Date #52: Thin Ice

As for that 80 Dates Around the World Lady--

F**k off. I'm fierce and your last name is Cox. I'm not even tacky enough to begin to joke about that. (What are the Cox like in Rhodesia, Jennifer? That's all I want to know.)

Now onto the interesting dates.

Sometimes I am incredibly stupid.

I mean, stupidity beyond the wildest dreams of most Republicans.

The following date is one of those times.

VOICE: Hey gorgeous, feel like going out?

The voice on the other end of the phone was Danny's. Despite my insisting that there was no future for us, he wanted to try at least creating some sort of friendship.

DANNY: So what do you say? Can I take you out?
ME: On a date?
DANNY: Yep.
ME: Danny--
DANNY: I'm picking you up in twelve minutes. Wear cute underwear just in case. See you soon, gorgeous.
ME: Why twelve--

And that was that.

It wasn't that cold out, so I didn't bother dressing warmly. Little did I know Danny was planning a winter outing in the heat of this you-know-global-warming-is-real-because-it's-60-degrees-out December.

Danny showed up dressed like a hot skier straight out of Aspen.

ME: I'm sorry. Are we going tobogganing down the east side?
DANNY: Close.

He took me to the ice skating rink downtown.

ME: Danny, I don't know if this is a good time to bring this up, but I'm really clumsy. Ice skates and I are a disaster equation.
DANNY: Luckily for you, I'm an excellent skater. You can hang onto me.
ME: I'm going to have to.

We put on our rented ice skates. For some reason, no matter how large they appear to be, skates always feel way too small on me. After about ten minutes, the circulation completely cuts off and I end up feeling like I'm skating around on two, frozen stumps.

Despite my initial reservations, I was having a lot of fun. Because of the warm weather it's been harder and harder to get into the Christmas spirit, but ice skating does the trick quite nicely. By the time "All I Want for Christmas" came on I was ready to take to the rink on my own. I told Danny I wanted to try a lap by myself. I had been holding onto him as planned, and people were looking at us as if he was the caretaker, and I was the Rain Man.

Now, why I would want to let go of this really cute guy's really muscular left arm and try to skate around the rink by myself--keeping in mind the huge chance that I would make a fool of myself--is beyond me. I wasn't trying to impress him. I just felt moved to explore my inner Tara Lipinski...okay, maybe more like my inner Brian Boitano.

I let go of Danny and made it halfway around the rink without any problems. Then I hit one--literally. I felt myself losing my footing, and calmly told myself--It's fine, just go towards the wall.

Go towards the wall ended up being avoid the heavy-set man with the three little daughters skating around him (how nice of you to spend time with your daughters...THERE'S A 90% CHANCE THAT IF ANYBODY ON THIS RINK HITS SOMETHING IT'S GOING TO BE YOU!), the seemingly-physically-fit-yet-clearly-past-their-prime elderly couple skating together (awww...GET THE HELL OUT OF MY WAY COCOON COUPLE!), and the semi-Goth teenagers joking around by trying to grab hands and spin around in a circle (I remember when me and my friends used to do stuff like that...NOW GO DO SOMETHING PRODUCTIVE LIKE LOSING YOUR VIRGINITY YOU ADOLESCENT FREAKS!)

Falling makes me nervous.

And I fell--hard. I missed the wall by about three feet and I did one of those brilliant maneuvers where my legs kicked up in the air behind me several times before I landed flat on my chest. I wasn't hurt that bad, but I was utterly humiliated. People were skating around me. I was like C.Brad on the runway with Margaret Cho screaming out orders to all the other models to walk right over me.

Danny skated over.

DANNY: You want to cut this adventure short and go get some hot chocolate?
ME: God bless us, everyone.

So we did just that and had a great time. When we got back to my place, Danny asked if he could come up.

ME: Why? So we can warm each other up?
DANNY: I like the way you put things.
ME: It's already warm enough, and we're trying to be friends, remember?
DANNY: But since that's clearly not going to work out, why don't we try just being random hook-up buddies?
ME: Are you serious?
DANNY: Look, I'll play Scrabble or Monopoly or any other game you want me to play--you just need to dictate the rules.
ME: Oh God, I'm sick of--
DANNY: --Everyone says they're sick of games, but really, they're not. Games are what makes life fun. Now what are you doing for New Year's Eve?
ME: Staring at Ryan Seacrest's hair and wondering why I believe he's straight.
DANNY: I don't think so. I'll be in touch.

Good grief. Where's my little Christmas tree and my broken kite? I made extra hot chocolate at home and pretended it was something stronger. Danny was bad news. Don't ask me how I know, but I just know. And yet, what's more attractive than bad news?

FRIEND: Bad news that works in a porno store.
ME: Exactly.
FRIEND: I say cut ties immediately.
ME: It bothers you that much that he works in a porn store and I have a gut feeling he's trouble.
FRIEND: No, it bothers me that you've fallen in front of him like Sandra Bullock in a tacky chick flick. The porn store and the air of trouble are his strong points.
ME: Maybe he likes that I was vulnerable enough to make an idiot of myself in front of him.
FRIEND: NEVER LEAVE YOURSELF VULNERABLE! Have I taught you nothing?
ME: What's with the shouting?
FRIEND: Sorry. Apparently that's only allowed as an inner monologue when you're yelling at half-dead married people, devil worshipping thirteen-year-olds, and single dads who eat too many Big Macs.
ME: Wow, you were even meaner to them than I was.
FRIEND: That's called my forte. Did you get my Christmas list?
ME: A box of Magnums, liquor, and a tickets to go see Mary Poppins on Broadway?
FRIEND: And make sure they're good seats, whore.
ME: Merry Christmas, Friend.
FRIEND: Merry Christmas, honey.

And Merry Christmas to everyone out there in blog land.

See you next year! :o)

Oh My God, I'm a Hack!

http://www.amazon.com/Around-World-Dates-Jennifer-Cox/dp/1416513159/sr=1-1/qid=1166380174/ref=pd_bbs_sr_1/002-2667587-1101638?ie=UTF8&s=books

Date #51: How We Met

Relationships live or die on one question:

So, how did you two meet?

Let's face it, if you have a bad "how we met" story, your relationship is doomed from the start.

We actually met while Carl here was dancing on the box at Trinket's.
We met through our parents--after they got married.
We met in prison.

So I'm always a little apprehensive when I first meet someone. In my head, I think:

Is this going to be a good "How We Met" story?

Granted, it can just be the usual "set up by friends," "met each other in a coffeeshop," or just something generally lovely like "saw each other across a crowded room"--assuming the room isn't crowded becaused there's a giant circle-jerk going on in the middle of it.

The "How We Met" story of Danny and I was not ideal.

ME: We met in a porn store.
BRIAN: Excuse me?

Okay, let me explain Judge-y Mc-Judgepants, whomever you might be out there. I was at the porn store buying a gag gift Nick's upcoming birthday. I hadn't seen Nick in awhile, and I wanted to get something good for his big day--of course, gay porn came to mind.

