"What do you think my beret says about me," I asked my good friend Matt.
He studied my beret and said, "I think it says that you are trying to look younger than you are."
"Really?" I asked, crestfallen. "You don't think it says that I'm creative, hip and will give you a blowjob if you follow me into the restroom at Borders?"
"No," he said firmly.
"What do you think about hockey jerseys?" I ventured. I had just bought one recently at one crazed shopping spree at the mall. What? They were 60% off!!!
"I think it says 'I have completely given up on life and I am just waiting for Heidi to tell me auf weidersehen,'" said Matt.
"I see," I managed to say. I still had the receipt for the hockey jersey but I have been seen around town in my beret. What was I thinking? Why couldn't I just be like every decent gay guy over thirty-five and post a picture on BigMuscle.com of my big, gaping asshole? But noooo, I had to be different, I had to wear a goddamn beret.
What is it that I am trying to say anyway? All I want is to be noticed, you know, so that I wouldn't be that guy who is left out, the guy in the corner jacking himself off in an orgy.
"Anyway, if you want to say something about yourself," Matt said, oblivious to my internal struggle, "I think you should get something more subtle, you know, like a t-shirt or better yet--get a tattoo."
"To hell with subtlety. I want a t-shirt that says 'I'm a bottom'."
"Well then, let's go find a t-shirt that has big block letters that spell A-B-E-R-C-R-O-M-B-I-E."
"Ok," I said excitedly. I could have a picture of myself wearing it on my new BigMuscle.com profile by tonight.
Right next to the picture of my asshole.
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