From the archives...

This is ancient history: February 1998, a month before moving into the basement apartment that has (with two years' ill-advised suburban exception) served as my longest-running home on earth. The cited prospective BF would be Mr. Christopher R. Gagnon; though at the time of writing I had no clue what had become of him, as he had simply stopped responding to my calls and emails. (I reconnected with Mr. G—— years later, purely by chance, at a sex party in Chicago.) For the invented details of his defection I just borrowed back several years for the more interesting story of Mr. Jonathan Westog of Philadelphia, Pa., who terminated our fledgling relationship with an "Ew, cooties!" phone call—he claimed I had given him chlamydia, when in fact a quick clinic visit and urethral invasion showed I had ever been clear thereof.

The second S-not-B would be Mr. David M——, with whom I used drunkenly to cruise the bars every Friday night in search of other playmates. We were fuckbuddies, namo.

This was actual correspondence, but I forget who this "nephew" was who asked the question. Possible Mr. R. Michael H——, late of Philadelphia/

Finally, I'm fairly certain the cited 'snark' is a Dodgsonian one; this whole piece is in the same meter as "The Hunting of the Snark". And in 1998 I'm not sure the word had yet been seized and forced into uncountable servitude to mean 'sarcasm'.

Q: How’s it going with your SBWWTSD? [Serious boyfriends with whom to settle down] Let me guess: It’s not.
A: Since you ventured a guess and since, as guesses go,
Yours was not an adventuresome one,
I hasten to answer—I want you to know—
That this settling down is no fun.
It entails every manner of mannered discourse
And eschews any flippant remark
And such pains it exacts—oftentimes with brute force—
At the merest allusion to ‘snark’!
Its grandest of pleasures is sitting around
Watching movies on cable TV
Between which soirées the adherent is bound
To the phone, should the caller be he.
Of the two SBWWTSDs
Of whom I apprised you of late,
The former—and S-er—with drear and disease
I appear to have driv out of state:
So his voicemail recounts, with alarming amounts
Of non-sequitur, malapropism,
And imprecise diction; yet nothing but fiction
To explain what engendered the schism.
By all gods does he claim, with no semblance of shame,
That I gave him the crabs and the clap,
Also genital warts, and various sorts
Of phallo-transmissible crap;
When the truth of the matter, I humbly submit,
Was that this, my so-so-called SB,
Was loath to consider, hard-pressed to admit
Ownership of more porno than me.
Either that, or perhaps he was just ill-equipped
To trim his toenails with his teeth,
And seeing me do so, his bonhomie slipped,
Exposing rank envy beneath.
Of the latter SB, there is none such as he
To ensure my tumescence of tool;
I shall never find glut of his succulent butt
(Emphasis on both ‘suc’ and [Fr.] ‘cul’).
And in fact, if I’m right, it was just Friday night
He and I made our last escapade—
What began with small sips and with Freudian slips
Found conclusion in triumph and trade:
For as daylight drew nigh, my S-non-B and I
Found ourselves ’midst an ocean of men,
One of whom we conveyed to my rooms where we made
Him shoot gallons from kitchen to den.
And this only after our previous plan,
Which involved 13 men and a goat,
Was dismissed when the lithest and horniest man
Found a horn firmly lodged in his throat.
In short, dearest nephew, my SD at last
(Which my mother and you oft implore)
Will most likely be someone of equally vast
Appetite, like, for instance, a whore.