It Matters Not whether white, black or Spic.
It Matters the size of your dick.
It Matters Not whether lithe, frumpy or large.
It Matters your courage.
It Matters Not whether straight, gaysexual or bi.
It Matters that you try.
It Matters Not the feeling of incomptence or disgrace.
It Matters always coming back to what was misplaced.
It Matters Not waist-size, smooth lips or muscle mass.
It Matters how you shake dat ass.
It Matters Not moments crappy or lives crappy.
It Matters always finding yourself back at happy.
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
The "I don't want a relationship" guy
In keeping with the general topic of confusing men, confusing male interactions, confusing signals and confused men on the whole, I want to address the very confused man who says stupid, infuriating and hurtful shit like, "I'm really not looking for a relationship right now..."
I can completely understand hearing this the first time I meet a guy - especially if all we're going to get up to is being down to nothing in the clothing department. I completely expect it if we have just met and the general signs I receive are that of a horny caveman with a dick like a rhino's horn and the air of a Fuck God whose favourite hobby is listed as "fellatio" on his online dating profile. I absolutely, definitely and completely expect it from a guy who I have no probable chemistry or commonalities with apart from the fact that we both have penises, they both spurt cum and we're willing to test out the apparatus.
But what about the guy you've dated, who you seem to have a connection with, who makes you laugh because he says things in silly voices and holds your hand in the movie theatre? How are you (and how am I?) supposed to decipher the "I don't want a relationship" line?
The unadulterated fact is that if a guy who I've dated, who I spend nights with, who I kiss in the street and who introduces me to his friends says something like that to me, I'm to assume that all I'm good for is a fuck and good times until someone who he deems hotter and more deserving of his commitment comes along.
And with that piece of information, all I can do is scratch my head and wonder, What's wrong with me?
Except nothing is wrong with me. I am perfectly fine. I am having an absolutely human (which is code for "normal") reaction to being in the company of a blundering fuck-up who has no idea what he wants.
My real question, though, is how can you date someone consistently over a period of time and then have the balls to disrespect their time, effort and intelligence by saying you don't want a relationship? What in fuck's name have you been doing then? Playing handball? What these fuckers need to do is grow multiple pairs and be honest. It's not that they don't want a relationship. They don't want me. And while that may be an 11 inch dildo-sized pill to swallow, it will be alright. It will hurt, it will be disgusting and I will probably hate you but wouldn't it be helpful for me to know the exact turf I am standing upon? At least with all the information I can make an informed decision and feel completely justified when I say, "Go fuck yourself in your own ass."
So why are men so uptight about being honest? "I don't want to hurt someone's feelings," is what a guy I broached this subject with told me. Ok, so you don't want to hurt someone's feelings. But what's next, then? "Well... I just go with the flow." Ok, so you just go with the flow until what? "I don't know."
Oh, well in that case can you point me in the direction of the person who fucking has a shadow of a clue?
I don't care about hurt feelings. Hurt or not, I prefer an honest man who has the courage, wherewithal and insight to know that being truthful about his feelings isn't only respectable. It's right.
I can completely understand hearing this the first time I meet a guy - especially if all we're going to get up to is being down to nothing in the clothing department. I completely expect it if we have just met and the general signs I receive are that of a horny caveman with a dick like a rhino's horn and the air of a Fuck God whose favourite hobby is listed as "fellatio" on his online dating profile. I absolutely, definitely and completely expect it from a guy who I have no probable chemistry or commonalities with apart from the fact that we both have penises, they both spurt cum and we're willing to test out the apparatus.
But what about the guy you've dated, who you seem to have a connection with, who makes you laugh because he says things in silly voices and holds your hand in the movie theatre? How are you (and how am I?) supposed to decipher the "I don't want a relationship" line?
The unadulterated fact is that if a guy who I've dated, who I spend nights with, who I kiss in the street and who introduces me to his friends says something like that to me, I'm to assume that all I'm good for is a fuck and good times until someone who he deems hotter and more deserving of his commitment comes along.
