She, 2

She was running, her hand still in his. He looked back at her and laughed, his brown eyes crinkled, the skin around them creased in endless abandon.

“This is my yoga studio,” she mentioned breathlessly as they careened past the stone building. He backtracked unexpectedly and pulled her with him.

“HEY!” he called up at the dark windows. Passers-by on the sidewalk merely stalked around them, passive aggressively dismissing their existence.

She giggled, “No one’s there, it’s almost midnight.”

“They’re all at the wedding,” he said with a grin.

The wedding.

Her dress had ripped on the ferry ride and he had swiftly fixed it with some kind of boyfriend-cunning that only he possessed.

She touched the rip mindlessly, not even sure it had been there. He had mended it perfectly.

“Are you okay?” he asked, putting his hand over hers. She looked over at him, then at the stone building.

She didn’t know the answer to that question. That question was forbidden; it begged dishonesty and faux self-adulation.

“He fixed my dress,” she said, walking away.

“Your boyfriend?” She nodded. “What happened at the wedding? You said you had a fight.”

She shook her head and cleared her throat. “I said we came to an understanding.”

“Ah, yes. What was the understanding?”

“That I can’t stand being around him.”

“Like… just tonight you can’t stand being around him or it feels like your eye socket is being burned with a lit cigarette when he touches you?”

“The lit cigarette,” she sighed, taking a cigarette from the box he offered her.

“How did he take it?”

She guffawed for a second then shrugged. “I didn’t tell him.”

“I thought you said you both came to an understanding.”

“Well, I came to an understanding then, if you want to get technical.”

“That’s not about being technical, that’s about speaking the truth. The way you say something matters.” He was looking at her as if he was truly seeing her for the first time and he didn’t like what his eyes were being met with.

“Sorry,” she apologised softly. “I suppose I did know that what I meant to say was, ‘I came to an understanding’.”

He sat down on a nearby stoop and took a drag from his cigarette. She sat next to him and did the same.

“Did it hurt?”

“Uh… the rip?” she asked, her hand reaching for the rip in her dress again.

“Coming to that understanding; did it hurt?”

She stopped for a few seconds. She looked off into nothingness, she didn’t breathe, she didn’t move to swipe a stray curl from billowing against her cheek.

Slowly, she began to nod. “But I’ve known for a while. I’ve known, I just haven’t felt it until tonight.”

“Denial,” he said shortly.

She nodded again and whispered, “I suppose so.”

“Come on, we’ll miss it.” He got up, stretched and put one hand in his pocket and the other he put out to help her off the stoop. “You’re hungry, right?”

“Hungry?” she asked. “Not particularly…”

“You drink tea?”

“Not really…”

“What kind of yogi doesn’t drink tea?”

“I’m not really a yogi, per se…”

“Hot chocolate?”

“Diet Coke?” she offered.

“Perfect,” he nodded and pulled her along gently.

They passed a small café on a corner and he ushered her inside. He took her to a booth and she sat down.

“Not that side,” he said solemnly.

“Why? Is this your side?” she teased.

He pulled her up gingerly and sat next to her on the cushy bench-seat.

“Because you have to see the TV,” he explained finally.

She looked up and saw the screen. A sitcom had just started and one of the idiotic, jazzy characters was saying something idiotic and jazzy while the audience laughed with as much energy as a raucous gang of golf spectators.

“This show?”

“I love it,” he said, his eyes on the screen. “I come and watch it every Tuesday. If I can’t make the 9PM show, I come to the midnight rerun.”

She examined his face. It was lit with excitement and he guffawed at a joke. It was actually a good joke, she had to admit, and she laughed as well. He looked at her and nodded. “See? It’s shit-stupid with momentary lapses of brilliance. Sometimes the best art is accidental. It’s not trying to be, it just happens – like a flash of lightning: fleeting and random.

“At least that’s my metaphor for a stupid sitcom.” He snorted softly and turned his attention back to the screen.

“You don’t have a television at home?” she asked.

“I don’t have steak and eggs at home,” he said shortly.

She nodded and they sat looking at the screen for a few minutes.

“Hi,” he said to the waitress who approached them, “we’d like a steak and eggs special – all the trimmings – and… um, a Diet Coke?” He looked to her questioningly. “You sure you don’t want anything else? The steak and eggs are blow-mind, I promise.”

“Just Diet Coke,” she said to the waitress with a smile. “Thanks.”

He shrugged.

“I’m really salivating over that Diet Coke,” he said during a commercial break.

She sipped from her straw and said nonchalantly, “It’s delicious.”

“You’re not anorexic or something, are you?”

She made a face at him to show she was hurt and offended. “You can’t say something like that to me after knowing me for one hour.”

He thought about it and said, “Sorry; that was a dickish thing to say. And we can share anyway.” He touched her shoulder and instinctively she put her hand on his.

