The Heterosexual Boyfriend; Oh God, not again!

My gaydar detector is either ultra-sensitive or it simply does not work (see The Heterosexual Boyfriend). After my cowardly exodus from the absolutely perfect ballet dancer, I went out to my neighborhood bar to have a burger and a chat with the bartender.  I never go there to meet people because there simply aren’t ever any young gay guys in there.

So I ordered my burger, and I finished my 1/2 lb. burger, french fries, and salad in fifteen minutes.  Yeah I’m a fatty. And I was still hungry.  Maybe it was because I was so sad about the whole dancer situation.  So I ordered cheese fries.  And another beer.  The bartender sees that a cute guy sits down next me (I guess I am more into fried potatoes than men), and introduces us.  Now that’s a good bartender.

His name is Angelo, he’s puerto rican, and he is sexy.  Sheesh, he is sexy.  And he smizes.  You know like Tyra Banks says on America’s Next Top Model.  Smiling with your eyes. Smizing.  Okay, I’m embarassed to know that.

I no longer need to eat my fries, because I’m having a wonderful time with Angelo. We have a lovely chat and part ways without exchanging numbers.  I don’t really mind, because I’d had enough dating for a week.  Two days later, I’m keying into my apartment door and Angelo walks by with his puppy. Aww, you and your puppy are so adorable! I emphasized the “you”.  Because I wasn’t really looking at the puppy. Yep.  He grins, and he smizes, and he says, What are you doing tonight? Let’s go out again!

So I met him at our bar.  Because goddammit, I’m going to find my soul mate! We’re chatting, and right off the bat he says, “Oh gosh, what’s wrong with us? Why can’t we land girlfriends?”


Now I don’t strut around in a pink tutu or anything, but it’s definitely clear that I’m gay. I mean, I bat my eyes more times a minute than a butterfly flaps its wings.

Oh, I’m gay. I said. And he says, “Oh, okay.” and then we continue with our getting to know you chat. So I guess I have a new buddy. Just what I needed…another weird straight friend.



The Ballet Dancer

Sometimes I go downtown to this dance studio and take hip hop dancing classes. I don 80s-style sweatbands and baggy sweatpants in bright colors and I try to look really ‘hood. It’s a blast.  Usually I say that in class, too (“Oh my god you guys…this is like SO fun!”). I really do have loads of fun, despite my teacher once claiming I danced like a flailing turkey.

Secretly, the best part of hip hop class is the dude that checks me in (or should I say “checks me out”). Between his smile and the flash of his eyes, I become dizzy before each lesson.  “I’m SO glad you decided to dance with us, today.” He says it every time, and to everyone, but I know when he says it to me, he means it.

I was pleasantly surprised when I got on the train last week, and he’s there.  I sit far away because I’m nervous, but I smile at him and he smiles back. I toy with the idea of saying, “I’m SO glad you decided to ride the train with me, today”.  But instead I settle with a simple “hi”.  He recognizes me. We shake hands. Our hands linger. A good sign.  We chat.

I’m on my way to a vigil/martini party for the gay teens that have committed suicide. I throw that in there on the off chance he’s not doing anything and wants to be my date.  He invites himself along.  I’m pleased because I couldn’t find the words to invite him on my own.  “I can’t believe what I’m wearing on our first date,” he says.  Good.  It’s clear.  I like him; he likes me. This is not a friendly outing, we are getting down to business.

We get to the bar, and he’s never been there before. I am surprised because it’s a popular place.  He complains, aloud, why it isn’t more diverse.  He hates the city; I love the city.  It’s also not very crowded.  I guess a vigil-themed martini night doesn’t attract the masses.  I apologize–I’m sorry it’s not more hoppin’ tonight, I say.

Hoppin’? He asks. I can’t believe this is happening.  I’m at the lamest bar with a guy who says “Hoppin'”.

I suddenly feel really old.

Sorry, I nervously reply, if we’re going to get to know each other you should know that I’m not cool at all. And I’ll never be cool. He says, No, it’s sweet. You’re really sweet. Just never use the word “hoppin'” again.

Alright.  It’s good. I like him, and he likes me.

Next, he grabs my hand and looks into me deeply. I want to know everything about you.

He wants to know everything about me?


That’s all I can think to say. Oh. Because, that’s a little much to handle.  We parted ways somewhat smoothly and he called me and texted me all last week.  I hurled excuse after excuse at him.  I don’t know. I just can’t be that intimate with someone that quick.  And I don’t have the wherewithal to say something like, “Slow down, buddy.” or “Let’s just play things by ear”. Instead I just panic when the phone rings and pretend that I’m at work.

It’s a shame, though.  He was one sexy ballet dancer.  And he thought I was slammin’. Err..he thought I was off da hook.  Nope. Still not cool.

