiskey drinks (for free – thanks again Jeremy), I think I’ll be just fine.  Let’s all welcome back the new Jason.  Omnia vincit amor, baby.  Omnia vincit amor. 

[Oh, and I'll save you the email and tell you that I was joking about the current girlfriend.  I've been really wanting to fuck with you guys since the whole engagement thing, but then I realized I'm just going to get 300 emails unless I clear that up.  So I guess what I'm saying is that I'm not a very good fucking-arounder.  Whatever.]