There I was, standing in the Gay Gangbang aisle, trying to decide between Frankie's Summer Vacation and Anal Andy when I heard a voice behind me.

SEXY VOICE: Interesting viewing options you have there.

I turned around and saw someone who probably could have made a good living in the porn industry. Instantly, I was worried.

This was not going to be a good "How We Met" story.

BRIAN: So did you do him right there in the smut shop?

Brian and I were decorating the tree at he and Turner's house. I hadn't spoken to Turner since the little incident at the club. He was in his room listening to the Spring Awakening CD I burned for him (I had Brian give it to him and told him to tell him that Brian burned it for--Oh, whatever, I know I'm a loser).

ME: Hardly. We just flirted a little bit.

Actually, I made a some witty comment along the likes of--"What other options are there?" and then proceeded to try and put back good old Andy only to miss and have it fall to the floor. When I reached down to get it my hand caught the top of another DVD and I ended up bringing down four move DVD's, including one that I believe was titled Ass Pirates of the Carribbean.

Hottie helped me pick them up and then introduced himself.

HOTTIE: I'm Danny.
ME: Of course.
HOTTIE: Of course?
ME: Hot guy in a porno store, of course your name would be Danny.
HOTTIE: So when you name your child Daniel you're relegating him to a life spent working part-time in a pornography store?
ME: Wait a second, you work here?

Brian almost dropped the Star of David.

BRIAN: He works there? This keeps getting better and better.
ME: Why are you putting a Star of David on the Christmas tree? Why do you even own a Star of David? You're not Jewish.
BRIAN: It belonged to Scooter. He forgot his Christmas decorations when he moved.
ME: Was Scooter Jewish?
BRIAN: No, but he used to date this Jewish kid--Don't try changing the subject. I'm assuming you took Porny on a date with you?

I did in fact.

We went out to eat after swapping numbers and had a great time, but I just couldn't get past--

ME: --The "How We Met." I mean, he's really great, but the greater he gets, the more worried I get.
BRIAN: I don't really see why.
ME: Brian, let's say one day I adopt kids with this guy. What am I supposed to tell them? I met Daddy in the c**shot aisle at Spanky's? Where, by the way, Little Kevo the Third, he was working behind the counter!

It was then that Turner came out of his room. He was humming my new favorite tune--"Totally F**ked" and wearing nothing but pajama bottoms.

TURNER: Hey.
ME: Hey.
TURNER: Thanks for the CD.
ME: I didn't--
TURNER: Brian told me it was from you.
ME: Brian!
BRIAN: Oh, come on, like he wasn't going to guess. Besides, I'm sick of living in awkward city with Homo 1 and Homo 2 moping around. Can you two just get past whatever it is that got you in this funk. Grab each other's nipples and get over it.

I smiled, Turner smiled. I picked up a Charlie Brown ornament and handed it to him. Healing began.

ME: So how long have you been working there?
DANNY: I love how you avoid saying the name.
ME: The porn store, the porn store, the porn--
DANNY: Okay, chill, we are at a seafood restaurant after all.
ME: Nothing embarrasses me, okay? I'm not being judgy.
DANNY: You're so being judgy, but we'll leave it alone.
ME: So how--
DANNY: Two years, and it's not a bad job. I get just as many crazies in there as I do at my other job.
ME: What's your other job?
DANNY: The adult cinemaplex.
ME: What?
DANNY: I work at Best Buy.
ME: Just as bad.

While finishing up the tree, me and the boys started tossing back and forth bad "How We Met" stories.

BRIAN: ...He was the President of the C.Y.O. that year I tried to join the church and turn straight. If that's not a sign from God I don't know what is.
TURNER: I once met this guy from Myspace.
BRIAN: Please, Turner, it's 2006. People get married from myspace.
ME: I actually met my daschund on myspace and we've been happily cohabitating ever since.

After dinner, Danny and I went to a late night coffee shop for a little more conversation.

DANNY: So clearly you're not okay with this.
ME: I'm just being a little guarded.
DANNY: Believe me, I know about guarded.
ME: It's just that I haven't had much luck with guys lately, and I want to make sure the foundation is solid before I start building the house.
DANNY: Good analogy.
ME: Thank you--not that it's all that original.

He laughed and took a sip of his macchiato.

BRIAN: Okay, best "How We Met" story.
ME: Easy. We both reached for a copy of The Portable Arthur Miller in Barnes and Noble.
BRIAN: I said "Best" not "Saddest."
TURNER: I met someone on a trolley in San Francisco once.
BRIAN: You did not meet someone on a trolley in San Francisco, Nicholas Sparks.
TURNER: I did, too! And I met someone at a cafe in Paris. You're forgetting how well-traveled I am.
ME: What about you, Brian?
BRIAN: I can't beat a Parisian cafe, but I did once meet someone in a rowboat on a lake in August.
ME: You didn't notice he was there until you got out on the lake?
BRIAN: I was on a date with someone--it was going horribly--and he was the guy hired to row us out there.
TURNER: So your best "How We Met" involves someone being dumped for an oar operator. It figures.
ME: The oarer and the whore--how appropo.
BRIAN: Whatever, Arthur Miller.
ME: Okay, I can do better than that.

I was on a plane to Florida to meet my family for vacation, and we were stopping over in Maryland. My next plane was delayed for three hours, and I went and sat next to this kid who looked to be about my own age--I was fifteen at the time. We started talking and he told me how he was going down to Florida to live with his aunt who owned a bed and breakfast in Tampa. He was originally from Maryland and he offered to show me around until our plane showed up. We went to this really great restaurant--I spent way too much of my Florida money on Maryland cuisine--and then we sat next to each other on the plane and I ended up falling asleep on his shoulder. We exchanged screen names and I talk to him every once in awhile, but I never went down to Florida again after that, and the last time we talked was over a year ago.

BRIAN: ...Far across the distance...and spaces...between us...
TURNER: Brian, don't be a jerk.
BRIAN: ...You have come to show you...go on.
ME: I really do hope the Star of David falls right down on your head.
BRIAN: ...You're here...Beat chest! There's NO-thing I fear!

Danny and I were sitting in my car trying not to make out.

DANNY: So no second date?
ME: Probably not.
DANNY: That's a shame.
ME: Oh, I'm aware. But I just can't tempt fate.
DANNY: You know, maybe the bad circumstances of how we met will make for a good relationship.
ME: Like bad tech good opening?
DANNY: Huh?
ME: Theater term. Never mind. Why are you even still here? I'm such a nerd.
DANNY: Maybe I like nerds.

And with that, I was done. We kissed.

TURNER: I think that sounds sweet.
BRIAN: Yeah, whatever. Cut to me being alone and miserable and lighting up a beacon of holiday happiness when all I want for Christmas is a cabana boy.
ME: Just hit the lights, Grinch.

He did, and the tree looked nice. There I was, with my two friends, staring at that good old beacon of happiness and depression, and suddenly meeting a boy was the least of my worries.