Please be my online boyfriend again.

Okay.  So. A while ago I joined OkCupid, the internet dating site.  My roommate (he’s basically my hero) was joining it, and if he had the chutzpah to do it, I knew I could find the courage myself.

I spent hours setting it up.  Guess how long…I’ll give you hint.  More than two.  More than two and less than…seven.  I spent so much time on it, I had to break for a meal because I was starting to get dizzy.  There was so much to think about.  Should I be funny? Should I be mysterious? Should I be modest? Should I flaunt what I got?

Finally I had my profile together, lightly spiced with some wit, and my most flattering pictures.

Lots of old men clicked me. Lots. Sorry–I’d like a viagra-free relationship. Lots of sex-starved men wanted me to be their “big black daddy”. Sorry–I don’t even really know what that means. And lastly, a lot of people sent me messages that were obviously copied and pasted to all of OkCupid. Thank you for your interest. Your letter is being processed and I will reply should I decide to further your application.

I didn’t give up, though.  I started writing to the guys I liked–but most guys didn’t even write back.  I was the picky one, yet I was getting rejected over and over again.  Finally, a cute guy named Mattie wrote.  He read the same things as me, watched the same movies as me, and ate the same things as me.  We would write these long, languid letters back and forth…over a period of six weeks.  But honestly, I wasn’t looking for a pen pal.  I suggested we meet up the next sunday, and have a stroll in the butterfly sanctuary.  Because I’m romantic and all.  He waited until the day after and then wrote “Oh, I didn’t see your message.”  WHAT!   But he was so cute and he was a swimmer and I bet he had powerful thighs and a bulging adams apple.  So I kept with it. We continued our glorious letters but each one made me grow more impatient.  When I hinted at meeting up again, he gave me his personal email address, but that just aggravated me.  Give me your phone number! Meet me somewhere!  I couldn’t bear the thought of emailing for six more weeks on a new platform.  I put my soul into those letter…it was just too draining.  So I never wrote him again and I never logged into the site again.

Until today.

I opened up the site and looked at my inbox.  The same old man junk and one other guy that I’d consider.  He was cute and he was a social worker.  Only his favorite movie was “Not Another Teen Movie”.  Seriously. So I re-read my correspondence with Mattie.  And it was just beautiful.  We wrote of dreams. We wrote of beauty.  He wrote, “I can’t live without my phone.  If I wasn’t able to talk to my grandmother at least a few times a week, I don’t know what I’d do. ”  He was my online boyfriend.  And I want  him back.

Presidents I Want in My Oval Office

Abraham Lincoln, being the only example.


I Want Savage Love, or I Want Old-fashioned Courtship

There’s this trashy bar that I’ve always wanted to go to, because secretly, I’m trashy.  I know I lament about being unable to find love and all…but I have needs, ok? It’s a bar that’s open till 5 a.m. and I’ve never gone because a guy told me, If you go there, you’ll get raped. Scary. But, hmm… The only/first guy I dated here warned me of this place as well:

There’s this guy that goes there every night.  He works for the bar, but he doesn’t get paid.  His job is to lie in the bathtub that’s in the middle of the floor, naked.  Instead of using the urinal, this bathtub is the urinal.  He drinks it up and rubs it all over.

Now, do you see why I had to see this infamous, sordid place?

So at 2 a.m. one night, I found myself at this bar determined to go in and see what all the fuss was all about.  The bouncer stopped me–Not so fast.  It’s leather night–you’re penalty for not wearing leather is that you have to take off all of your clothes. Strip down to your underwear. I did it.  I didn’t even hesitate. Good thing I was wearing some sexy underwear…and that I had that extra glass of Maker’s.

Once inside, there was another guy that didn’t quite fit in. He was the tops. He was a scruffy hipster guy with a tattoo. Who knows what that tattoo was…only a centimeter peeked out from behind his plaid boxer briefs. And I just knew that when it was time to get dressed, he’d be buttoning up his flannel shirt.

I’m drunk, so I was less than smooth with him.  Hiii.

Hey. He walks away.  He was so hot that I couldn’t help myself.  Ten minutes later, I find him again--Heello again, are you having fun?

Yeah. Again he leaves.  No matter who was interested in me, I only saw him.  It was 4:45 a.m. and the bar was closing and still Gabrial was dodging me.  I didn’t understand.  How could one not melt at the site of me in my red bikini briefs?

I walk to the bus stop, alone, and he is there waiting, alone.  So I give it another shot.  Sorry if I creeped you out tonight, I just thought you were so good looking.

I didn’t mind in the slightest.

In the slightest, he says. How cute! His name is Gabrial. With two a’s, he emphasized. I liked that.  I liked it because he could have said that there were no e’s.  An optimist.

