Tonight I went out to dinner with my friend UrbanPlanner and his new Taiwanese boyfriend. UrbanPlanner and I used to date; we met over the Internet when he was in grad school in Atlanta, and it’s sort of my fault that he wound up looking for jobs up here and subsequently moving up to the area. Shortly after he moved up here, I told him I just wanted to be friends. You’re not my type, but welcome to the neighborhood.

Anyway, UrbanPlanner has become one of my best friends, and tonight, I, the guy I used to date, and the guy whom the guy I used to date is now dating had dinner in Chinatown. It felt kind of weird — I kept imagining what was going through UrbanPlanner’s mind; it was probably something like, “Cool, I’ve slept with both of my dinner companions.” But we’re talking about gay men, so it’s not like that’s anything to write home about.

UrbanPlanner’s boyfriend took us to a Malaysian restaurant. We didn’t order pork, because I’m Jewish and I try to keep kosher. (Strangely, I won’t eat pork or ham, but I have no problem eating bacon or sausage. Then again, I fuck guys, so it’s not like I’m getting a gold star anyway.)

Afterward, the boyfriend innocently suggested that next time, I should take them on a cultural experience.

Which means what, exactly? The Second Avenue Deli?

I don’t want to play the role of cultural ambassador, primarily because if I do it, I’m going to have the entire Twelve Tribes of Judea telling me to sit up straight and not bite my nails and blaming me for not being a fount of Judaical knowledge.

And to UrbanPlanner’s boyfriend, I will always be Uberjew.