FRIEND: Did you pick up anything for me in that little toy shop, whore?
ME: Maybe, maybe not.
FRIEND: I'd also like a cabana boy.
ME: So, come on, join in. Best how we met story?
FRIEND: McDonald's Drive-Thru.
ME: That's the best? What's the worst?
FRIEND: Wendy's Drive-Thru.
ME: I probably should have guessed that.
FRIEND: Honey, tell me you'll reconsider that second date. I mean, imagine the kind of material this kid must have laying around his living room.
ME: I'm sure it's like a bakery thing. You know, how if you work in a bakery you never want to eat brownies.
FRIEND: I don't touch baked goods. If I do, I have to starve myself for weeks until I feel skinny again.
ME: So I guess I can return the assorted cookie box I got you for Christmas.
FRIEND: Assorted cookies? That's tacky.

Speaking of gifts, Brian gave me one right before I left his apartment.

ME: Boy, you shopped early.
BRIAN: Are you kidding? I haven't even started yet. I ate lunch with someone the other day and he gave that to me to give to you.
ME: Why couldn't he just give it to me in person?
BRIAN: Just open it and find out.

It was a pair of tickets to the Christina concert in April with words "Ain't No Other Man" printed on a small card on the inside. I almost fell down in a stupor--especially after I saw who it was from:

Call me, Connor.

Date #50: Deja Vu

Hi kids.

Do not adjust your computer screens.

Friend has taken over.

In the interesting of livening up this particular entry--

--Cause let's face it, the 50th time is one worth celebrating--

--Kevin has agreed to let me, his Friend, narrate this:

The 50th Date.

So let's begin, because Daddy's got things to do.

Kevin goes on a date with this guy, and instantly he knows something is wrong, and it's not that the guy is a hot mess like most of the tricks he takes out for Sunday brunch. No, this is something much worse than that.

Oh my God, he thinks, I know this guy.

How do I know what he was thinking?

Because he called me, you fucking English majors, now stop trying to figure out my syntax and enjoy the ride.

KEVIN: I can't figure out how I know him.
ME: Ask him if he's cut or not. That usually narrows the field.
KEVIN: I can't believe I'm actually on a date with someone I've been on a date with before and I can't remember him.
ME: How do you know it was a date?
KEVIN: I have a vague memory of eating chowder with him.
ME: Are you sure it as chowder?

All I'm saying is, a good night with a French Canadian and eating clam chowder can be very similar experiences.

Kevin goes back to the table and proceeds to eat dinner with this guy. And he's running through guys in his head, because he doesn't think he's enough of a whore yet to have completely forgotten someone whereas I would have just given up and chalked it up to My Blue Period in 2o05.

They get to talking and Kevin tries fishing for information that would help him figure out who Mystery Boy could be. Meanwhile he's texting me for advice.

KEVIN: All right, we never went to the same school.
ME: How did you meet him this time around?
KEVIN: At Borders.
ME: Tacky.
KEVIN: It's a bookstore!
ME: TACKY! Does he remember you?
KEVIN: Clearly not.

Or did he? Maybe there was a little game of cat and mouse going on here? Personally I prefer the Forgetful Actor and the Well-Equiped Prop Artist, but whatever floats your boat, honey.

Kevin keeps trying different ideas:

So, where do you go for fun?
Do you ever go to clubs?
I wonder if we have any mutual friends.
Which stall do you prefer at JCPenny's?

Okay, maybe I threw in that last one just for fun.

Y'all need to loosen up. Daddy knows how to spin a yarn, don't you worry.

Finally, Kevin has a break-through. He wants to figure out who this guy without having the guy figure out who he is, so he has to be very careful in terms of what he asks. It's always important to have the upper hand--that's the one you want holding the martini.

So he starts focusing on the guy's face and trying to drw up an image.

Clam chowder.
Clam chowder.
Clam chowder.

Something near the sea.
Something on a boat.
Boats are fun.
I should get a boat.
And some hot sailor boys on it.
Swabbing the deck.
In those tight little uniforms.
With their dirty mops...

Okay, sorry, I got carried away.

Anyway, eventually it hit him.

KEVIN: Clambake!
MYSTERY GUY: Excuse me?
KEVIN: Um...nothing.

Kevin remembered the had met the mystery guy at a guy he was dating's family clambake two years ago.

There's so much wrong with that sentence, I don't even know where to start.

At the time, Kevin remembered thinking the guy was cute, but obviously at the time, he disregarded the thought because he was seeing someone.

I would have ditched the clamcakes and gotten myself some calamari on the side, but that's just me.

KEVIN: That was almost mortifying. Thank God he didnt' remember me.
ME: Oh honey, it's forgiveable. I only retain memories of half the people I fool around with.
KEVIN: And you don't have a problem with that?
ME: No! You got to clean our your harddrive every once in awhile or your computer starts going slow.
KEVIN: Did you just use a technology analogy with me?
ME: Don't be catty.
KEVIN: So have you enjoyed writing my blog?
ME: I did actually. I'm thinking of doing a spin-off--100 Dates, 100 Sorry Mornings.
KEVIN: Sounds like a hit.

I'm a little too busy to be keeping all you gay muppets up to date on my escapades. Besides, discretion is my middle name.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go get a drink and a Greek foreign exchange student--and not necessarily in that order.

Date #49: Rebound Turner Overdrive

Soundtrack?

Why can't we be friends?
Why can't we be friends?
Why can't we be friends?

You see where this is going.

Turner and I's first attempt at something more than friendship was about as successful as Charles Strouse's last musical.

What was Charles Strouse's last musical you ask?

Exactly.

ME: You really want us to have our first--second--whatever, date at a club?
TURNER: I'm really hyper for some reason tonight. I need a club atmosphere.

We were at his apartment, getting ready to head out. I'm not big on clubs, but I'm especially not big on clubs in Rhode Island on Thursdays--they're notoriously empty.

TURNER: Well, maybe we'll get lucky.
ME: Why don't we just turn off the lights, play some loud music, and grind on your bed?
TURNER: That's later if you're good.

So off to the club we went.

When we got there, the place was a little bit busier than usual. Busy enough to at least dance without being "those people dancing on the dance floor." We had been dancing for about five minutes when I heard Turner say--

TURNER: Bingo.

Now, in most cases, Bingo is a good word. When coming from the mouth of an old woman in Boca who just got I48, Bingo is a word associated with joy. When sung by a group of schoolchildren led by a preschool teacher, Bingo is in reference to a dog--it being his name-o. But when Bingo is said by a guy whose just been dumped in a club while a look of vengeance comes over his face, Bingo means nothing but trouble-o.

I turned to see Zach coming in the club, and who should be right behind him but--

ME: Tommy?

This was going to get uglier than Christmas with the Zappas.

Turner walked right over to Zach, with me following behind him because I didn't want him to get into any--Oh, what the hell, I'm nosy.

