Posts Tagged ‘ gay dating ’

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?”

EXCUSE ME?

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.

Sheesh.

2010
11/13
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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.

2010
08/28
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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.

OH NO!

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?

2010
08/23
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Big Hunk: A Missed Connection

I’ve never filled out a missed connection on Craigslist because I never ever felt like I connected with someone that I didn’t follow through getting to know and later getting rejected by/rejecting. Once someone wrote a missed connection about me:

Around Midnight on Monday/Tuesday – m4m – 27

I was driving a black car and (both times when I passed you as you were walking down the sidewalk) I noticed that you had turned around and were looking my way…

The ad goes on to describe me and that’s how I know it’s for me.  But see, I didn’t like this guy that thinks we connected.  Really, I was waiting on the corner and I thought Jim’s girlfriend had passed me without picking me up.  Annoyed, I turned around and looked at the car that passed me the first time slowly passing again.  Maybe she didn’t know it was me.  I smiled and gazed into the window, only it wasn’t even a girl driving, some guy.  I had accidentally flirted, but he thought it was love at first drive-by.

So I never wrote him back.

But it’s got me thinking. There was a time in college, when I opened my mailbox and there was a candy bar inside.  The brand was “Big Hunk”. On a post-it note stuck to the back said “Are you gay? I just want to know if I have a chance.”

I was in the closet and no one knew I was gay and I was depressed.  I imagined my soul mate in the candy aisle, picking the perfect treat to declare his love with. Mr. Goodbar? No. Good & Plenty? Nope, not quite right. Chunky bar? He giggles. No way. And then the clouds shift and the sun lights up the winner. Big Hunk.  Yes.

So I ran up to my room, ripped open the Big Hunk, and ate it, crying.  Mostly crying, though, because Big Hunk is an endlessly chewy honey flavored nougat that you regret as soon as you bite into it.

So now that I’m a BIG OPENLY GAY HUNK, I’m ready for you, secret admirer. Find me again, and let’s go buy Kit Kat Bars together. Or we’ll get twix bars, only we won’t split them the normal way. I’ll put half of one in my mouth and you bite off the other half. Resulting in a Lady and the Tramp type kiss. Hot. And there’s two so we can do it twice.

Maybe I don’t love men: I just love chocolate.

2010
08/18
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A Little Pee Trickled Out/One Night Stand

I was out with my bud Jim (see “Heterosexual Boyfriend”) at this club with a fifty-fifty gay and straight crowd. As in some gay and some straight, not all bi. Well, that’s debatable.

Yeah, so we’re at this bar, and in walks Jim’s girl.  Only Jim doesn’t dance, so I do him a solid and fling her around the dance floor a bit.  Now I love to jive as much as the next ‘mo but I generally have more fun if my pelvic thrusts are directed at a more masculine recipient.  I spot a cute guy sitting at the bar and my show began.

I know, a little trashy, but you try being a prude after a few shots of SoCo.  I think he’s interested.  II smell more like petunias than a man! abort my charity dance-off with Jim’s girl, only to see my latin hunk get up to start dancing as I leave. Now he is putting on a show for me. I cringe just a bit, because you never who you’ll meet in a nightclub. Take what happened a week earlier:

Guy introduces himself.  We make witty observations about the room/the bartender/the people/our clothes/everything really.  I decide that he’s normal enough to be a candidate for Next Top Boyfriend–the reality show disaster that is my life. Then, he bends down and sniffs my armpits, commenting, Yeah, I want your man-stench all over me tonight.

As if! I smell more like petunias than a man.

So I’m skeptical of Juan, that’s his name, but he’s great. He likes my moves. Well, I like (why can’t I think of anything) YOUR moves! I know, not my greatest work. He asks for my number, This is no place to chat.  You’re here with your friends, and I’m here with my friends, but let’s definitely get together. I get a text: I mean it. Let’s meet up. Yeah, he’s a total Betty.

His words are a bit ambiguous. Meet up. Does that mean booty-call or  candle-lit dinner?.  He calls me up. I’m so glad you called. We engage into some easy banter about our lives and what brought us to that club that night. It’s now or never, so I go for it. So. Do you wanna grab a drink somewhere or do you want  to get a bite? Juan doesn’t hesitate: I definitely want to have dinner with you, he says.  He means it. Definitely, he said.

How I feel...

We make pleasant conversation at a quaint little restaurant. He’s effortlessly himself, and I’m my best me. He filled every silence with delicious eye contact, and slow, seductive smiles. And every time he flashed those pearly whites at me, I felt a little pee trickle out.  A good sign, I think.

