Flakes ... And I Ain't Talking Snow

Snowflakes are special. No two are alike, I am told.

Gay Flakes, though, well... they are all the same. They may look different, but trust me. They are all the same.

Now, keep in mind: Gay Flakes is not the name of your latest and favorite brand of breakfast cereal. (Although it would probably would be quite tasty and would probably have a useless toy in the box.)

Gay Flakes are actually a quirky, little breed of men. (And I do mean little. ZING!)

Gay Flakes are a group of men who you may have a great first date with, only never to hear from them again. Don't confuse these men with Straight Flakes, where you may have had a subpar date and they forget to shave before the date. Gay Flakes are more dapper. It must be all that shiny packaging in the cereal aisle.

Gay Flakes are that smiley, happy, flirty, cute, group of guys. They say great things. They create and hold conversation. They talk the talk. Great talk. The walking of the walk, well... not so much.

We all know the type. You may even be this type. And it's ok. I am sure there is a support group for you.

However, the truly disappointing aspect of these flakes is that we will never see or hear from them again. They disappear. Much like snow. And perhaps, like snow, they have melted away? The beauty of the snow fall, which only lasted a few hours, has come and gone. Some snow plow came barreling down and pushed them all away.

I'd like to say that's true. It's not. Gay Flakes are not affected by weather. (Although, when summer comes, good luck finding a Gay Flake who isn't in his speedo and away on Fire Island. ZING!)

Gay Flakes are simply a breed of men who just LOVE you on the first date. "Oh, we have to do this again! Are you free tomorrow?!"

"Um . . . sure . . ."

And then the text the next day. "I'm going to have cancel - I feel like crap and I'm getting sent home from work..... I'm so sorry!!!!! :("

Sick. The "I'm sick" line. I used that when I was 23. We've all grown up since then. But, whatever, I take it in stride.

He's not a Gay Flake. Not him. He's perfect. He won't melt away.

He even wrote after the initial text that, "I will make this up too you." Sure, he doesn't know the proper use or spelling of the preposition "to." But, he can't be a Gay Flake. He may not be smart, but not a flake.

But he is. The texts become fewer and fewer. "He's just sick," I say.

Now, at this point I have had one too many Egg Nog boilermakers (I'm not sure if this is such a thing, I just make stuff up.) But, I am so determined that he is not a Gay Flake at this moment, that I will say anything to myself. "Men really are great. This guy is proof." This is my "Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus" time.

Sure, Christmas is coming, and this is the time when all gays hibernate and commingle with any male they can find through March, so my chances of finding a live one to date for months on hand have to be good, right?

Sadly, I was never a good hunter. I didn't bag a live one this time. Besides, I never looked good in an orange hunting vest or a John Deere hat. Sorry, Ashton Kutcher.

With my hunting skills deteriorating by the minute, I was blindly aware of the reduced interest from him in the texts. He makes a plan to see me on Sunday, but the follow up is rather lacking.

"When? Where?," I say, much like a lost Red Riding Hood. We agree on Sunday, but the details are still firmly lacking. I hold hope. The first date was extraordinary. Without going into detail, his flirtation was felt all the way from three counties over.

Finally, I ask on Saturday, "are we still on?"

To which the text message replies, "Yes!!" What an energetic and non detailed answer! But I take the enthusiasm of the agreement and run with it.

Sadly, "yes!!" was the last I ever heard from this little Gay Flake. He melted. Or was sucked into that black hole we heard about on the news. Either way, Gay Flakes burn bright and fade fast. So, appreciate them for the novelty of their smiles, their earnest view, their eagerness. Don't fall for it, though, because they will likely be gone just in time for another hunting season to begin.

And I'm huntin' wabbits, next time.