TURNER: So you'll go to a club with Tommy but not me?
ZACH: Turner, please don't do this.
TURNER: I couldn't even get you to go to Reflections, but now that we're broken up you're clubbing on Thursdays with trash like this?
TOMMY: Did you just call me trash?
ME: If the can fits.
TOMMY: What the hell are you doing here?
ME: What am I doing here? What are you doing here? First you make fun of Turner for bringing this closet case to Charlie's dinner party and now you're bringing him to MB?
TOMMY: He IMed me.
ME: Ah, instant messaging--the shady slut's godsend.
TURNER: To answer your question, Kevin and I are on a date.
ZACH: You got to be kidding me.
ME: What? I'm undateable now?
ZACH: No! But when I told Turner that I thought you were his cutest friend he got all pissed off and told me he never found you attractive.

Ummm...Bo Derek says what?

TURNER: That's not exactly what I said.
ME: Wait, I'm a little confused--
TOMMY: Isn't it obvious? Zach thought you were cute, so when the time came to throw something in his face, Turner--
TURNER: That's bullshit.
ME: Actually, all of this is bullshit. I'm done. Have a good night everyone.

I left the club--more than a little pissed off.

Turner caught up with me back in the parking garage, but I didn't even respond when he called my name. It wasn't until I got to my car and he positioned himself strategically in front of my driver's side door that I was compelled to talk with him.

TURNER: It's not what Tommy said it is.
ME: Clearly it is.
TURNER: Look, I realize I haven't been myself lately--
ME: You could say that. You've gone from hot to cold to angry to deceptive--
TURNER: This just hit me really hard, okay?
ME: Well, here's an idea. Start taking it like a man instead of an overly emotional teenybopper. I do miss old Turner. I liked Old Turner. And so did everyone else. He was funny, and fun to be around, and a good friend. Then you start dating Zach the Wacko and someone you've known for five seconds becomes the most important person in your life and all your friends get demoted. Now, it was my mistake to pursue anything with you right now, and I accept what happened tonight as an error in judgment on my part, the next time you date someone who doesn't even have themselves figured out yet, don't be so surprised when they figure out they don't want to be with you. I'm done.

And I was. He moved, and I got in my car and drove away.

Did I cross the line? Yes. Do I feel bad about it? No. I think sometimes being a good friend means slapping the hysterium out of them and then waiting for them to pull themselves back together.

FRIEND: And don't we all love a good bitch slap story?
ME: I was so dumb. What made me think that could work?
FRIEND: Honey, you gave it a shot. Personally I would have cut every one of those bitches, but with the limited means you had, you did okay.
ME: I am surprised that Zach showed up at the club. I mean, this is the most discreet guy you've ever met in your life--
FRIEND: The rule of thumb with gay guys is that, believe it or not, they do tend to get better with age as far as comfort goes.
ME: Terrific. So it should be safe for all of us to date once we're, what, forty?
FRIEND: Please! I'm not living past twenty-nine and ruining my legacy. One wrinkle and I'm going off the cliff like Thelma and Hoo-Hah. The moral of the story is just date 40-year-olds.
ME: What story is that the moral of?
FRIEND: Sweetie, I don't even remember--
ME: --what we were talking about, right.

I still haven't gotten the assumed "Sorry I was an ass" text from Turner, nor have I sent one. So actually, the moral of the story is--

Keep your friends close, but not that close.

Date #48: You Were Cuter in 8th Grade

It's amazing the tricks our mind plays on us.

Recently, someone I went to junior high with myspaced me to say hello. The person's myspace page featured a morose, clearly cocky, brooding fellow who apparently has turned gay since the days when he and I were in school together.

The message was simple:

"Hey, what's up? I remember you from middle school. We should hang out sometime. Jesse."

I was going to delete the message. Nothing about the guy seemed dateable, and if it hadn't been for one simple little tidbit from my past, I wouldn't have given this guy a second thought.

That little tidbit was the fact that in 8th grade, this guy was a god, and I had harbored a pre-pubescent crush on him before I even realized that I wasn't destined to wind-up with Joey Potter from Dawson's Creek.

This was enough to accept his friend request, and message him back an acceptance in regards to his wanting to hang--and my phone number.

A complete reversal simply because almost ten years ago this guy had been attractive? Back before he had even fully developed into a teenager? Back when there was still hope that Buffy and Xander would get together and Angel's spin-off would mean I could finally see my favorite vampire slayer with the partner of my choice?

BRIAN: It's understandable. Your mind remembers this kid as a catch. It just can't let go of that notion yet.
ME: But my mind is let go of so many other notions.

This discussion was bringing out the Freud in myself and Brian over lunch at the NC.

BRIAN: Yes, but there's also a challenge associated with this boy. You could never get him in middle school because he was straight and you didn't even know you were gay. But now the chances seem good.
ME: But the prize has changed.
BRIAN: The prize being the guy?
ME: Yes!
BRIAN: But you see, the prize was probably never the guy. The prize was probably the idea of the guy.
ME: I'm not following you.
BRIAN: The person you are now--Kevin Broccoli.30, let's say--wants a guy whose confident in his sexuality, who's fun and fun to be around.
ME: Okay.
BRIAN: The person you were in eighth grade--Kevin Broccoli.05, let's say--is ashamed of himself, loathes his sexuality and doesn't even realize it, and would probably want someone he could fool around with in his tree house. Someone who can keep it a secret.
ME: Um...all right, I guess.
BRIAN: Subconsciously Kevin.05 probably hates gay men--
ME: But I didn't know any gay men in eighth grade.
BRIAN: Just go with me on this one. You probably had an image in your head of what a gay man was, and you didn't like that image, so instead, you were attracted to your ideal version of a straight man.
ME: Who turned out to be gay.
BRIAN: See? There's all kinds of superego at play here.
ME: So what do I have to do to satisfy the inner Kevin.05 in me?
BRIAN: Have sex with Jesse in a tree house.
ME: Yeah, I might try and stifle that urge--you know, like human beings do--as opposed to rabbits.
BRIAN: Good luck with that one, Sarge.

Jesse and I met up at my house, where I fed him pizza and we reminisced about the old times. He relayed how he didn't come out until college, and even then he'd had a girlfriend and just messed around with boys on the side. When I asked if he was fully out of the closet now, he replied with--

JESSE: Now I just do whatever.

Okay then.

Time had not been altogether kind to Jesse. He now exhibited the remnants of the old college beer gut. His skin wasn't doing too good, and his hair made a good case for needing to be perpetually covered by sometime of baseball cap. He wasn't a good dresser, a good conversationlist, or for that matter, enticing in any way.

And yet I wanted him.

I wanted him so badly, I was embarrassing myself. After all, I knew it was all coming from that deep, inner place where Kevin Broccoli.05 was screaming--

"He's such a rebel! He told Mrs. Hutton to go screw in Social Studies! Do him! Do him!

And indeed it seemed that the odds were good I could if I wanted to. As I've admitted many times, I'm no supermodel, but having been subjected to the social rigors of both a public middle school and a private high school, I have developed the ability to be able to look at someone and instantly know whether or not they are above or below me on the dating ladder.

Jesse had reached bottom rung.

