Huh.
I knew that marriage equality thingy wasn’t going to end well.

Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day and it’s the first Valentine’s Day in many parts of the globe where gay men are legally allowed to join in on the fun. And that sucks. In the past, Valentine’s Day wasn’t gay inclusive. We were not invited to participate. We could. Privately. If we wanted to. For some stupid reason. But there was no requirement to do so. And it was easier to claim a refusal to being part of the holiday based on political principles; if we couldn’t legally marry, then there was no good reason to participate in such a commercialized display of hetero consumerism.

That excuse no longer works. Now we get to deal with Valentine’s Day. We have to. Just like our straight brethren have always had to. Hallmark even has a line of Valentine’s Day cards geared toward the gay community now. We’re stuck with it. We used to be free and now we have to scurry around trying to find the perfect romantic gift to ‘prove’ our love to whatever guy we’re dating, engaged to, married to, or just trying to bed. When in nine relationships out of ten, it’s about the sex and not love. Just like it is for straight guys.

The problem with Valentine’s Day is that it’s a chick holiday. I could turn to Google to find out who is to blame for Valentine’s Day, but I already know it was some chick. Not because of all of the hearts, cupids shooting little arrows, and other stupid symbols of romance. But because it is a gift giving holiday. And all men suck at giving gifts. It’s just not part of our genetic make up. Gay or straight. Yeah, yeah, I know. Those of you who tend to lift their pinkie finger high when drinking from a glass are shaking your head ‘cuz y’all think you are a gift giving extraordinaire. But you’re not. You over do it. Less is more has never been a queen’s guiding principle. Your gifts suck too. There’s jut more lace and tulle disguising that fact.

Nonetheless, as gay men we now have to suck it up, grow some balls, man up, and attempt to come up with the perfect gift for Valentine’s Day. Or end up spending the night alone masturbating to ’80s gay porn. No problemo. Even if you waited ’til the last minute. Which you probably did. ‘Cuz you’re a guy. Forget about the cuddly plush animal with a heart impaled on its chest, ignore your plan for a romantic get-away weekend that you’d spend eyeballing all the hot guys you’d rather be doing anyway, dispense with the idea of picking up some pricey piece of bling in the shape of a heart. ‘Cuz that shape has just never lent itself well for use as a cock ring. I’m gonna clue you in to the perfect, never fails, always the right choice, sure to get you laid, look no further Valentine’s Day gift. The one guaranteed to earn you a loving, heartfelt thank you from your partner. As soon as you pull his head back away from your crotch and allow him to catch a breath of air.

Personally, I was gonna go with a traditional Valentine’s Day gift this year and give Dave a pearl necklace. But Valentine’s Days gifts are supposed to be special. And not just the normal Saturday night at home. So as loath as I am to usually do so, this year I’m even gonna follow my own advice. It’s simple. It’s traditional. And it’s always the perfect gift: flowers. Not just any flowers mind you. It’s gotta be roses. ‘Cuz it’s Valentine’s Day. And nothing says I Love You – or, I Want To Do You – like roses.

Best yet, guys just ain’t used to being given flowers, so even the most manly of men’s heart will beat just a little bit faster when given roses as a token of your love and affection. Or of your lust. Doesn’t matter. It still plays the same. And will always get you laid. I know. ‘Cuz years ago some guy who normally, at best, I’d allow to masturbate while I watched, gave me a dozen roses. So I let him blow me. And then have used that trick successfully ever since. Any guy I wanted to do, I’d show up at his house with a dozen roses in hand. Hand over the flowers, and his pants drop. Every time. It’s like magic. You don’t even have to take him out for dinner first. Or make a second date. And after you get yours, you can sneak out while he’s in the bathroom cleaning himself off, taking your flowers with you to use the next night on some other dude you’ve had your eye on. If that’s not love, I don’t know what is.

Yup, the perfect gift for Valentine’s Day is the rose. Nonetheless, as simple as that idea is, there’s still ample room for you to fuck it up. Which, left to your own devices, y’all would. ‘Cuz you’re a guy. Even if you are a queen. In fact, especially if you are a queen. So pay attention. You need to get this right. The devil is in the details. And that horny little bugger cares about your orgasm. So all of this shit is important:

Red.
This is not the time to celebrate your gayness with all the colors of the rainbow. When you asked him his favorite color he lied anyway. Just to shut you up. So don’t try to get cute. If you give him any other color than red, he’s either gonna think you waited too long and they were out of red roses, or that you are a cheap bastard and the yellow ones were two bucks less. Which was why you were considering the yellow ones in the first place.