And with that piece of information, all I can do is scratch my head and wonder, What's wrong with me?
Except nothing is wrong with me. I am perfectly fine. I am having an absolutely human (which is code for "normal") reaction to being in the company of a blundering fuck-up who has no idea what he wants.
My real question, though, is how can you date someone consistently over a period of time and then have the balls to disrespect their time, effort and intelligence by saying you don't want a relationship? What in fuck's name have you been doing then? Playing handball? What these fuckers need to do is grow multiple pairs and be honest. It's not that they don't want a relationship. They don't want me. And while that may be an 11 inch dildo-sized pill to swallow, it will be alright. It will hurt, it will be disgusting and I will probably hate you but wouldn't it be helpful for me to know the exact turf I am standing upon? At least with all the information I can make an informed decision and feel completely justified when I say, "Go fuck yourself in your own ass."
So why are men so uptight about being honest? "I don't want to hurt someone's feelings," is what a guy I broached this subject with told me. Ok, so you don't want to hurt someone's feelings. But what's next, then? "Well... I just go with the flow." Ok, so you just go with the flow until what? "I don't know."
Oh, well in that case can you point me in the direction of the person who fucking has a shadow of a clue?
I don't care about hurt feelings. Hurt or not, I prefer an honest man who has the courage, wherewithal and insight to know that being truthful about his feelings isn't only respectable. It's right.
Monday, June 10, 2013
I will get over you.
It's happening again,
And I am your stead.
This isn't love, it's a stain
That's spreading through my head.
The feelings persist, your smile persists,
And my emotions rear their ugly head,
My heart loses connection (if a romanticised heart exists),
And once again, I am your stead.
Not only miles apart,
But we are worlds apart.
Do I want you?
What is missing?
You are not mine, just like the Reader said.
You will never be mine, all "love" is dead.
You are not mine, so go ahead;
I will get over you.
And I am your stead.
This isn't love, it's a stain
That's spreading through my head.
The feelings persist, your smile persists,
And my emotions rear their ugly head,
My heart loses connection (if a romanticised heart exists),
And once again, I am your stead.
Not only miles apart,
But we are worlds apart.
Do I want you?
What is missing?
You are not mine, just like the Reader said.
You will never be mine, all "love" is dead.
You are not mine, so go ahead;
I will get over you.
Monday, June 3, 2013
The "dating" question...
I've been in love before. More than once actually so I know the accompanying feelings. For the past month and some change, I was seeing a guy who I can genuinely say I cared about. And while I can't speak for the other person and his feelings towards me, I'm sure on some level we both felt strongly for each other. We saw each other consistently, we slept together many nights, we lay in the dark and spoke about the deepest and stupidest shit there is. In essence, there was true intimacy.
At the same time, I continued to date other people (although not as consistently or consecutively) and I had sex with other men.
The last man I had sex with asked me an interesting question. The question wasn't interesting in itself, but upon reflection it raised a bunch of Carrie Bradshaw-esque personal musings. After we had sex, we were laying down cuddling and he asked, "Are you dating someone?"
I felt naked - and I was already naked so double whammy. I answered coyly along the lines of, "Aren't we all dating someone?" I don't know why I was afraid to say, "Yes, I'm dating someone" since in all fairness I was. Well, actually I do know why and it's pretty much the subject of this blog post: I was embarrassed to admit that I was dating someone yet had thrown caution to the wind and fucked somebody else.
In my older years, I've become hugely aware of the intricacies of human relationships. Commitment, dating, courtship, hooking up, friends with benefits, fuck buddies - all of these terms have very different rules and regulations. While some may be a lot less defined, there are still boundaries that one can and cannot cross.
Commitment, which is probably the most coveted and despised of the abovementioned, is like the holy grail to any single person who wants to be in love. It doesn't just mean going steady, it's runs the gamut of seeing each other almost everyday, spending very intimate moments together, being able to hold hands and kiss in public, sharing the deepest and darkest parts of yourself, sharing your life in almost all of its entirety and being completely vulnerable with someone all the while being stuck at the receiving end of their judgment.