I say, I’ve given up on seducing you tonight so let’s just have a nice chat while we wait for the bus. I promise I’ll behave. And so we did. We had a lovely chat. Only I couldn’t really behave.  I ended up grabbing his hand awkwardly and him having to tactfully remove it.  What a mess.

The bus arrived, and I decided to show him the courtesy of not sitting next to him.  I sat ten rows in front of him, on the empty bus.  Only I turned around and smiled at him about every ten seconds.

It turned out that he lived on my block, just around the corner. We’re walking and I want to say something or do something but I’m spent. Suddenly I can’t bear the thought of never seeing his sad emo face again, so I linger at my mailbox, pretending to sort through my mail.  He passes and smiles. I smile.  He stops. I put my mail back in the box and walk over to him. I knew you didn’t really need to check the mail, he says.  I want him to kiss me. Instead, he puts his arm around my waist and pulls me close. “Maybe we COULD have fun tonight?”

I, of course, being the lunatic, nonsensical, irrational man I am, was repulsed by his proposition.  I don’t know.  Like it was exciting when we were in our underwear, but now this is the real world.  We were standing in front of my house.  And I’m holding my mail and I have to work in the morning.  It was as if he was saying, “I didn’t really find anyone I liked tonight, but I guess since I’m THAT horny, I’ll sleep with you.”

So I don’t know what I really wanted out of the situation.  Maybe, to find me and instantly want to court me in a gorgeous old-fashioned way. Or, to be so full of lust that he grabs me right there on the sidewalk and tears my shirt right off my back.  That’s right I want animal passion or I want romance.  Nothing in between.

So I left him on my sidewalk, confused.  He objects, But, in the club, you would never have turned me down?

I’m just tired, I say.

I really am, though.

Love at First Downward-Facing Dog

Okay so I’m pretty good at yoga.  I go to my studio, get blissed out, feel like I’ve spent a little time with God, and afterwards, I absorb this incredible euphoric rush of energy from the universe.  Or maybe I’m just dehydrated.  Yoga is sexy!

Today, I was feeling it before I even started.  I went into class and one of my favorites happened to be subbing; I already knew this class would be amazing. I like to start with a gentle down-dog to loosen up before class.  I peer through my underarm to see this guy putting his mat down next to me.  Now, it’s counterintuitive, but actually I hate when a hottie does yoga next to me.  I mean–“Happy Baby Pose” isn’t my most flattering.

I put him out of my mind, and I had the most amazing practice.  Each sun salutation felt like I was flying. My heart opened, my hips opened, and my leg floated behind my head with ease.

I didn’t notice Mr. Yogi until it was time to do a tripod headstand.  I was able to get up and stay up for fifteen seconds before I had to come down. He relaxed into the pose and stood on his head for a good minute. Which meant I watched him for a good forty-five seconds.  Creepy, I know, but don’t tell me you wouldn’t.  I put him out of my mind again and continued class.  After, I raced out of the room to secure a spot in the steam room.

I like to make it clear that I’m actually there for the steam and not some raunchy porn fantasy, so I immediately launched into a witty appraisal of tonights class. Mr. Yogi thought I was just hysterical, and I liked laughing with him. Still, though, with all of the steam, we hadn’t quite seen each other.

I felt someone standing a little too close as I changed at my locker.  It was him. I looked at him, and for the first time I really saw him.  And while I didn’t quite pee myself, I’m pretty sure a little trickle of saliva came streaming down the side of my face.

When we locked eyes it was like I just took my first sip of an ice cold beer after a long day of work.  And I can tell he’s equally quenched by me.  He’s so interested/interesting.  He wants to know what studio I teach at. Teach. That’s pretty groovy.  He knows just what to say.  We pause and just look at each other, with easy smiles.  We linger in our glance, and his eyes twinkle just a bit.  I can feel mine do the same.  We’re head over heels in love, in just five seconds.  I introduce myself.  Robby, he says.  He doesn’t let go of my hand.  I know that I won’t be the first to break the handshake.  His hands are just … the most.  We reluctantly let go of each other’s hands.

And then just like that, he’s gone.  I don’t really remember him dressing, or packing his bag or anything.  I sit; I can’t stop smiling. He’s my soul mate. I’ve found him.

It wasn’t till a couple hours later, when I was sitting home, alone, that I realized I only knew his first name didn’t have his phone number or address or anything.

I should have grabbed him in a fit of passion. Robby! I would shout. You complete me! And then we would kiss right in the locker room and then we would separate just long enough to make it outside.  Then he’d fling me on his motorcycle and we go racing down the beach.  But we wouldn’t stop.  We’d just keep riding on forever.

