What's a man to do, I ask you, when his own mother is more accepting of his lycanthropy than his homosexuality? I'll tell you what I do: absolutely nothing. (I'm really a laid-back kind of guy, despite that werewolf thing.) Maximillian Jean-Baptiste Montague, at your service. But please, call me Max. I write a syndicated column—To The Max—offering advice to the romantically challenged, and I think I'm doing pretty well for myself. Yet I can't seem to find the backbone to stop my mother from setting me up on blind dates of the female variety. Go figure.

     I do my best to get along, not cause any trouble, and keep my life on an even keel. But right now somebody's rocking my dream boat, and I don't like it. Not one little bit. My longtime live-in lover Richard is coming and going without explanation. Amy Rose, a wannabe lover from my past, is back in town, and she's brought her nephew, Morgan, who is making a play for my Richard—why does no one see that but me? And on top of all that, my mother is dating a homophobic minister, and she wants to "cure" me. Can life get any worse?

 
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     I was eighteen and gay and working on prom night, a Cinderella without a prince, when a vision appeared in the coffee aisle: He was wearing a short, black skirt, a pale cream shirt that exposed his bare midriff, and upon his feet were a pair of very pink, very high stiletto heels. And he was my very own high school wet dream, Rob Marshall! Whodathunkit?

 
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