Two hours later, the thought of it being over was unbearable. So I said it: I don’t want this to be over. Neither did he.  So we went to a lesbian bar.  My idea–I love the ladies (Ode to Women) and I don’t need to compete with muscular go-go boys in thongs. Nothing could go wrong…

Just after we’d ordered our double-pints of beer, four of my closest friends stumble into the bar. I had no clue they’d be here, I promised.  Now I’m the crazy date that brings his friends.  But he doesn’t mind.  He’s great with them.  He’s quick-witted, and doesn’t even look twice at Mark (the hot one).  I don’t want it to be over, but we don’t have much intimacy in the lesbian Cheers bar (Sometimes you DON’t wanna go where everyone knows your name).  I have a romantic idea.  A walk through the cemetery. He loves ghosts and stuff, and I love getting kissed under the stars: a win-win situation.  It’s raining outside but it’s just enough to be fun.  We’ve made it to the entrance when the friendly drizzle turns violent. We’re drenched and we happen to be a block from my house. I didn’t plan it, I swear.

So we run to my house. We’re down to our undershirts and we’re sitting on the couch and I’m loving that no disaster can seem to ruin this date and then he kisses me.  Then we do a little more than that. A lot more than that. Right on the couch.  When he clears his throat, I panic.  He’s about to speak. He wants to know how come I don’t have any blinds in the living room, and if what we just did was visible to the street. Whoops.  So I grab his hand and lead him to my bedroom. But I didn’t have a bed yet, only an air mattress on the ground. Now you may not have realized this but I’m a stud. Halfway through, we popped it.  Don’t stop, I’ll buy a new one.  We laughed, we cuddled, we made love. It was beautiful.

The sleep was delightful but it lasted just four hours before enough air escaped that the bed was useless.  I had broken every dating rule in the book (even made a few new entries), and I wanted the morning to go right.  He’ll be thirsty, he’ll want his clothes, he’ll regret what we did. He’ll think I’m ugly in the morning. So I jumped out of bed, waking him up.  He smiles.  How beautiful it is when someone’s first conscious reaction to you is a smile! I fill a glass with orange juice and bring it to him, but he’s fallen back asleep.  When I get back in the bed, he wakes, knocks over the juice that I set next to him on the floor. Why is there a glass of juice right there? Sorry, I thought you’d want some juice. He laughs. We laugh.  I don’t know why I was so stressed. Juan relaxes his head backward but it hits the floor because of the air situation. Ow. He laughs. We laugh. Well, there’s the couch.  We cuddle on the couch and it’s so nice.  I have this hexagonal room, and in the morning the sun hits the couch in a beautiful way.  So there we were, together, being kissed by the morning sun, and held by each other. We talked for two hours straight before he had to make a call.  I’m quitting my job, he said. Today’s my first day, but I’d much rather be here. After that, the cuddling became a lot more than cuddling.  Right on the couch. With no blinds.  We remember, this time. Then it hits me. The shower. How fun!

But there isn’t really a classy way to say, I wanna bang you in the shower. So I just grabbed his hand and led him to the shower. Basically, I’m Jeff Stryker.

Now it was five o’clock and the next night and we had spent almost a full 24 hours with each other. Our “date” was over.  We went a whole two days without texting/calling each other. And so I sent him one that said, How are you?.  No response for a day, and then just one word. Good.  Nothing for another week, until I wrote, I just thought of you when I watched Dawn of the Dead the other night. Nothing for a couple days, then, Yeah, I love that movie.

I texted him back immediately after that message. No response. Ever. I don’t get it. Did my hair get flat? Did I stumble into some bad lighting?  Juan was my match, I was sure of it. It was such a short amount of time with him, but I’d never felt so great.  Of course, everyone who hears this story always says “Duh..you gave it up on the first date!” Screw them all.  It’s damn near impossible to resist a wet latin hunk in your living room.

2010
08/15
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The Heterosexual Boyfriend, or Good Times at the Internet Cafe

Basically I wanted three things when I moved to the city: a sexy boyfriend, an amazing job, and a group of trendy city friends.  On Day 1 of Mission: Good Life, I popped in to the internet cafe across the street.

I strut up to the counter and there’s no one there.  I stand there, frustrated, when the clerk appears from the back.  Sorry if I–I look to his lips as he speaks the words. He’s chewing and he has to swallow and lick his lips before continuing to speak. It’s like slow motion.  As he mouths the words, the little freckles on his cheeks dance. This guy is hot–kept you waiting.

No, it’s quite alright, I pause to look at his name tag, Jim.