But nope.

Oh, Robby/lover.

I need a glass of water, quick.

The Saddest Well-Endowed Stripper in the World

Just two blocks from my house is a gay strip club, where I sometimes go to, well, um, for a good martini.  I’m sorry, I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned that I live in heaven.  But I try not to  go there, actually. Only shady characters hang there. But. It’s two blocks from my house. Just. Did I mention strippers?

Once I stumbled in there on Halloween in my sexy football player costume.  I really was on that night.  Actually, literally on.  I’ll get to that.  Yeah, it was Halloween and I was happy and I was wearing skin-tight footballish leggings with a cut-off football jersey.  Yep, super-gay. The only problem was that I wasn’t the only one on Halloween to think to show a little skin.  Soon, a hot guy in a thong started talking to me and flirting with me and before I knew it, his hand was on my willy, checking if I was wearing a cup. I wasn’t.


Boner alert–ding! ding! ding!

I had to escape…so I hurried through the Halloween Parade to get to the train station but got stopped by endless catcalls: Hey Look! It’s a football player with a fake boner. Only it wasn’t fake. And people would grab at it, thinking it was some kind of strap on, and then look up at me shocked.  Sorry, it’s just really stimulating here. I’m just trying to make it back home so that I can put on some more restrictive underwear.  It was obvious that I wasn’t going to make it through the crowd to the train, so I did what any normal gay guy would do in my situation; I grabbed the nearest shot boy and did a few shots of tequila.  It was then, I realized I could turn my predickament (ew) into a blessing.

So when I stumbled into the strip club, I caused quite the commotion. The hottest stripper was in love with me. He wouldn’t stop saying how beautiful and sexy and interesting I was. And I only had to tip him fifty or so dollars! It was a good night.

Fast-forward to last night.  I was in the mood for a “martini” so I went in to my hot spot.  Men were raining ones and even fives at the stripper on stage.  Then the next stripper, my Halloween guy, comes out. But tonight,  he’s a disaster.

Now, it’s not hard to please a gay man.  Just have abs and wear tighty whities, and I’m all yours.  Bonus points if the tighty whities are under army pants or doctor’s scrubs or something.  But somehow, this stripper only knew how to turn me off.  He walked out with this awful sexual swagger, and just stood on stage.  His underwear, if you could call it that, was simply a string tied around his waist with a flap of foil covering his wang.  Gross.  Let’s not even mention what happened when he turned around. Now, it’s common knowledge that if a stripper comes out in a towel or some kind of garment where his penis is separated from view from a small flap, that you are supposed to tip him and then reach under and feel his, um, martini.

Gross, if you ask me.  I don’t like my martini’s dirty.  Unless you chance upon a virgin gay stripper and you’re first in line and he falls in love with you for it and quits stripping before another guy ever manages to get under there.  But this stripper was no virgin.  He just had this nasty, veteran sex look on his face and stood there trying to will arousal.

No one was interested.  No one. He started to panic a bit. He turned around, confused.  He tried squatting. He tried a side view. A little nipple rubbing. Nothing.  He recognized me and waved. He remembered me. Awkward. I nod, shyly. The icky stripper recognized me, how embarrassing! I mean basically he was inviting the public to come up on stage and masturbate him for a dollar.  I don’t care how good looking you are, that’s nasty. So after a full fifteen minutes he scooped up the shower of one dollar bills on the floor around him…well, two dollars.

By the time he makes it over to me, he is almost crying.  I don’t know what happened. No one wanted to grab it. I instantly feel bad. But I can’t bring myself to reach into his dark abyss.  Next time,  just wear like plain white underwear. Or if you want people to “grab it” then maybe a white towel is in order.  I mean, what is that?, I told him.  The guy next to us puts a twenty dollar bill in his underwear foil contraption and then reaches under.  But not just a quick squeeze, he lingered. He quickly swats the guy away.  He tells me, When I’m on stage it’s okay. It’s such a rush that I don’t even really feel it.  But after, it’s awful. And he’s visibly disturbed. So I chat him up a bit, just to make him feel better. And he does feel better. A little bit too much better, if you ask me.  My hand is on my knee and he standing up next to me.  He decides to lean over to reach something or say hi to someone or do I’m not sure what, because as he leans over his penis rests exactly on my my hand.  I slowly ease my hand free..Maybe the penis is a deep sleeper and I won’t disturb it by sneaking away…no need to hurt its feelings.  But he gets the hint, and I can tell he’s hurt.

He comes back later and tells me he’s decided to quit.  No money in the world is worth this.  He’s going to go to college. Maybe join the football team.

You know I don’t really play football, right?

He’s hurt again. Geez.  Aren’t these strippers supposed to make me feel good?