BINGE BY TYLER OAKLEY (LEGIT VERSION)

march 22

THOUGH I HAVE NO RECOLLECTION of it, I think I can safely assume my first

birthday was spectacular. I probably ate the fuck out of some cake, and I probably shit

my pants. I assume that I'll be spending my very last birthday the exact same way, not

to mention a few in between if things go unexpectedly well.

Having birthday parties has always been an inexhaustible source of stress for me.

What happens if you plan an extravagant celebration for yourself and no one shows up?

Or what if someone plans a surprise party for you? Like, what if you're rushing home to

shit explosively, you burst through the front door, and—Surprise!—in more ways than

one? My mom often recounted the story of her own worst birthday—a surprise party

her best friend attempted to throw for her, which nobody attended except the two of

them. The horror of that story stuck with me, and each March 22, I take a firm stance

against expectations.

Then there's the issue of attending other people's birthday parties. I once attended a

birthday-party horror story like my mom's. Karen was in the grade above me; she was a

bit of a loner who lacked social skills, and she had a severe crush on me. Although I

obviously didn't reciprocate the feelings (because of the gay), I attended her party with

my (hot, straight) best friend, Dolan. Her dad welcomed us into their home and

directed us downstairs, and as we descended into her basement, we found her alone,

pacing. We made some small talk, but soon realized you can't mingle if you're the only

ones at the party. How were we going to escape?

My typical go-to move while attending any social function is what I've heard

referred to as the Irish exit—where you slip out of the party, unnoticed, without saying

good-bye to anyone. Good-byes are messy and an unnecessary disruption to the flow of

an event, and honestly, what if you don't want to hug certain people? If I could Irish-

exit out of every life situation, I would. Meetings, funerals, sexual encounters—that's

my preference. Unfortunately, there would be no Irish exits out of this particular soiree.

Just when I thought things couldn't get more uncomfortable, the birthday girl

suggested a game of Twister. I glanced at Dolan and realized things were about to get

delightfully homoerotic. Karen spun the dial of the Twister board and watched as Dolan

and I stretched and rubbed against each other. It seemed a bit voyeuristic for her, and

the homosexual undertones far outweighed the awkward silences between each spin

(at least for me). In what I'd later describe as my favorite moment of the evening,

Dolan collapsed on me, and before any other games could be suggested, Karen's mom

invited us upstairs for cake. As Dolan and I decided it might be time to call it a night