He was mine.

After the pizza, we watched a movie on televisiona, and after about ten minutes, I noticed Jesse was shifting around a lot in his seat.

Okay, I thought, here it comes. He's going to make the first move.

Secretly, I thanked God that Turner and I hadn't scheduled our big "this might be us becoming more than friends" date yet. I refuse to be a cheater, but even worse would be cheating on Turner with someone who looked like they stepped straight out of a Van Wilder movie.

Finally, Jesse stopped moving and got up--to leave.

ME: Uh, is everything okay?
JESSE: I'm sorry. I can't do this.
ME: Excuse me?
JESSE: I know we were supposed to fool around--

What? How dare he insinuate that! Just because I was ready to jump him--

JESSE: --But I can't do it. I mean, you're Kevin Broccoli.
ME: Excuse me?
JESSE: Don't get me wrong. You're totally hot, and way cuter than a lot of the guys that are normally interested in me, but I still think of you the way you were in middle school. You know, geeky, loud, annoying--
ME: Yeah, I get it.
JESSE: I mean, I'm attracted to you. But I just can't be attracted to--to--
ME: Kevin Broccoli.05?
JESSE: I don't know what that means.

I told him not to worry about it, and showed him out. It always amazes me when life gives you those little ironies. It's sort of like God admitting that he used to write for Three's Company.

FRIEND: Honey, a beer gut? I'm not even sure what that would look like.
ME: It's weird. It's like my mind is intentionally trying to make me miserable.
FRIEND: It's the same way with my alcohol addiction.
ME: So you're admitting you have a problem?
FRIEND: I'm sorry, what were we talking about?
ME: Isn't there anyone whose not really attractive that you still find attractive for one psychological reason or another?
FRIEND: Michael Crawford.
ME: I'm sorry?
FRIEND: The man must be in his late seventies, but every time I see him, I think of him kicking up his heels in "Put on Your Sunday Clothes" from Hello, Dolly! and a part of me just wants to grab my ankles and scream "Holy Cabooses!"

Just for kicks, I went into my closet--no pun intended--and found my old middle school yearbook. I found the photo of Jesse, and now all I see is an 8th grader with a smirk. That's all. Nothing spectacular.

But like most things, the memories seem to hold on even tighter.

Date #47: Holiday Cheer

I know many of you are going to hate me for what I'm about to do.

And I accept that. I accept that and I welcome the hatred.

Even so, I would appreciate it if you would give me a chance.

(I'm also aware that I promised no special holiday entries, but what the hell, I need a little Christmas.)

So here's what I ask.

Download--or if on the off-chance you already own it, play--

"Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays" by N'Sync.

I know many of you have probably already hit the little "x" on the top of your computer screen, and that's fine, but for those of you willing to stay with me on this one, press on.

This is a holiday story after all.

Once upon a time, Turner got dumped by Zach.

ME: Oh my gosh, that's awful.
BRIAN: No kidding. He hasn't done anything but sit in his room for the past three days and watch Latter Days over and over again.

We were lunching at the NC after an unsuccessful bout of holiday shopping. Neither Brian nor I can stand in line for more than ten minutes without feeling that it's not right that we have to wait to give people money. So we gave up after two stores and decided to take an early lunch and then try shopping for ourselves first to see if we could get into the buying mode before we started shopping for...you know...others.

ME: Shouldn't we do something?
BRIAN: Like what?
ME: I don't know. Take him out. Try cheering him up.
BRIAN: I tried that. He refuses to leave the apartment. He says if he goes out somewhere and sees Zach he'll have a complete breakdown.
ME: Zach's in the closet. Where would they run into each other? Linens and Things?
BRIAN: That didn't even make sense.
ME: I'll stop by tonight and try to shake him out of this funk.
BRIAN: By doing what?
ME: I don't know. I'll take him out on a date.
BRIAN: So you want to shake him out of a funk and into a severe, bottomless depression?
ME: I'll just do what Zach did for Kelly when she couldn't go to the school dance on Saved by the Bell.
BRIAN: You'll take him behind the auditorium and serve him pasta on a tiny table while his shirt falls off his shoulder like Jennifer Beal in Flashdance?
ME: Yeah, something like that.
BRIAN: Okay, but just a hint. You may want to avoid the name Zach at all costs.
ME: Good idea.

So instead of shopping for myself that day, I--the selfless wonder--shopped for pick-me-up items for a cheering-up date.

I arrived at the apartment at around 8pm wearing tight tanned pants, a nicely ironed shirt, and hair done in a swept-to-the-side, eat your heart out McDreamy kind of look.

Turner opened the door looking more like Samuel Powers than Kelly Kapowski. He was in his pajamas and it was clear he probably hadn't washed his hair--and perhaps other parts of himself--in at least a day or two.

TURNER: Kevin?
ME: Hey cutie, guess who's coming out with me tonight?

He looked behind him to see if Brian was home.

ME: No, no--you. You and I. We're going on a date.
TURNER: I'm not sure if Brian told me or not--
ME: The Z-Factor. I heard all about it, and I think you need some cheering up.
TURNER: I think I'm missing the big sex scene at the end of Latter Days.
ME: In the airport? Can I watch? I mean--get dressed. Well, get showered, then get dressed. We're going out.
TURNER: Kevin, I really just want to stay here.
ME: I know, but I'm your friend. And friends don't let friends mourn broken relationships alone.

Turner took a deep breath. I could see that inner gay man urge inside him to do himself up and then find a hot rebound to--um--rebound with!

TURNER: Give me twenty minutes.

And just like that, we were on our way. I took him to Cheesecake Factory for dinner where we were served by a lovely waitress--who was on her first day of training.

WAITRESS: Um...so...you want that without tomatoes?
ME: Yeah.
WAITRESS: Um...so...I'm not sure we can do that.
ME: Well, can you ask?
WAITRESS: Um...yeah...sure.

When the food came, it wasn't even close to what we ordered. What we ordered came on the second time around, but by that time it was cold. On time number three the food and temperature of food was correct, but by now we were so agitated and starving that the rest of the meal went by without me even getting Turner to crack a smile.

I wasn't worried though. I had a fool-proof plan for when we got back to Turner's apartment.

Once there, I had him wait outside the door for about five minutes while I popped a CD into his stereo and adjusted some of the decorations I'd had Brian put up for me before he went out that night.

There was a mini-Christmas tree on the coffee table in the living room next to a plate of chocolate chip cookies. On the couch were Mr. and Mrs. Santa Clause dolls. Hanging from Turner's doorway was holly and mistletoe. The place looked great.

I let Turner in just as the music started to play.

Go with me here, kids.

We've been waiting all year for this night
When the snow is glistening on the trees outside
And all the stockings are hung by the fire side

Turner was taken aback by all the holiday cheer surrounding him.

