Let's be a bunch of gay middle-aged men at Sunday brunch!

I’m the large Bloody Mary with ridiculous foliage and added bacon sticking out of the glass. Of course I’m overpriced and don’t have enough vodka to get the job done but will look great on the ‘Gram.

I’m the “subtle” thirst for the hot piece Puerto Rican waiter. He will play along gents, asking what you all got up to last night while reading you for filth in the kitchen. You will tip him heavily.

I'm the tedious argument about which consignment store in Palm Springs has the best mid century modern furniture.

I'm the arch little glances around the table when the chubbiest guy there orders waffles and whipped cream rather than the scrambled egg whites he announced he was going to have.

I'm the discreetly-placed Tampax* in case of shart leakage.

[quote] I'm the arch little glances around the table when the chubbiest guy there orders waffles and whipped cream rather than the scrambled egg whites he announced he was going to have.

I'm the same chubby guy, whispering a request to the waiter. (Side of bacon, please.)

I'm a sweater tied around a neck.

Separate checks. Separate checks!

Jesus, is this what brunch is really like with these type of people? So glad I don’t a) have a group of gay male friends or b) go to brunch ever.

I'm the cheap All-You-Can-Drink champagne that will give everyone a raging headache around 2 o'clock

I'm browsing my phone at the brunch table, smiling to myself, going outside to stand in front of the window, putting on the speakerphone while I hold the phone up to my mouth and gesticulate wildly with my other arm all in plain view of the other diners.

I'm 65 and overweight. My asian boyfriend who doesn't speak English is 38. My friends understand. Now if only Nathan would not bring his fucking annoying lhasa apso, Mitzi, everywhere he goes, I could dig into my bottomless mimosa and pancakes in peace.

I'm the third glass of wine ordered by the tired ass queen who's always going on and on about "having practically given up ALL alcohol" every five minutes.

I'm the 45 minute to an hour wait at ANY brunch place on Sunday. We all sit outside wherever we can, checking our phones and waiting for the moment when our names are called.

Once inside, we talk about what we're going to do today - but we all know, this is it. We're already hung over and this is just going to get us through til 1pm. Then it's home and nap time.

Then the early bird dinner at 4?

I'm the aura of bitterness.

I’m the nearly four year debate on who the bigger star was, Cyd Charisse or Mitzi Gaynor. The same arguments will be made over and over again- only to end in stories about how Gary Cooper fucked both of them with his 10 inch dick. This will trigger each gay to discuss how they wish they had gotten Gary’s 10 incher while wearing a Bob Mackie gown.

I’m the bossy bottom who keeps sending back my eggs because they are practically hard boiled and not poached. My friends know I am insufferable, but I my relationship drama makes them feel better about being single.

I'm the ice cream shop on the way home. Because Sunday is cheat day.

I brought my own bottle of vodka, I'll just have a Clamato.

I’m the phone number you add to your contacts list - with full name because you have four other Steves.

Steve offered you a ride home, but you live three blocks away. More importantly, your ass is closed for maintenance and you just want fried crunchy food.

I'm Datalounge.

No one ever mentions me, but I was the first thing 4 of the 6 looked at this morning when they got out of bed.

I’m Darfur Orphan on Datalounge.

I’m the guy wearing my plug and jock.

I'm Colton, and this is my first Gay Brunch!

I'm nowhere near middle-aged, but I've got a lot of catching up to do!

I'm so glad Gus invited one of his Blacks. I want my message to be one of diversity and inclusiveness.

Pass the mimosas!

R25 The brunch was actually a regrouping after last night’s orgy!

I'm the universal YAAAAS! when the waiter/waitress asks if we want the "Bottomless mimosas"

I’m the horrified, high pitched squeal about Princess Diana’s death.

I’m the figure skating being recorded on all their TVs.

I don't like mimosas. Wine with juice, basically. Your Champagne glass looks like shit after you take a couple of sips (pulp all over the sides). Your bubbles ratio is diluted due to the juice. It's weak as far as alcohol content. You're probably not getting a very good quality of either sparkling wine or juice. Why pay $12 or whatever for something like that.

🍹Careful you don't catch your foot in the hem of your caftan. You've downed a lot of mimosas, babe.

That's why I'm not wearing my caftan at this fine brunch establishment. I've got on my polo shirt, tucked into my pressed shorts (with a belt, of course), and boat shoes (no socks!).

I'm the avocado toast. these bitches will pay $18 to eat me.

Wow, that was freaking awesome. None of that once around bullshit for me. I stuffed myself like a freaking pig, and then went back for seconds. I must have gained at least two ounces.

I'm Tyler. When the waiter splits the checks, I'll pay for Devin's brunch as well as my own. (I borrowed money from Devin three months ago and I'm paying down the loan by buying his brunch.)