Long Stem.
Yes, I know they cost more and you are just paying for twig. But in everything else you think that size matters, so reign in your natural parsimoniousness and go with your better instincts. Just remember the smile it put on your face the last time you unwrapped something and found a full twelve inches hidden away there.

A Dozen.
I don’t care how addicted you are to watching The Bachelor, a single rose doesn’t say I Love You. It says I’m cheap. And that there’s a good reason why you are still a bachelor. A bunch of roses is better. Traditionally that means a dozen. Don’t worry about counting them. He won’t. At least not if you were smart enough to hook up with a guy who is better looking than you and – more importantly – dumber too. ‘Cuz he doesn’t do math. Which is why he didn’t laugh when you claimed it was eight inches. And that’s what real love is all about.

From A Florist.
Despite the gaily wrapped cellophane with little hearts imprinted all over it, we both know you will forget to remove the $5.99 sticker from the bunch of roses you bought at your local supermarket. The price tag that specifies ‘grocery’. So don’t do it. ‘Cuz then it’s no longer about giving him flowers. It’s the equivalent of having given him a ham hock. Think of it as the difference between using a knock-off version of karma gel and prescription Viagra. Close, but ya ain’t gonna be sporting a cigar.

Ditto for picking out a bunch from the bucket of that Latino selling flowers at the closest freeway exit. Those are cheap seconds. They’ll die before you get them home. And they haven’t been cleaned; their thorns are still attached. The only reason he’s selling flowers instead of bags of oranges today is so he can earn enough money to buy a dozen real roses for whomever it is he’s being forced to prove his love to. Yeah, I know. There’s nothing sexier than watching a gay Latino eating a burrito. But today is about your love life, not your sexual fantasies.

And don’t order your roses on line either. ‘Cuz he’ll immediately know you were also checking responses to at least one of your on-line hook-up site accounts. Which we both know you would do.

Boxed.
Despite Hollywood insisting a long floral box always has a sawed-off shotgun hidden in it, it’s still the way to go. Not to mention that long floral box may come in handy if you suddenly decide you’d be better off if your romance was over. ‘Cuz that gay Latino eating a burrito is still playing in your mind. Now if you’ve followed my advice up to this point (red, long stem, a dozen, from a florist) the box is a given. Unless you are a queen. ‘Cuz that florist will also have a wide selection of floral arrangements, all made with a dozen long stem red roses. Undoubtedly with lots of lace and tulle too. And those are gonna make your little gay heart burst into song. They are also gonna remind your partner of his mother’s funeral. And how she really felt about you. So don’t. If you just can’t resist, you can allow the florist to throw some baby’s breath into the box. (If you are not a queen, don’t worry. Baby’s breath has nothing to do with actual babies. Or otherwise you’d be having to pick up two long floral boxes today.)

Hand Delivered. By You.
Obviously, you want to be there for the pay-off. Or at least your dick does. This is what separates the men from the boys. Which means straight guys from gay guys. Because equality aside, we still don’t have to deal with vagina. For you, the appreciation will flow (preferably after he’s dropped to his knees) from the simple act of having been given flowers. For your straight friends it’s not that simple. Vagina doesn’t appreciate being given flowers unless there is other vagina present. Since Valentine’s Day falls on a Saturday this year (tomorrow) straight guys already blew it if they didn’t have a dozen red roses delivered to their vagina today at work. When all the other vagina they work with could see how much you love theirs. So that they’d then turn green with envy. Green vagina isn’t pretty. Even to a straight guy. But for vagina, it’s their entire purpose for being. I’m pretty sure. ‘Cuz I can’t think of any other use for vagina.

As for the ‘By You’ part of the equation, if you have your flowers delivered instead, the delivery boy will probably be a gay Latino who looks incredibly sexy eating a burrito. Forewarned is forearmed. Especially when there is foreskin involved. Even more so when that foreskin is probably the length of your forearm.
Just sayin’.

With A Personalized Card.
Hallmark has an entire line of Valentine’s Day cards just for gay guys this year. And I know if you are one of those pinkie lifting types of gays you’ve been tearing up reading them for weeks now. If you must, buy one for yourself. You partner doesn’t want to read that crap. And, as I already mentioned, if you were smart and hooked up with a guy who is both better looking and dumber than you, he probably can’t read that shit anyway. So, congrats.

