Ren... yes, he's a guy. And as the date in the title suggests, I first met him Saturday 13th April, 2013.
Well, actually, it's a little more complicated than that. After scouring OkCupid for likely matches (and there are hundreds - maybe even thousands in the New York, five borough area), I messaged this guy. He had pictures of himself with video cameras and captions like "On set in Brooklyn", a very cute smile and a picture of his cat. Now I generally think pet pictures can be a bit corny, especially when it's your pet and nothing else - pictures with captions like "Buddy sitting on a park bench" or "Lola, 3 weeks old". How am I supposed to gauge how hot you are when the biggest picture on your profile is that of your solitary pet that you could have scratched from some unsuspecting ASPCA fansite. It's just like strangers with candy: they lure you with the idea of something sweet and then rape you unrelentingly, blaming your naivete to justify their pillage.
But I made an exception because his cat was adorable and so was he, not to mention I often don't hold steadfast to my general rules of courtship because then I'd only date Noah from the "Notebook".
I can't remember exactly when Ren messaged me back, but he did. And his message went something to the effect of "Hey James, I think we met before outside Industry. I remember asking a guy from Tobago with a cool accent for a cigarette a few months ago."
Upon reading the message a vague recollection of the event entered my hypothalamus. We're talking months back - maybe around January - and I vaguely remembered speaking with a guy who I thought was cute outside a club, giving him a cigarette and nothing ever coming of it.
So I hit this stranger with my number and told him to contact me if the urge ever led him to. Later that day I got a text with plans to meet in the West Village the day after (Saturday the 13th - useless Friday the 13th pun not intended) for coffee. I didn't reply right away because I had another date that Saturday and for some reason I thought the other guy was hotter and better. He wasn't.
Eventually I messaged him back, I agreed to meet at the desired location and the next day I headed down to the beautiful West Village to meet "that guy I loaned a cigarette to". I got to Mojo Coffee which, if I might say, has the most unoriginal and base coffee shop name in all the world, and waited outside. Eventually, Ren came out from the coffee shop and poked me in the back. "James?" he asked.
My heart sank to my penis. He was cuter than his pictures (I love when this happens. It's like waking up on Christmas morning to find a naked Hugh Jackman with a bow nestled snugly on his crotch, waiting to be unwrapped next to your 20 foot tall Christmas Tree) and his smile was like the glittery part of a rainbow right before it touches the pot of gold with the fat leprechaun dancing around it oddly. We went inside and immediately had some of the best first-encounter conversation I have ever had. He was funny, he touched my forearms when he spoke, he kept prefacing his sentences with my name (eg. "James, you are so hot and I want to do you on the espresso machine right now."), he was animated and intelligent and our conversation never lulled. We weren't sure if we had met previously outside Industry until we started speaking about our cats. Immediately I recognised his cat wallpaper and he said he remembered me telling him that my cat was "a bitch".
We left and walked toward Chelsea, spoke about "Breaking Bad" which he has just started to watch (he received immediate props since I'm a big fan of the show) got more coffee and sat in a park where we chatted more, got very close and engaged in kissing in the presence of complete and unsuspecting park-goers. After, I walked him further uptown to his gym and we made plans for me to go over to his place on Monday to watch a few episodes of Breaking Bad - which, in gay world, is slang for engage in massive doses of making out, cuddling and being ridiculously inappropriate with the hot stranger I hung out with for a few hours for one day. Because being a slut is what I do best.
I was pretty excited after meeting Ren. He was a sweetheart in almost every sense of the word. He kept trying to mimic my accent, but sounded like a lazy, white Jamaican-Bahamian hybrid, his smile (I'm sorry, did I mention that already?) made me want to giggle like a seventeen-year-old who is watching porn for the first time and when he held my hand in the park he entwined his fingers with mine - which my mum always said was "the way someone who loves you holds your hand". Insert obvious squeals of excitement here. Also insert a puke bag in case the corn factor is just too much for you.
He messaged me after that very day and said he had a good time, that I was really cute and he couldn't wait to watch Breaking Bad later that week. Well, a man who is sweet and then texts me right after gratuitous park making out is a man among men in my book.
On Tuesday, I headed to his place. He made dinner - or heated and boiled pre-packaged goods - and we got right to it. Now, the reason this guy gets an entire post becomes clear in my mind on this very night. We watched Breaking Bad, spoke about the acting class he goes to, ran some lines from "Death of a Salesman", he gave me an extra copy that he had because he said he thought I would like it (points for trying to expand my artistic intelligence), got hot and heavy and eventually retired to his bed for the night. We're talking, kissing, talking, kissing, groping, talking, getting more and more naked, talking, et cetera. At one point, with the moonlight on his face (or the lights from the apartment building on the opposite side of the street facing his window) he stops to look at me and says (paraphrased), "James, I don't want you to think the only reason I invited you over is to have sex."
Melt. Melt melt melt. This is me melting. This is my jaded New York City dating heart melting. This makes up for every douchezilla I encountered, every ignorant fucktard, every cunt and any other viable terms that can be geared toward the horrible gay single men of New York. In one sentence, he patched up every wound I had felt and every disastrous encounter I had taken part in.
We were there, in the bed, in our skivvies, I was ripe for the taking, he was huge and strong and ridiculously gorgeous and all he wanted to do was talk and cuddle and laugh and act like that seventeen-year-old. There is a God. Kidding, there is no God. But there is some kind of karmic retribution that sent this fine motherfucker my way.
After that night, we planned to meet on Friday for a drink with his friend and see a movie. I spent the night and the day after we met again for dinner and a movie - since the movie the night before didn't happen. Our conversation is always going, I haven't laughed like this with someone in a very, very long time and who the hell lies down in bed, in the dark, in each others arms, talking about the silliest and smartest things? Me, that's who. Not to mention the sheer serendipity that I met Ren months ago in front of a bar where we didn't flirt, didn't exchange numbers and I ran off inside prematurely because it was too cold and I didn't think he was worth freezing my right ass cheek off for is so New York, I want to die.
Now the hopes aren't up. I'm a writer and very aware that hope is for the faint of heart who are disappointed at every juncture. I am still exceedingly weary of the men in New York. But finally, I feel like I am being rewarded for being a patient gay camper, Brokeback style (although his tent is a studio in the Upper West Side with heat and cable).
And while I am still dating other people, and I am keeping every door, window, peephole and crack open I'm finally aware that maybe there are guys out there who are nice and charming and kind. And sometimes you can just hang out with a sweet guy who is intelligent and beautiful and thinks just as much of you as you do of him.
Praise Jah.
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