“Well?” he asked her, expectantly searching her face.

She chewed a few more times then swallowed and looked at him blankly.

“Holy shit, gimme that fork,” she blurted and stuffed some more meat into her mouth from the plate the waitress had put on the table. He laughed and she laughed and they both laughed.

They laughed for minutes; she couldn’t swallow the food in her mouth so hers was a muffled, odd guffaw that sounded like the coo of a very old pigeon nearing the end of its life.

He put his hand on her lap while he ate.

“You’re left-handed,” she said.

“Yes. You knew that because I’m eating with my left hand?”

“Well, you’re eating well with your left hand,” she reasoned and he gripped her skin softly. She looked at his hand and it became upturned, facing her. He motioned with it for hers and she gave it to him.

“What now?” she asked him.

He shook his head and shoulders all at once. “Got work early in the morning.”

“Where do you live?”

“Around the corner. And you?”

“Uptown,” she said.

“‘Uptown’ is a large place – I hope you don’t get lost.”

Outside the café, they turned to face each other. “Well, goodbye,” she said. “Thanks for the meal.”

“Okay. Thank you.” He smiled and turned, hesitated, then turned back to face her. “Can I say something?” he asked.

She searched his eyes but they were dark. There was nothing to see. “Yeah,” she shrugged.

“You said you came to an understanding today with yourself or within yourself, right? Don’t take that lightly. People live their entire lives not understanding shit – especially themselves. You had an epiphany or a revelation or a bomb-drop moment or something. You know how you feel. It probably hurts and is scary as all fuck, and even then you don’t know what you are going to do. You’re thinking the pit is only going to get deeper before you can even start thinking about climbing out to see the shit all around.

“You don’t love him and that scares you because you believe you should. But you shouldn’t. You shouldn’t have to do anything if it makes you feel like this.”

He touched the side of her head, smiled and walked away.

The cab ride home was cold and bumpy. She stared into nothingness, the sickening truth washing over her. She felt hot, her neck was boiling and the cold wind felt like tiny shards of glass against her exposed skin.

She entered the apartment and stumbled inside, slamming the door behind her.

“I called you, I was freakin’ worried,” came his voice before she saw him. He was a dark shadow, becoming larger, walking to meet her in the dark foyer. “What the fuck happened? One minute we’re at the reception, the next minute you’re getting a ride to the ferry and told David’s son to tell me you were bouncing? He literally came up to me and said, ‘Yo, your girl is bouncing.’”

She looked into his face but there was no light. She reached behind her, feeling around blindly all the while looking at his face.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Finally, her fingers felt the click of the switch and the light illuminated his face.

Brown! she thought. Brown…?

“Please stop staring at me blankly and say something,” he said.

“Brown…” she murmured.

            “What’s brown?” he said and she came out of her thoughts.

            “Your eyes.”

“So are yours,” he spat.

“So were his…”

He shook his head in misunderstanding and searched her face desperately, his eyes darting from her lips to her eyes to her chin. He rubbed his face tiredly and pushed his hair back.

“His?” he asked.

Ren - 13/4/13 to 21/4/13

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.

Date Night #3098439 (Gay in New York)

I hate admitting it, even to myself, but when I first came to New York a big part of me was hoping to find love. I've been single for the past three years and my relationship before that wasn't much to write home about (although it wasn't terrible either... no offense to the guy).

Within the last three years, I have lived in my home country which I love but which isn't particularly open. You can't hold hands in the street with another man, you definitely can't kiss unless it's behind closed doors and if you grow to be 40 and live with a man, your neighbours say things like, "They're special 'friends'" followed by awkward coughs and a dawning of the understanding that gay men DO live among us.

So you can imagine my excitement when I packed my bags and came to New York for an extended period of time. For one, it's gay New York. It's the home of Broadway, for chrissake, which is nicknamed "The Great White Way". Honey, if that's not gay then I drive a pickup truck and wear muddied work boots.

I've been here for roughly four months now and I've gone on about 20 dates (maybe more) and I just want to express how very disappointed I am. Not in the city - because the city is fucking awesome - but in the men. From the gorgeous men in their three piece Armani suits to the scruffy guys with bright eyes and the whitest teeth on earth to real estate executives who always check their watches when they pause on the sidewalk at a stop sign to lithe dancers who have pierced nipples to the all-American guy with blond hair, blue eyes and an ass that would make any gay man's dick whistle the tune of a Marvin Gaye song - ALL of them really, really suck.

Before coming here my eyes were bright, I imagined a man of my dreams (about six foot, sparkling eyes, hair so thick my fingers would get lost forever in their tendrils, an emotional maturity and capacity far beyond that of a 19-year-old, the heart of Gandhi and mind of Einstein in one and a body that would make Ryan Gosling shed tears. Real tears). Spoiler alert: I haven't found this man yet.