I’m the red wine that just spilled down the front of my best caftan.

I’m Datalounge, which is never, ever mentioned.

I’m Benjamin Cohen, crying when my drunk father Andy leans back in his chair forgetting that I am secured to his back.

Caftans are so stuffy and pre-pandemic.

We'll be wearing our trendy prairie dresses and comfy Skechers, and our gay friends will "Ooh & Aah" at the sight of our fabulousness.

R31, not if you’re R30!

🍜 Why there never any Chinese food?

R37 --> R22

[quote]I’m the figure skating being recorded on all their TVs.

Ok, that's hilarious. You win.

Do gays still do brunch?

i'm FOUR OLDER GAYS

I'm the short-shorts showing off a beautifully sculpted ass that I've worked out.

I'm Morton and dale

I'm the trendy man-sandals that show off my masculine feet and toned calves.

R44 Groups of gay men LOVE going to breakfast and brunch.

I’m EVERYONE at the table, who believes our share of the bill doesn’t need to include tax or tip…whatever it said in the menu is what we owe, down to the change, which we meticulously count out of our change purse.

I'm all the names dropped by the important one who works in the entertainment industry.

I'm a REAL group of gay middle-aged men who long ago have sworn off the trendy brunch places in favor of quieter restaurants that serve creative, substantial brunch dishes. We may have a mimosa or two, and our conversation always turns to upcoming vacations, the market, and other scandalous topics. But never politics. There are more republicans among us than you would ever realize.

I'm the weed brownie which fortunately just kicked in.

I'm the young date who gets shade thrown at by all the jealous old queens.

I'm the freshly cut grey hair.

I’m the smoker’s cough and puffiness around the eyes.

I'm salacious references to the hot busboy's ass!

I'm the muscle bear who starts doing queeny dance moves when Kylie comes on the sound system.

I'm the held in fart from the spinach and feta cheese omelette.

I’m the electric slide

I'm Larry. I'm 45 minutes late (as usual). I don't even bother with trying to explain why I'm late. Everybody's already on their 2nd Bloody Mary and has already started to dig into their Eggs Benedict, waffles, etc. I need to flag down the waiter to let him know I still need to order.

I’m the coke boogers and cum farts.

I'm the understanding, and fun laughter, talking about the good old days.

I'm Lindsey, the fag hag. I spend the brunch hour feverishly chronicling our "Sunday Funday" on insta. I just love my boys1 Sometimes I get mistaken for a tranny when we go out to the clubs, but I wouldn't trade my gays for anything (except a relationship with a straight man but that's never going to happen).

I am the Swedish Crepes the lady at the next table is having. I look delicious. The gay fellows keep glancing over at me, and a couple of them discuss they had wished they had ordered me.

I am the table of dykes who ordered nut loaf. We sit and laugh at all the gay men around us getting drunker and drunker. Cheese balls, anyone?

We envy the younger guys on the other side of the dining room.

R67 Eww..no thanks.

I'm Mindy Cohn who is friends with at least one of the guys at the table.

I'm the 45 minute conversation about Pete and Chasten.

I am the crumpled paper towel in the corner of the restroom after being used to turn the door handle.

I’m the bawdy glazed donut joke.

I’m the hole

I'm the six pair of reading glasses that get snapped on everyone's nose when the menus arrive.

I'm the pudgy queen that's the last in the group to keep smoking.

After the entrees are cleared, I declare brightly, "Cigarette course!" and go outside to enjoy a Benson & Hedges.

I'm the loud, derisive falsetto laughter.

I'm Chad. My car's a beater and I'm embarrassed to be seen getting in and out of it. Therefore, my car is parked 3 blocks away from the brunch place. No, haha, I don't need a ride to my car. It's such a nice day, I want to walk to my car. Thanks, though!

I'm the young straight couple who wandered in by mistake, met with hostile glances and hissing sounds. She is pregnant, and becomes the victim of movie lines like "Chuck it down the pan"; "I shoulda given you to Jesus when you was born" and "He has his father's eyes".

He is quite good looking, and when he heads to the restroom he is followed by 4 or five customers, while someone shouts, "Don't drop the soap!".

Soon, men just start leaving the place, murmuring, "It's getting too straight in here".

I'm the dizzy, drunk twink who thinks that the eldergay at the table behind him is famous so I start talking loudly to get his attention (but in all actuality he's a movie prop shop foreman) who takes me to his house that he shares with his elderly parents in Sylmar and fucks me and sends me home in an Uber when I make a snide comment about his horror movie memorabilia. I eat carbs for a week because I really kind of liked him.

[Quote] checking our phones

You know how? Impressed.

I am Cliff and I know my friends here visit DL. We all love the memories of Vivian Vance. We all agree, Frawley calling her a c_nt was mean and undeserved.