Dating is a little harder to define. Personally, when dating someone I prefer the clean and simple. I can't date more than one person at the same time. It can get sticky, details, dates, situations and stories can get blurred and to be very honest, if I see someone more than four times it pretty much means I can see a future with them in some capacity. Sharing a part of yourself like that can be tiresome if you spread it out among multiple dating partners.
I did see the guy who asked me the "dating" question once again. We met for coffee in Chelsea and we had a conversation about sex. He asked me if I had bottomed for anyone since we had had sex (I had refused to bottom for him because, as I explained, I feel the need to have a certain level of emotional connection with a man before I can enjoy being penetrated by him). I didn't respond but that was enough of an answer for him to assume the worst. I think he was genuinely upset that I had let someone else fuck me but not him.
The interesting thing is even I felt a little weird after. Was I being some kind of slut martyr? What was the difference between dating someone and having sex with someone? Furthermore, the guy who I wasn't dating was actually sweet and hot and we did have an emotional connection which wasn't completely based on simple sexual tension. We had met before, we had conversed and were both very attracted to each other, not to mention I knew the possibility of dating him was on the table.
And even deeper than all of this, was the person I was actually dating even taking any of this into consideration? Not that it mattered much (except it totally did). I rarely fuck someone when I hook up with them. I'm not old fashioned but it takes a lot of emotional energy to stick a dick into a person and it is infinitely more pleasurable if it's someone I actually like, really like, really, really, really like or love. However, was this the case for the man I was seeing? Or was he fucking other people without the scruples I was holding on to?
The dating question also wasn't just transfixed on sex though. I was genuinely in like with a guy, a future would have been exciting, dare I say a relationship could have blossomed yet I was seeing other people and having sexual relations outside my courtship. The reason being that I felt like if nothing was said and no discussion about a probable future ever had, I was free to do whom I pleased. Except I never tried to broach the subject.
Early on in our relationship, I'd had a conversation with my dating partner and he had made it clear he "wasn't looking for a relationship" yet on the flipside he had told me (during the same conversation) the quest for love was paramount in his life - so even these confusing signals left me with an eyebrow raised and a straying penis. However, in other conversations he would say things like "our dating life is going well" or that we had a good thing going together or while he wasn't looking for a relationship, the natural flow would dictate more than he or I could.
So when does dating become DATING (caps intentional). And when does DATING become being open to something even more serious... like a relationship? While a month and a half is definitely not enough to know if I want to pursue a full fledged relationship, I wish I had brought up the topic just to bounce it off the other person. It's a confusing land, and the terrain isn't that well traversed. I remember being 15 and after making out with my first boyfriend, we hung out everyday and never even spoke about the fact that we were in a relationship - probably due to the fact that we were too young to even realise how earth-shattering and gravity-defying the word "relationship" tends to be. Is it that we just put too much weight on shit like commitment, or boyfriends, and we should just hop on board and hope for the best?
Or do we just need to program our minds differently when it comes to relationships and dating. Do these terms only hold the weight we apply to them? And if we don't apply any weight, or don't even think about the consequences of what they can possibly mean, would our dating lives/relationships be the better for it?
Something to ponder.
At the same time, I continued to date other people (although not as consistently or consecutively) and I had sex with other men.
The last man I had sex with asked me an interesting question. The question wasn't interesting in itself, but upon reflection it raised a bunch of Carrie Bradshaw-esque personal musings. After we had sex, we were laying down cuddling and he asked, "Are you dating someone?"
I felt naked - and I was already naked so double whammy. I answered coyly along the lines of, "Aren't we all dating someone?" I don't know why I was afraid to say, "Yes, I'm dating someone" since in all fairness I was. Well, actually I do know why and it's pretty much the subject of this blog post: I was embarrassed to admit that I was dating someone yet had thrown caution to the wind and fucked somebody else.