Now, I'm not one for this romantacised notion of what one's ideal partner should be or a fucking bucket list full of haves and have nots. I understand that a man on paper doesn't exist - I may be a writer, not a fucking Republican. But by far, the biggest problem I've encountered thus far is the fact that every single, gay New York male is absolutely terrified. Terrified of life, terrified of their ex, terrified of their masculinity (or perceived lack thereof), terrified of what other gay male New Yorkers think, terrified of affection and commitment. Place anything in front of a gay New York male and they will skittle away in the opposite direction - even a half naked A&F ad will probably bring them to tears faster than give them a woodie. They'd be terrified that their abs don't live up.

Last Saturday, I went on a date with Thom (you decide if that's his real name or not. I really don't care). Thom is a handsome, highly successful, absolutely luminescent and perfect-haired real estate mogul. He's also in his early 50s and fresh out of a relationship with a 27-year-old who, by all accounts, will reside in Satan's left ball when he dies.

Now the last two pieces of information were unknown to me before I met Thom. We met in a sunny side of the West Village after conversing for about two days on OkCupid and having back and forth texts about meeting up. Finally, a man with follow through who seemed handsome enough and knew that the word "your's" doesn't exist.

When Thom walked into the restaurant we had agreed upon I was beyond thrilled. He was hotter in real life, he was just a little taller than me and he was wearing a white button down that showed me he wasn't nursing a spherical stomach (I'm gay, I still care about some of these things. Sorry).

Right away he sat down and ordered choice appetizers and drinks ("These are the best in New York," he assured me sexily) and we immediately started to have great conversation. We spoke about Trinidad - where I'm from - and his family, my family, the things we did on lazy Sunday afternoons, how annoying it was to walk behind tortoise-speed tourists who didn't know their tits from the Empire State building, our conflicting views of the subway (I love it, he is a staunch believer in cabs which I could get over because at least he was ridiculously cute and smart) and a number of other topics that basically led me to the conclusion that our first date - if you could call it that - was a resounding success.

Afterward, we left and went to a bar and continued speaking, at which point we engaged in voracious, gratuitous public displays of tongue thrusting and groping. In my defense, we were at a lesbian bar so who really gave a fuck how ridiculous we were being?

We spoke about what we thought of each other - I complimented him on how cute he was, how very shiny his hair looked, how adorable the little gap between his front teeth was, et cetera, et cetera. To all of these, Thom would shoot me down and say he wasn't worthy of any of my praise. Warning sign number one.

We decided to head back to his place in Midtown West, and we both agreed that we didn't want to have sex, we simply wanted to spend time together. We never did have sex - I don't want you to continue reading waiting for this to become a Harlequin romance special.

We did, however, romp in his bedroom drunk as fuck and have a very personal conversation about Thom's ex who was unfaithful, broke his heart and is unfortunately my age. Already, I knew the art of projection was happening to me. From time to time, he would stop what we were doing and look off into the distance very broodingly. Warning sign number two.

That night we slept close together. To me, that is the best part of intimacy and I enjoyed it the most. The next morning was good, we were pretty affectionate, we watched the news a little, I expressed my interest in seeing him again as did he and then left.

After that, I sent him a couple cute, funny text messages from which I garnered some terse responses such as, "Yes", "Good", "Ok" and, my personal favourite, "Right on". He apologised in one of his texts for getting "goofy" (his word, not mine) about his ex and I assured him it was alright; everyone has bad break ups and are allowed to be in pain. In essence, I was being an understanding and famously lovely person. I tried to make plans to meet up with him but he was never really forthcoming and would always give offhanded excuses.

So my question is, am I the most hideous being there is to lay eyes on (please, as if) or are all New York gays just scared of their pasts and futures? I'm proposing meeting up for a drink or two - which went down pretty nicely the first time around. I assure there were sparks otherwise I would not have ended up with precum soaked into my underwear (his precum, not mine - for reference).

At the end of this all, I just feel duped and pretty stupid. I must also say, I've become so jaded about dating in this city that it is pretty easy to fall hard for someone who seems so different from the rest the first time I meet him. Not in a let's move in together tomorrow kind of way, but in a let's maybe start something up for fuck's sake kind of way. Let's date, let's go see a movie, let's spend the entire night cuddling in front of the television watching BBC America, let's laugh about stupid shit. The beautiful things of courtship are what I crave the most.

And once again - empty handed. Like a wisp of smoke that disappears into the wind. Not really because an ex fucked a guy I like, or because he is too maimed and damaged to know the difference between a good guy and a bad one but because the guy I like is too scared to admit that moving forward is really the only way forward.

And truly, there is no room for fear in love.