You've all got some very odd ideas about what "middle aged" is - Mitzi Gaynor and Cyd Charisse R17? Middle aged men now were born the in 1970s and 1980s not 1930s.

They read the DL though, so of course they know

I’m the large tribal tattoo on 52 year old Gavin’s lower back. He’s deeply embarrassed of me.

I've the contrived hesitation when asked if I want one mimosa or the bottomless mimosas. I then proclaim, "BOTTOMLESS!!! It'lll be good for my scurvy!!!"

I’m the not quite accidental nip slip.

I'm the faded barbed-wire tattoos on sagging biceps.

God, now I'm craving a Bloody Mary.

Keep it coming, bitches!

I'm the universal observation at the table that this place is not as good as it used to be, something's different, but no one can pin down what it is.

I’m the quiche.

I'm the egg white "veggie" frittata. Rice cakes have more more flavor and moisture than I do.

I’m the sugarless syrup ostentatiously ordered to accompany pancakes already slathered in butter.

Also insistence on Sweet N Low for coffee.

I'm the self-hatred left over from "The Boys in the Band" and the ageism of young gays deluded enough to think that they'll be young forever.

I'm the frightening accuracy of this thread.

I'm the decades between the ages their clothing is intended for and the age of its current wearers.

I'm the monotone shoe polish coloration of their hair, all except the one who thinks Grecian gives a more natural result than Just For Men and is now a peachy shade of orange.

[quote] I'm the universal observation at the table that this place is not as good as it used to be, something's different, but no one can pin down what it is.

We all know the reason: hot twink waiter, Tyler, was terminated for using a skimmer on customer debit and credit cards.

Someone has already spoken to the manager about giving Tyler a second chance. Nope.

I'm the Colt Studio model the attendees joke about

I'm all the jewelry.

Rings. Bracelets, an earring or two, some necklaces.

And the word "accessorize!!" to describe it all

I'm the separate checks policy instituted after splitting the bill broke up some friendships permanently.

........

I’m the rich one with a sweater wrapped around my shoulders who says “a million dollars is really not that much money anymore’” while the others unconvincingly nod their heads in agreement.

I'm the word "pussy" bandied about

I’m the moist mussy that’s been blown out.

I'm Todd. I've shown up solo to brunch. Jared is not with me. We've had a knock-down drag out fight ... again.

I'm kind of subdued this Sunday morning. People glance my way but don't ask Where's Jared.

I'm the Bottega Veneta tote with requisite baguette and swiss chard peeking out the top!

I weigh fifteen pounds without the groceries. My owner despises me.

I’m the boss of my ass.

We are the prunish f & m eldercouple at the small table by the wall. We disdain that group of men for being loud, giggling, and sissy. We leave as soon as our tab comes.

I'm the theatrically expressed guilt over introducing Judy to sleeping pills.

R101, that photo perfectly encapsulates the visual state of gay men over 40. So many bad choices, so many men oblivious as to how ridiculous they look. Thanks for sharing...

I'm "I'll have the bottomless mimosas, but put the champagne and juice in separate glasses"

I'm the emergency viagra carried in every wallet.

I'm the distant memory of having a discernible jawline.

I’m the toast to the town

I'm the young flavor of the month twink from a trashy background who thinks he has "arrived" with this group. He is in his "designer" shirt from Nordstrom Rack. Although he's late on his rent and has nothing in is fridge, he'll insist on premium vodka in his Rose Kennedy.

I’m the semi-famous porn star/personal trainer/model/actor with a group of others like me. We all have the kinship of having had bit parts on “Where the Bears Are”. Ever watch that show? No? Well anyway, I’m not eating anything because 1. I have a mysterious stomach/bowel issue 2. Also on rentmen.com at the moment. 3. Have to dance on a pole at a SAD, sad Sunday evening event at a dingy Cathedral City bar. Until then, watch us twerk to Meghan thee Stallion songs.

I’m the couple that orders tons of drinks but insists on splitting the bill evenly since “it all works out.”

A decade ago, one of us was a gentleman caller of Lá Sènatrice a few times. I won't dare tell.

I'm the accusation: LIAR! You said that text was from your mother who needs you to come by and re-set her wifi, and that's why you can't help me pick up the sofa at Ikea.

But you made TWO MISTAKES! One: I saw your phone's passcode is 1 2 3 4! Two: You left your phone at the table when you went to the restroom. Yeah, I looked and saw that text was from some dirty twink who came out of last night's haze to send you an ass pic and ask you to "put daddy's cum in my pussy right now".

Oh you don't like that I looked at your text? How about how I didn't like when you slept with my semi-boyfriend in 1997?

R110 The bearded guy in the middle seems to be the worst offender.