In my older years, I've become hugely aware of the intricacies of human relationships. Commitment, dating, courtship, hooking up, friends with benefits, fuck buddies - all of these terms have very different rules and regulations. While some may be a lot less defined, there are still boundaries that one can and cannot cross.
Commitment, which is probably the most coveted and despised of the abovementioned, is like the holy grail to any single person who wants to be in love. It doesn't just mean going steady, it's runs the gamut of seeing each other almost everyday, spending very intimate moments together, being able to hold hands and kiss in public, sharing the deepest and darkest parts of yourself, sharing your life in almost all of its entirety and being completely vulnerable with someone all the while being stuck at the receiving end of their judgment.
Dating is a little harder to define. Personally, when dating someone I prefer the clean and simple. I can't date more than one person at the same time. It can get sticky, details, dates, situations and stories can get blurred and to be very honest, if I see someone more than four times it pretty much means I can see a future with them in some capacity. Sharing a part of yourself like that can be tiresome if you spread it out among multiple dating partners.
I did see the guy who asked me the "dating" question once again. We met for coffee in Chelsea and we had a conversation about sex. He asked me if I had bottomed for anyone since we had had sex (I had refused to bottom for him because, as I explained, I feel the need to have a certain level of emotional connection with a man before I can enjoy being penetrated by him). I didn't respond but that was enough of an answer for him to assume the worst. I think he was genuinely upset that I had let someone else fuck me but not him.
The interesting thing is even I felt a little weird after. Was I being some kind of slut martyr? What was the difference between dating someone and having sex with someone? Furthermore, the guy who I wasn't dating was actually sweet and hot and we did have an emotional connection which wasn't completely based on simple sexual tension. We had met before, we had conversed and were both very attracted to each other, not to mention I knew the possibility of dating him was on the table.
And even deeper than all of this, was the person I was actually dating even taking any of this into consideration? Not that it mattered much (except it totally did). I rarely fuck someone when I hook up with them. I'm not old fashioned but it takes a lot of emotional energy to stick a dick into a person and it is infinitely more pleasurable if it's someone I actually like, really like, really, really, really like or love. However, was this the case for the man I was seeing? Or was he fucking other people without the scruples I was holding on to?
The dating question also wasn't just transfixed on sex though. I was genuinely in like with a guy, a future would have been exciting, dare I say a relationship could have blossomed yet I was seeing other people and having sexual relations outside my courtship. The reason being that I felt like if nothing was said and no discussion about a probable future ever had, I was free to do whom I pleased. Except I never tried to broach the subject.
Early on in our relationship, I'd had a conversation with my dating partner and he had made it clear he "wasn't looking for a relationship" yet on the flipside he had told me (during the same conversation) the quest for love was paramount in his life - so even these confusing signals left me with an eyebrow raised and a straying penis. However, in other conversations he would say things like "our dating life is going well" or that we had a good thing going together or while he wasn't looking for a relationship, the natural flow would dictate more than he or I could.
So when does dating become DATING (caps intentional). And when does DATING become being open to something even more serious... like a relationship? While a month and a half is definitely not enough to know if I want to pursue a full fledged relationship, I wish I had brought up the topic just to bounce it off the other person. It's a confusing land, and the terrain isn't that well traversed. I remember being 15 and after making out with my first boyfriend, we hung out everyday and never even spoke about the fact that we were in a relationship - probably due to the fact that we were too young to even realise how earth-shattering and gravity-defying the word "relationship" tends to be. Is it that we just put too much weight on shit like commitment, or boyfriends, and we should just hop on board and hope for the best?
Or do we just need to program our minds differently when it comes to relationships and dating. Do these terms only hold the weight we apply to them? And if we don't apply any weight, or don't even think about the consequences of what they can possibly mean, would our dating lives/relationships be the better for it?
Something to ponder.
The final days of my finer days (Part 1 - The one with two Trinis in New York)
In the spirit of blogging, as well as keeping a tab on the goings-on in my life, I've decided to write a post about the final days leading up to my absence from gay New York. They were a lot of fun (I don't think I slept for two weeks...) and I should document now before I forget everything that went down.