TURNER: Are you f**king kidding me?
ME: Turner!
TURNER: Kevin, I don't want to be reminded of the holidays. I'm going to be alone on the holidays! Why would I want to celebrate them? I just want them to pass!
ME: But--
TURNER: And N'Sync? You play N'Sync? You couldn't even play Mariah?
ME: I was just trying to cheer you up.
TURNER: Well thanks, I feel great. I had a four hour dinner and I come home to Santa's Village. Tell me something. If I go in my room am I going to find a giant elf that looks like Zach waiting for me?
ME: Did Brian call you and tell you about that?

With that, he stormed into his room and slammed the door.

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays

Okay, turn off the f**king song already.

I went home morbidly upset and pissed off. I knew Turner was hurting, but he had no reason to freak out on me like that.

The next day I was sitting at Nordstrom's Cafe waiting for Brian to show up, when a completely unexpected person slipped into the booth across from me.

(Okay, maybe not completely unexpected.)

TURNER: Hi.
ME: Hi.
TURNER: I asked Brian to invite you here and then not show up.
ME: Oh really? Why?
TURNER: Because I knew if I invited you, you wouldn't show.
ME: Uh huh.
TURNER: And I wouldn't blame you.
ME: Uh huh.
TURNER: I was a real asshole last night.
ME: Uh huh.
TURNER: You going to say--
ME: You were beyond an asshole. You were a...rhinoceros' asshole.
TURNER: Uh...all right. Yes, I was.
ME: ...Or something to that effect.

I could see he realized he'd been a prick, but I didn't get why he had done it.

TURNER: It's just--guys don't treat me nicely. They just don't. Probably because when they do, I don't know how to handle that. For some reason, I'm much better equipped to deal with jerks than I am with nice guys.
ME: So you're saying you're a great big girl?
TURNER: Pretty much.

I really wanted to stay angry, but I just couldn't. See, Turner came wearing an elf hat, which was incredibly cute. Cute kills my anger every time.

ME: Well, you need to work on that whole issue you've got. I'm not going to stick around while you continually date assholes.
TURNER: I know, I know. I promise that'll be my big New Year's resolution.
ME: Terrific.
TURNER: Along with making it up to you--you know, treating you that way.
ME: It's okay. Don't worry about it.
TURNER: No, it's really not okay. But no worries, I have a plan.
ME: Oh really? And what's this plan you speak of?
TURNER: Hmm...Well, it involves baked lasagna, a full body massage, and a little Mariah.
ME: Um...okay. Sounds--so wait, that's a little--I mean, we're--
TURNER: --Friends, right. I'm thinking maybe I want to change that. Thoughts?

All I want for Christmas is you...

Cue the little black girl from Love, Actually!

FRIEND: Aww, I love early Mariah, before she started screwing Piddy.
ME: You mean P.Diddy?
FRIEND: Whatever, they all look alike.
ME: Do you really have to be racist on Christmas?
FRIEND: Honey, that's my present to myself every year.
ME: So what do you think of the me and Turner idea?
FRIEND: I love it. I love where it's going, I love where it's been, I see a holiday special in the works--Two Queens and a Christmas Tree.
ME: Well, I guess we'll see how it all works out.
FRIEND: Just so we're clear, you're coming up on Date #50 and my Christmas gift from you this year better be some sort of major plot twist--not you screwing Burner under the Menorah.
ME: I'll see what I can do about that.

Speaking of, to celebrate the Big 5-O that's soon to be here, why don't y'all do me a favor?

Since I've spent half this year sharing with you some of my worst moments, I think it's time for a little tit-for-tat.

FRIEND: Who said "tit"? We don't do "tits" here!

Post some comments about the worst date you've ever been on and I'll deem a winner for Worst Date I've Ever Heard (Winner gets a gift certificate to Pizza Hut).

And don't hold back. After all, the holidays is about giving.

Smile

Date #46: Twisted Mister

So at this point, I'm running low.

I have a party to go to soon where I'm hopefully going to meet many gay that will allow to coast at least to Date #75.

Until then, I've been forced to broaden my horizons--which granted, was the whole point of this little experiment anyway.

One of my old friends from high school mentioned to me that they had a friend who had just come out and was looking to get into the dating game. He was described as being super-shy and terrified of getting into the dating game.

I offered my assistance.

His name--is Roque.

That's right, like Rogue from X-Men--but with a "q."

ROQUE: I'm like, obsessed with the X-Men, especially Rogue. I always wanted to be the male version of Rogue.
ME: But why? She couldn't touch people. That can't be a fun existence.
ROQUE: Well, if you read the comic books--

That's when I zone out. As soon as someone starts a sentence with "Well, if you read the comic books" I'm done. Don't get me wrong; I love graphic novels, and I don't have anything against comic books, but I find that people who get too into comic books will often attempt to have a one-sided three-hour conversation with you about the merits of the Silver Surfer and never notice you attempting to jab a fork into your hand.

Let me tell you what Roque--and no, he wouldn't tell me his real name--showed up to the date looking like:

Take Sid Vicious from the Sex Pistols, now give him more eye make-up, throw in a "Queers Have No Fear" t-shirt (oh hell, maybe Sid had one of those), and then put a gawdy ring on every finger. That's what was eating mozarella sticks in front of me.

ME: So Lindsey told me you just came out.
ROQUE: That's right.
ME: And the "Queers" t-shirt?
ROQUE: Oh, well, it was the only thing clean in my laundry.
ME: How did you end up buying it?
ROQUE: Saw it at a yard sale. Thought it was tacky. Had to get it.

Notice the quick sentence structure. Imagine a large chunk of mozarella stick disappearing in between each of the sentences. I'm not trying to give the impression that Roque is some kind of pig. In fact, he was stereotypically skinny considering he looked like a newly reformed Heroin addict.

ROQUE: You and me aren't a match.
ME: You think?
ROQUE: Too vanilla.
ME: Me? You think I'm vanilla?
ROQUE: I once ate gazelle.
ME: And that makes you what? Mocha almond?
ROQUE: I lived in Africa.
ME: Bullshit. Where?
ROQUE: South Africa.
ME: Every American who once lived in Africa lived in South Africa.
ROQUE: You from the Congo?
ME: If you're from South Africa where's your accent?
ROQUE: Worked on it. Gone now.
ME: Too bad. I like guys with accents.

I was liking this friendly banter so far. Granted, nothing was going to come of this. The guy had a faux hawk with bright blue tips but still, there's a sick joy in being a restaurant with someone and having people literally stop when they're walking by your table just to observe your date as if he's a rare bird in an atrium.

He asked me if I wanted to stop by his friend's house--apparently there was a little party in effect. I said sure, partly because I had nothing better to do and partly because I had a feeling you blog-readers would enjoy whatever was going to follow immediately after.

And I'm thinking I'm right.

You see, when I showed up at the place, the first thing I was greeted with was a girl on the front porch throwing up into a laundry hamper. Now, of all the things to throw up in, why a laundry hamper? It wasn't a solid laundry hamper. It was one of those holes all along the edges laundry hamper, so the throw up wasn't bound to stay in there for long.

She looked up, smiled, said "Hey Roque the Joke" then began puking again.

