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.