Dates are blurry but I'm going to try to type everything that I remember for the sake of remembering.
Here is a rundown of some of the characters I met in New York:
Ren and I had a great run - approximately a month and a half of dating consistently, seeing each other multiple times a week and in general having a great connection. He actually was the only person on my entire trip who I developed personal feelings for and actually cared about.
Martin is a guy I had met on OkCupid. He is Czech, was staying at a friend's in Far Rockaway and had only been in New York about a week before I met him. Subsequently he moved to an apartment on the Upper East Side with a guy named Robert. Martin also has a dog named Pablo who was brought across from Prague about two weeks after I met him. Martin and Robert were a big part of my final weeks in New York. I saw them frequently, we always had great conversations and Robert's fire escape was the scene of many great times. Robert is an art teacher at a private school in the Bronx. He paints and also designs clothing while Martin is a photographer/art director/creative type. Martin and I became really close since we share a lot of the same ideologies and outlooks, and we had intense conversations, funny conversations and a lot of fun together. He also is looking for a job currently, and since I didn't work we had a lot of free time to spend together.
Tali is a beautiful New Yorker I met one afternoon in February at the Ritz. I was alone, she was with a friend named Ronak across the bar from me. Ronak called me over in a friendly manner and we all started speaking. The rest is history. We became friends, I hung out with Ronak a few times and it was always fun but Tali and I especially became close since we both lived in New York and were young and didn't know many people. She lives in a beautiful studio overlooking 9 Ave in Hell's Kitchen, was always up for coming to gay bars with me and we fell in love with each other.
Two weeks before I left my friend Kristian from Trinidad visited (from Friday 17th May - Sunday 19th). It was amazing, considering I hadn't had any visitors in New York until he came. It was fun showing him around, feeling like I knew things about the city, etc. The first day we went to Times Square, had breakfast close by and then shopped like crazy teenage girls. Then we headed to Chelsea which was somewhat boring, on to the West Village where we drank copiously at Boots and Saddle, one of my favourite hangouts. After B&S, I took Kris to the East Village to Yuca Bar for their amazing mojitos. After that, everything was a blur. We got intensely drunk... at about 2PM in the East Village. It was funny, but it didn't feel funny at the time. I was hunched over on a stoop on E 7th Street for about an hour while Kristian took numerous compromising photos of me. An example of such photos:
Kris was staying in Williamsburg so at about 4PM we headed there and completely passed out in his bed, only to wake up around 10PM to text messages and a voicemail from Ren since we were supposed to meet him in Times Square to see The Great Gatsby. Suffice to say, I felt like a dumbass for a) ruining Kris' first night in New York and b) standing up Ren when I really wanted to see him. All worked out well though, since I sent Ren a text and he told me to come spend the night at his place anyway which I did gladly and Kris was admittedly tired after his 12-hour bus ride from Toronto and wanted to rest up.
The next day, I messaged Kris to meet me on Christopher Street with specific instructions on which trains to take. Of course he took the right train lines but went in the opposite direction which was hilarious. He ended up at Penn Station/34th Street instead of taking a Downtown 1 train to Christopher. All in all, it was an adventure for him and he did eventually make it (like a true New Yorker). There was a fair on Christopher Street so we walked around for a bit, had massive sausage dogs that weren't as delicious as they were impressive, then decided to head to the Staten Island Ferry terminal so he could see the Statue of Liberty. The plan was to take the ferry itself to SI so we could get some views of Lady Liberty and he could snap some pictures, but the terminal was paaaacked and Liberty Island didn't open until Memorial Day (which was the following weekend) so we just went upstairs and viewed the statue through the glass windows of the ferry terminal.
It was a pretty dreary day (contrasted to the beautiful weather of the day before) and we headed back uptown to Hell's Kitchen where there was also a huge street fair on 9th Avenue. The events that followed were both hilarious, terrible and fun.