ROQUE: Freaked out yet, Vanilla?
ME: Over throw up? Please. I went to a state college.

The party was a combination of a frat party and a mason's meeting. There was your typical guy in the living room playing some song on a guitar while a group of people sat around him singing along as if the song were "Kumbaya" and not "Stanley's C**k" as I believe it was called.

And now, a selection from "Stanley's C**k."

Stanley's c**k put his girl in shock
When they started to rock
You could hear them from a block
Away

Stanley's grinding and minding his own
Like no other force he's ever known
His girl would moan, his girl would groan
Oh yeah...

ME: I think I have that on my IPOD.

We stopped in the coat room where Roque sat on the bed and grinned at me.

ME: What?
ROQUE: You're cute.
ME: Thanks. I'm also a part of the establishment.
ROQUE: Really?
ME: It is actually. I'm assuming you're anti-establishment?
ROQUE: Eh...Not anti-much.
ME: Is this where you try to get me to have sex with you in the coat pile like real Bohemians?
ROQUE: You're Judeo-Christian.

With that, he patted my arm and went into the living room.

There I experienced a truly unusual ritual--The Coffee Table Spin.

This consists of a guy or girl laying down on a large, oversize coffee table, having the table be lifted up by four burly guys, and then having those guys run in a circle in the living room. For this to take place, the sofas have to be moved into the adjoining bedroom and everyone observing has to stand in the kitchen and try to get a good view.

ROQUE: Joey, Skip, Tremain, and Freako rock. They're the best.
ME: So there are preferred spinners?
ROQUE: Oh yeah. Get yourself some amateurs? You're screwed.

About three people got spun in quick succession. The spinning stops when, and only when, the person on the table cries out for mercy. Joey, Skip, Tremain, and Freako--or the Four Horsemen as I like to think of them--don't seem to be affected by dizziness, the weight of the coffee table, or human compassion for that matter.

ROQUE: I'm going in.
ME: Are you crazy?
ROQUE: Uh...yeah.

Roque got spun around for a good four minutes before I started to worry. He wasn't making a sound. I turned to the Human Tattoo next to me.

ME: Shouldn't they stop?
HUMAN TATTOO: Roque wants to outdo the guys.
ME: Has that ever happened?
HUMAN TATTOO: No, he wants to be the first.
ME: So they'll just keep going?
HUMAN TATTOO: I guess. The last time someone tried to outdo the guys they started going in a reverse direction and then back again until the guy started throwing up blood.

Oh how nice, a tilt-a-whirl for your inner organs.

At around minute nine, no lie, Roque finally gave in, but only then with an "Okay, stop." You could hear the disappointment in his voice.

He came over to me--not stumbling at all--as a girl with short hair and a tongue ring boarded the coffee table.

ME: You did really well.
ROQUE: Fucking sucks.
ME: Well, there's always next time.
ROQUE: I could have outlasted them if Joey had been on Corner Three.

Who knew this much precision was involved with spinning coffee tables?

ME: Has anyone ever died from this?
ROQUE: Not yet.

With this, I felt a hand on my shoulder that I later learned was Freako. The girl hadn't lasted very long, and when the Four Horsemen saw a boy standing on the outskirts--clearly judging their caveman ritual from afar--he decided that boy needed a spin.

That boy, ladies and gentlemen, was me.

Before I knew it, I was on the coffee table and spinning so fast I think I might have seen both Jesus and Liza Minelli. Then I realized that I actually was seeing Jesus and Liza Minelli. Whoever owned the apartment had put photos on the ceiling--I'm assuming for occasions just like this one.

To keep myself from dying, I started naming the people I saw in the photos:

Andy Warhol.
Michael Jackson.
Tina Fey.
Marlon Brando.
Cynthia Nixon.
The Brady Bunch.

All of a sudden, the spinning stopped and Roque was standing over me.

ROQUE: Dude, you did amazing.
ME: What?
ROQUE: Joey just passed out. You outlasted Joey!
ME: I'm sorry?
ROQUE: I broke him in. But you took him out.
ME: Wow.
ROQUE: Wow is right. Way to go, Vanilla.

I had earned the respect of Roque--so I promptly died right there on the table.

FRIEND: Go back to the part about doing him on the coat pile.
ME: He had a faux hawk.
FRIEND: I know, and that's really tacky. Just so we're clear, I'm the only person after Ryan Seacrest who ever made a faux hawk work.
ME: He was actually a pretty decent guy. I would say my horizons have been broadened.
FRIEND: So you're going to go on another date with him?
ME: Oh God no, he listens to bands with names like The Poison Oaks.
FRIEND: Honey, you sound so shallow. I'm so happy I'm finally starting to take.
ME: That's a scary thought.

As he walked me back to my car, he explained to me that if he seemed abrupt and dismissive--that was just his personality. But it's also the fact that he feels on the defensive since so many gay men just don't act or look like him and he feels like an outsider.

ROQUE: Not that I'm not used to feeling like an outsider.

I shook his hand, looked him in the eye, and said--

ME: You're going to be fine. The next time you let someone drag me onto a coffee table while Jan Brady look down on me. I'll kill you.

He laughed. I know, you notice the "next time," didn't you? Okay, so no second date, but friendship hang-out type thing? Why not?

I'm not as vanilla as I seem.

Date #45: The Way We Touch

So to answer a few questions brought up by some readers--

1) No, I am not "done" with Charlie, as many of you have asked.

2) Yes, I do go back and edit entries after I've written them. So, when bored, if you want to scroll past old entries and check out any additions I may have made (aka correcting dumb grammar and spelling mistakes) you may find some fun stuff. This is for those of you who wondered about the tight little ending to the last entry that feasibly isn't possible unless you consider the fact that I wrote a newer ending after I posted the entry.

3) Yes, now that I'm no longer celibate, and because it's Christmas, it's time for an entry that deals a little bit with sex.

Basically, I had sex with Charlie.

BRIAN: Well, I'm already loving this story.

Back at the Nordstrom's Cafe, Brian was still reeling over a pair of jeans he had just purchased, and being the true gay that he is, he wore them to lunch and had the jeans he wore to the mall in his shopping bag.

We had gotten into the topic of sex when Brian mentioned that his new jeans were so hot they should be put to use immediately by finding someone who could take them off him.

BRIAN: Nothing makes you hornier than a good pair of jeans.

Amen, brother.

It was then I mentioned the event that had happened the night before. Charlie had called me up to ask if I wanted to come hang out at his place. I'm not even going to count what happened as a date since I think I got two words out of my mouth before we were on the staircase leading up to his bedroom going at it like cheetahs on antelope in the Serenghetti.

BRIAN: And yet your tone indicates: Problem.
ME: I need to ask you a question, and it's probably going to make me sound like a whore.
BRIAN: Sound like one?
ME: Seriously.
BRIAN: Okay, going into serious mode.
ME: Do you ever feel...numb?

There was a pause.