Besides you can avoid that $9.99 expenditure; the florist has free cards to include in your box of a dozen, long stem, red roses, with or without baby’s breath. Ignore those with little hearts, cupids, and cuddly bears on them. Grab one of the florist’s business cards instead. It’ll pay off proving you bought your roses from an actual florist. And he will check. Just like if you’d bought a Hallmark card instead he’d first turn it over to see how much you paid for it. Better yet, drop in at the most expensive florist in town and grab one of their cards to use. Your partner will never know the difference. But will think he knows how much value you place on your relationship.

Perfectly Inscribed.
Now comes the hard part: the inscription. You probably don’t know what all those little xs and os mean outside of a game of tic-tac-toe, so those are useless to you. And while you’d think a simple ‘Love (insert name here)’ would say it all, no matter how much better looking and dumber than you he is, your Valentine is gonna expect more. A bit of poetry works, but undoubtedly your spelling sucks so that’s just a disaster waiting to happen. Besides, the only poem you know probably starts with: There once was man from Nantucket. So instead, go with your strengths. Go with what you know. You are a guy. Lie.

Following my red, long stem, dozen roses from a florist, boxed, and hand delivered by you – with or without baby’s breath – but with a personalized card enclosed (preferably from an expensive florist where you didn’t actually shop) alone will work wonders. This one, however, will knock his socks off. And hopefully every other piece of clothing he’s wearing too. Forget about signing the card. He already knows the roses are from you. ‘Cuz you just handed them to him – I said dumber than you, not mentally handicapped. Besides, that can always be used as evidence in the future. We may have gained equality in marriage, but as gays we still haven’t quite mastered the art of the pre-nup yet. You don’t need to write his name on the card either. There’s a 50/50 chance you’d get it wrong anyway. Just like you do during those throes of passion when you’re just about to cum. All you need to write is this simple message:

Because You’re You.

That’s some powerful shit. It says everything. While saying nothing. Because You’re You. It’s ambiguous enough he can read anything he wants into it. Which, because it’s Valentine’s Day and he’s gonna be acting like a little bitch and will anyway, works perfectly. And it’s not a total lie either. If you were smart enough to hook up with a guy better looking and dumber than you, it fits. And he won’t even noticed if you screwed up and wrote Your instead of You’re. On the other hand, if you just started contemplating the optional uses for that long floral box, ‘Because You’re You’ still is perfectly appropriate. Bitch.

It’s pure genius. I think I’m gonna trademark that phrase. In a dozen different languages. Especially Spanish. ‘Cuz it’ll work on that incredibly sexy looking burrito eating gay Latino too. A dozen, red, long stem roses, personally handed over by you, boxed, with or without baby’s breath, but with a personalized card enclosed (preferably from an expensive florist where you didn’t actually shop) that includes a hand-written note saying ‘Because You’re You’ will even work on that guy in your neighborhood you’ve been eyeballing who you thought was way out of your league. And/or smarter than you’d prefer. Especially as an unsuspected gift on Valentine’s Day.

Even if he’s headed home to his husband, lover, boyfriend, or current trick – carrying a dozen, red, long stem roses, to be personally delivered by him, boxed, with or without baby’s breath, but with a personalized card enclosed (preferably from an expensive florist where he didn’t shop) that includes a hand-written note saying ‘Because You’re You’ – his dick will still be yours. At least for as long as it takes for you to blow him. ‘Cuz that’s a gift no man can resist. And he’ll appreciate the dozen, red, long stem roses, personally handed over by you, boxed, with or without baby’s breath, but with a personalized card enclosed (preferably from an expensive florist where you didn’t shop) that includes a hand-written note saying ‘Because You’re You’ too.

So go for it.
And have a happy Valentine’s Day.
Because You’re You.

(Um, sorry. If the love of your life is a moneyboy you met in Thailand, forget the dozen, red, long stem roses, personally delivered by you, boxed, with or without baby’s breath, but with a personalized card enclosed – preferably from an expensive florist where you didn’t actually shop – that includes a hand-written note saying ‘Because You’re You’. Just send him some baht. That’s all he really wants. And that you were thoughtful enough to send the money while staying thousands of miles away from him will make his Valentine’s Day the happiest one ever.)