Jim sets me up on a Dell and as I’m pecking away furiously, I remember my pact with myself.  Sexy boyfriend.  I look up at the counter. He’s staring intently at his computer screen.  I could be his Mac. I’d love it if he put his floppy disc in my hard drive (Sorry, couldn’t resist!).

I nobly decide right then. No more. No longer shall I shy away from making the first move.  I march up to the counter but all I’ve got is a whisper: I was wondering if you like jazz? He does. Great–I just moved here, and I’ve heard that there’s great jazz clubs in the city. He knows of them.  I flash him my flirtiest eyes, and he doesn’t break eye contact. I continue, I think you seem really, ya know, um, great. Do you wanna go check one out sometime? He agrees. HE AGREES! Celebration, right?

Only I didn’t have his phone number and we didn’t make specific plans.  The next day, he’s not there so I work on another part of the pact: amazing job.  I print out my resumes and a few job leads, and stir up a convo with the counter girl.  She’s the manager, and ends up offering me a job.

The next day, I go into my new job at the internet cafe, and I’m working with Jim.  He thinks the situation is hysterical. Yesterday you were my customer, today you’re my coworker. As we huddle over the same computer, our forearms brush and I’m giddy.  That’s all it takes for me, really.  Who needs sex–a good forearm now and then is sublime. I mention the Jazz club again, and he’s all about it.

So I went shopping. Got a pedicure.  Applied a facial mask. Trimmed my facial hair. Trimmed my…nevermind. I smeared on a layer of deodorant, waited ten minutes, and then smeared on another layer of deodorant.  Just in case.

And when I meet him he says, Oh is it alright if my girlfriend joins us?

Girlfriend?

It took every ounce of restraint not to slap him.  How could this guy not realize that this was a date? Especially after we’d practically been intimate (remember the forearm?).

He and his girlfriend fight. She doesn’t want to go to a jazz club. We do. They break up. Seriously.  It had been coming a long time, and apparently a little Miles Davis was the last straw.

It’s just us two and we have an incredible time.  I think that I’ve made an incredible friend. Only the next day, he asks if I would go to dinner with him. I’m puzzled, Dinner?, and I show it. He says, I’ve just never met anyone like you before.

WHAT?

I don’t know what I’m doing.  I’m at a fancy restaurant eating dinner with a straight guy.  That’s a no-no.  I’ve got to get a grip. The waiter comes over to the table and I smile at him. Taking my cue, he asks if I work out.  We flirt. I’m giving Jim a taste of his own medicine. As soon as he walks away, Jim is angered. How dare that guy hit on you in front of me? What if we were dating?

Well, we’re not, are we?

The next day Jim calls me, and says he’d purchased some great lamb, and that he’d like to cook dinner for me. I think, If he secretly IS gay then this is the third date and we’ll have sex. If he’s not, I get to eat some really great lamb. It’s a no-brainer; I race over to his house. We drink wine. Then he says, let’s take a walk on the beach.

WHAT?

We walk on the beach and mostly there’s a beautiful silence. I’m starting to fall for this guy, and I don’t like it one bit. I know better than this.  When we get back to his house, he has a surprise.  He whips out his….

…guitar (gotcha).  And he starts playing jazzy chord progressions. I’m in love.

I wake up on his couch, we’ve passed out together in a lovely threesome of Straight Guy, Gay Guy, and Guitar. When I stir, he jumps up, apologizes, and runs to his room. I’m left straddling the guitar and imagining what could have happened.

We continue seeing each other every day, and I still can’t figure out how to get him in the sack. He had to be at least bisexual, so what was the problem?  We’re out at our favorite bar and this guy will not stop staring at my man.  Jim notices him, walks directly over, and introduces himself.

They shake hands, only the guy doesn’t let go of his hand. Jim doesn’t notice, or likes it.  I have to commend the little ‘mo for his chutzpah.

You’ve got soft hands, he says. And he raises Jim’s hand to his lips and gives it a little peck. Jim freaks out. He slams his beer down, and he shouts DUDE, I am NOT FUCKING GAY. Back off. Lil ‘Mo: That’s okay, we can call it whatever you want.  Just come back to my place. Jim: No, dude. Be cool. Lil ‘Mo: What is wrong with you? You’ve got serious problems.  You can’t just lead someone on like that. And Lil ‘Mo prances off angrily.

Jim grabs the stool next to me. Can you BELIEVE that guy? he asks, angrily.  But I’m angry too.  He led that ‘mo on just as he led this one on.