BRIAN: Kevin, if this is your way of divulging to me how often you and Charlie--
ME: Not physically numb, you lunatic! Not in that way anyway. I guess...I don't know.
BRIAN: Well, don't look at me. I don't know where you're going with this.
ME: Okay, remember the first time a boy ever did anything to you? Maybe not even sexually, just something--
BRIAN: Derek Frampton, junior year of high school, both of us in drama club. He rubbed my shoulders backstage during a performance of Bye Bye Birdie and I felt like my entire body was going to explode.
ME: Exactly! You felt something. You felt a lot of something.
BRIAN: Well yeah, you feel that way whenever you're first with a guy.
ME: Do you? I mean, I'm asking you. Do you?
BRIAN: Not to that extent anymore, but on some level.
ME: I...I guess I do, too, but it just...it doesn't last.
BRIAN: Well Kevin, it's not meant to last. It never lasts. What makes it feel the way it feels is that it's new and fresh. That's the whoa. After awhile it turns into comfort...which is nice too.

I could tell that last bit was a little like saying--The movie was good...for the first ten minutes.

ME: Is it wrong that I don't want the comfort to kill the whoa?
BRIAN: It's not wrong. It's just not possible. At the end of the day, we're still men. I mean, for godsake's Halle Berry's husband cheated on her. Somebody cheated on Halle Berry! Somebody cheated on Heather Locklear. I mean, we are disgusting creatures who, unfortunately, have very short attention spans, and get bored with people very quickly. It's just in our nature. So we fight. We fight our nature. It's what makes life interesting.
ME: Great. Is there a bridge I can jump off?
BRIAN: Hang on, I'll go get the Drama Queen crown. I forgot you get to wear it today.
ME: I don't think it's just that I'm bored. I think...Okay, remember how I told you about when I first started college?
BRIAN: You mean your slut phase?
ME: Yeah, my slut phase. I think that was when I stopped...feeling things. Like, excited or anticipatory or intrigued--by almost everyone. I think going through that phase is the reason why now when I have an amazingly cute, funny, sweet guy ripping my clothes off right on the stairway in his condo it's like I've zoned out and I'm watching it all happen from another plane or something.
BRIAN: So you're saying you're desensitized?
ME: Exactly. And of all the things to be desensitized to--I mean, take away sensation and what's even the point of sex?
BRIAN: Wow...I don't know what to say.
ME: It's okay. I appreciate you listening.
BRIAN: You know, if I stand up and you get a better look at me in these jeans, you might feel something again.
ME: Why do I bother coming here?
BRIAN: The chicken?
ME: Yeah, the chicken.

And we finished up our lunch.

But after all, these entries are about dating, right? Well, where's the date you ask. The truth is I didn't even bother setting one up this time. Paye called me up to see if I wanted to go out dancing somewhere and even though I was in kind of a lousy mood, I decided to give it a shot.

We went to one of the gatherings he and his other ballroom dancing colleagues throw. It was a lot of fun right from the start, and it definitely pitched my mood a little bit. I mean, how can you be sad when you're practically in the middle of a scene from Take the Lead?

Even still, it was easy for Paye to tell my mood wasn't where it should be. He asked me what was wrong, and I unloaded on him. I'm not sure it was the best thing to do with a guy you like--let him know that you think sex has become completely void for you--but he listened and seemed very sympathetic.

PAYE: I can actually identify with what you're saying.
ME: You can?
PAYE: Kevin, every gay guy has had a slut phase, and every gay guy has had at least one moment where he zoned out of a sexual experience.
ME: I just wonder if I'm ever going to feel that special feeling again. Like, that feeling I felt the first time I ever kissed a boy, or felt a guy kiss my neck--
PAYE: I swear to you, sir, you will know glory again!
ME: You're such a dork.
PAYE: If you're asking whether or not you're ever going to be fifteen again, then no. You're not. But I like to think that as you get older, passion takes on different, more mature forms. That's how I started feeling--what did Brian call it again?
ME: Whoa.
PAYE: Yeah, that's how I started feeling whoa again. I remembered to stay in the moment.
ME: It's harder than it sounds.
PAYE: Oh, I know. That's why I'm involved in a little hobby that forces me to do it.
ME: You mean all this?

I motioned to the dancers around me. Paye smiled at me and grabbed my hand.

PAYE: Come on, let's see if we can't jumpstart you up again.

He moved me out on the dance floor, which didn't include any other male on male partnerings. I was a little nervous that we were going to draw attention.

PAYE: But sir--that's the point.

Since, as I've mentioned before, I have two left feet, Paye did most of the leading. It wasn't so much that I was the quote-unquote "girl" or the situation, I was just the...okay, whatever, I was the girl, but it's not like I got dipped or anything.

What made it interesting was that Paye kept whispering things in my ear the whole time we were dancing. He got behind me and said softly:

PAYE: Now, I'm going to move my hand around your waist, and I want you to react to it.
ME: How?
PAYE: There is no how, just react.

So he put his hand around my waist and pulled me into him a little, and I just...let go. I kind of fell back into him and at that moment, he spun me around, grabbed my hand, and thrust it outwards while pressing me even closer to him.

PAYE: Now let me move you.

We started walking, simple yet...relying that much on someone combined with being that nervous that everyone in the room was staring at me--it was a litte...whoa.

Paye and I did a little move he taught me, nothing spectacular, where we switch off and move in something of a box shape. The way his eyes were looking at me I felt like my ears from going to go from red to running off my head and jumping him there and then.

After we completed the move, he came back to me and turned me around so fast I could barely catch my breath--just as the song was ending he brought me to a halt. I was gasping. People were staring, but also kind of smiling.

ME: Any...more...instructions?
PAYE: Just breathe.

I went home that night feeling like every atom in my body was trying to raise itself up off my skin and go into the atmosphere. I was that fifteen-year-old kid again, and I knew why. Ever since the boy craze phase, I had been indestructible. Invulnerable. Capable of having sex and then five minutes later be running an errand or on my way to hang out with friends with no sign that I'd been doing anything inappropriate just a short time before. I had let myself become solid so that I couldn't be damaged in any way, and in the process I'd taken away the joy of just being touched by someone.

But there and then, at that moment when I had no choice but to let myself rely on someone else, when I was out in the open being stared at and gaped at and I didn't know what was coming next...

Well, I'd imagine it was a little like having a guy rub your shoulders while "Put on a Happy Face" plays in the background.

FRIEND: I know that would make me put on a happy face.
ME: God, it just felt so good to be--awakened.
FRIEND: I know, and usually waking up is the scary part.
ME: Well, I'm not going to lie. I'm very relieved that I'm not stone-cold after all.
FRIEND: So the dancing fairy cured you?
ME: I don't know about being cured. But I will try to live in the moment a little bit more.
FRIEND: Excellent, and keep up this dancing thing--sex in a ballroom is hot.
ME: You know this for a fact?
FRIEND: Honey, Mario Lopez didn't know a rhumba from a fox trot before he met me.

So now that I've been "revitalized," so to speak, does that mean that there will be more physical contact on some of these dates?

Well, it has been unusually warm lately...

Smile