The day it dawned on me that I had lost my fiancé, my best friend and my job was the day that I realized I needed a gay.

As far as epiphanies go, this one was a whopper.

Rounding the corner into my twenty-ninth year on the dance-floor of life, I ran out of fresh moves. I was dressed-up with nowhere to go. No dance partner, no best friend to hold my clutch while I pee, and no job to sober-up for in the morning.

When you stop spinning and realize that not only is your heel broken and your hair tangled, but so are your relationships and professional aspirations, it's time to call for reinforcements.

Born and raised in the big top circus of San Francisco, you'd think I would've had a gay counterpart many times over by now. In fact, I don't know how I've made it this long without one. Crossing the intersection of 18th and Castro as a peanut, I once saw a man playing the electric keyboard on the street corner. Wearing a pink tutu. "Mom, how come the man is wearing a tutu?" I ask, reasonably – for a five year old.

"Types. There are all sorts of Types" she says. And to this day, anyone who is a little different in any way bears the title. Growing up,"Types" was my normal.

It wasn't until I went off to college that I learned that the kind of open-mindedness and acceptance I was exposed to was rare. A man wearing a pink tutu, holding another man's hand, or raising a child together was no more extraordinary than being brought-up by a single mom and a gaggle of her single-women friends. A little cub in a lion's den of out-there, no tolerance to Zero Tolerance thinking women.

It's hard to believe that I escaped the freak-show without a gay.

And now, here I am, hard-up, and smack in the middle of a pity-party with no Jack to love // hate me, make me laugh // cry, or cut me loose and rein me back in.

As an only child, there is a gaping chasm in my life where a sibling should be. I didn't have the "Oops, I microwaved your favorite Barbie and when your face melts into a puddle (like Barbie's), I feel bad and get you a tissue to wipe your tears" experience. I never had that love // hate kind of love. In the fantasy land of my mind, my Jack and I love each other unconditionally – in good times and in laughably bad; for better, or for – it couldn't possibly get any worse.

It's like when you have one of those Eat, Pray, Love, middle of the night awakenings; one of those Ah-hah! Oh no! moments when you just know you're speeding down a collision course headed straight for a marriage to the right man for the wrong reasons. Or when your best friend, who you thought would let your climb up her body and step on her shoulders to reach the top – grabs you by the perfectly tousled ponytail as you curl your last finger around the last rung – and pulls you to the ground. And when you're lying belly-up, lets her stiletto drop. Stabbing you in the boob.

My Jack is someone who'll take me by the hand, dust me off, and lace me up for round two. He's someone who can inspire the totally out-of-left-field, hold your crotch, church laughter when things couldn't be scarier.

He's my one-phone-call person, who rushes over to help crack the code of the cryptic text my boss sent at the borderline-inappropriate hour of 8:41 p.m.

We'd be as thick as thieves if we ever actually did anything about anything, but instead, we're as thick as gossip girls; the say-anything, unabashedly judgy, completely self-indulgent kind. He lets me totally spiral-out to the darkest, naughtiest abysses one minute, and then – thankfully – makes me accountable for being a decent, happy human the next.

These are the reasons I – heck, every girl needs a gay.

I don't quite know what I might have to offer in return (other than be the hag to his fag, the Jill to his Jack, the peas to his carrots; a dear, good friend) but I'm sure we'll figure it out. Because if ever I needed you, it's now.

So, are you there Jack? It's me.. Jill.