And then he opened up.  I really am straight. Just. I really crave sexual attention.  The thought of having sex with a man repulses me, but when a gay guy hits on me, I can’t help but feel…good. I know it’s bad.  I hope I’ve never done anything like that to you.

We hugged, and that was it: we were best friends. No more sexual tension. No more confusion. He’s got a new girlfriend now. I’m still “dating”.

2010
08/13
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Mister Gyro

It started out right.  I’m sipping my amaretto on the rocks and this guy comes up to me.  We’ll call him Gyro. Gyro says, God, you’re cute.  I like it. It’s okay if a hot guy says it, but absolutely vile if an uggo attempts the same.  My galpal tells me to give folks a chance.  Everyone has flaws, she says, it’s only after you really get to know them that you realize how great they are. So I gave him a chance.

I let him walk me home and gave him a little peck good night.  Nothing too heavy…just a lingering smooch. Okay! A little bit of tongue. Just the tip.  I picked up a couple of tickets to a movie premiere–I wanted him to know I was classy.  We went, and it was nice.  He was normal.  He suggested that since I bought the tickets, he’d pay for our meal.  He drove us to Subway.  SUBWAY!

Not the best food on a dateNow I’m no snob, but Subway is no place for a first date. A lot can go wrong. I could order a footlong and he may only want a six-incher. I could drink a diet coke and he could be one of those anti-soda people.  And I’m not about to scarf down a huge sandwich on a date, and then smell like onions for the rest of the night.  I ordered a cookie.  Then it was his turn to order: an oven roasted chicken sandwich. He scarfed down his footlong, while I pecked at my cookie.

I should have known then.

Date number two–he picks me up and we go to the movies.  A triple date with two other couples. As we walk away from the theater he jerks his hand free from his pocket to put it around me.  As he does this, a little slip of paper falls out.  I stoop to pick it up. I read it: Buy One Get One Free Footlong Sandwich at Subway.  Weird. This guy must really like subway. He quickly puts it back in his pocket.

Date number three–I suggest a classy martini bar.  I’m still trying to turn him into my ideal man.  I go, and a gorgeous, sophisticated man hits on me.  I smile and put my arm around Mr. Gyro as I thank him for his compliment.  I long for the sophisticated guy.  Mr. Gyro asks if I’m hungry, and I almost shout, NO! Date number three means sex, and I want to taste his tzatziki sauce, not the honey mustard left on his goatee. He walks me to my door, but he says goodnight. I reply, Goodnight? He explains, I’ve got to work in the morning. What, he couldn’t stay up for two more minutes? I’m no stud.

Date number four–I’ve decided that if I don’t put my shawarma in his gyro tonight, then it’s over. He picks me up and we go to his friends house…a gorgeous, lakefront, penthouse.  It’s classy. They all have great taste in wine, and I make an effort to participate in the conversation–How did you all meet each other?

Oh, well we all frequent the same Subway.  Mondays you get half off a footlong, so we would all be there at the same time.

SUBWAY, again!  At the end of the night he takes me home. Sorry we couldn’t be alone tonight. Four dates, no sex!  I knew I should have rubbed some tuna on my neck before going out that night.

I went out, foolishly, to the same bar where we met, and of course Mr. Gyro walks in and sees me chattin’ up some buff papi named Vicente.

He walks right up. Oh so you don’t like me anymore, then? And he walks away. I explain to Vicente who can’t understand me–we went out for three weeks and there was no sex. And I feel like a monster.  But, but he and his friends have this weird obsession with subway.

Vicente nods and puts his hand on my inner thigh.

Fail.

I go home, alone.

2010
08/12
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Dating Disasters
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Have you seen that episode

of the ‘Bunch where Jan Brady can’t land the hottest boy in her school: Clark Tyson.  It can make me cry, really.  Just picture it: she sneaks away with a bowl of lemons and scrubs her face with them to try and acid-away the ugly, only to burst out crying in the middle. That’s good stuff right there. She ends up being so frustrated with her life that she invents her own boyfriend, George Glass.  George Glass, as Jan describes, is the ideal man: tall, dark, handsome.  He carries her books in the hallway and her tray at lunch.  That’s all I want, too.  Where’s my George Glass? I’m exactly like Jan Brady

Okay. I haven’t taken a lemon to the face yet (well, once I used an avocado half…be warned, try a small test area first) but I have had more than my fair share of disasters.

Hopefully, you’ll (whoever you are) read my little stories and laugh at my misadventures, or find some sort of appreciation for the greater tragedy of it all.  Whatever your fancy–be entertained.

2010
08/12
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