We first headed to Rudy's which had become one of my go-to spots. Free hot dogs and $3 beer was like heaven. After eating and polishing off some beer on the rainy outside patio, we went to Posh on W51st where Kristian flirted shamelessly with the very cute bartender. His name was Ricky (like Martin), he was Latino (like Martin) and his body was super fucking cut (like Martin). I asked to touch his nipple and he was very gung ho for it. I will hold that cherished memory close to my heart for the rest of my life.
After getting slightly sloshed at Posh, we headed to Boxer's on 50th. By far, the most fun I'd had in Boxer's my entire trip was with Kristian (which makes sense. Trinis know how to party). After being there for about half hour I went downstairs to use the facilities. Back upstairs, Kristian is taking pictures with a huge group of drag queens and ladies. I jumped into the picture, excited that we had made new friends. These drag queens were serious. They had had a show earlier that day at Traffic and were crazy. One of them really liked Kristian and he showed us his picture of him as a guy (he was infinitely cuter as a man, which almost never happens for DQs but who were we to judge?) After getting smashed yet again, I made out with who I presumed was a cokehead from Alabama who I had met on the street in the fair. He was cute (although Kris insisted he wasn't), I was drunk and it was funny. We behaved badly, went down into the restrooms and fooled around for a bit. I would've felt like a whore except I was drunk, it was Saturday and why the fuck shouldn't I?
Upstairs once again, a guy who was hanging out with the drag queens and I started to have a conversation. He was a red-haired Jew who wore glasses. Again, I thought he was cute and Kristian argued that he wasn't (he was probably just jealous that he could only pick up a drag queen. Snap) and this guy and I proceeded to make out, do dirty acts and then got thrown out of Boxers. It. Was. Awesome. I'd never been thrown out of anywhere in New York, plus the fact that it was Boxers was poignant and hilarious.
I found Kris, told him I was getting the boot out of the bar and we left with Kirsten, one of the drag queens' friends. She was going to a friend's apartment in HK and invited us to come along. Kristian peed on someone's stoop (which was funnier while we were drunk but slightly horrendous to think about in retrospect) and we headed to Kirsten's friends' place. They had a beautiful apartment overlooking 10 Ave and we drank some more, flirted with the guys whose apartment we were at, went to the roof and took a bunch of pictures like piny tourists, compared penises (because what else do gay guys do in New York?) and engaged in tons of debauchery.
When we left, Kris headed back to Williamsburg and I went to Ren's apartment to spend the night.
On Kristian's last day (Sunday 19th), we had breakfast in Brooklyn and then took the G train all the way to Park Slope which takes fucking forever. After that we headed to Times Square to meet one of his mum's friends, Lisa, who lives in Greenwich Village. We had a lot of fun with her, she was gracious and funny and kept buying us alcohol. First we went to a bar off 42 Street which was alright. Then we headed uptown to collect some documents and then went to the Meatpacking District for more alcohol. The Meatpacking is beautiful - everyone is trendy and fancy and shiny. After that we had some dinner in Chelsea and then bade Lisa goodbye. I dropped Kris off at Port Authority and we had a tearful goodbye, then I headed to Ren's again to spend the night.
All in all, Kristian's weekend was a lot of fun. We're best friends and I hadn't seen him in months and probably won't again for many more (he lives in Canada now) so it was nice to reunite in the Empire State. Very fitting :).
Dates are blurry but I'm going to try to type everything that I remember for the sake of remembering.
Here is a rundown of some of the characters I met in New York:
Ren and I had a great run - approximately a month and a half of dating consistently, seeing each other multiple times a week and in general having a great connection. He actually was the only person on my entire trip who I developed personal feelings for and actually cared about.
Martin is a guy I had met on OkCupid. He is Czech, was staying at a friend's in Far Rockaway and had only been in New York about a week before I met him. Subsequently he moved to an apartment on the Upper East Side with a guy named Robert. Martin also has a dog named Pablo who was brought across from Prague about two weeks after I met him. Martin and Robert were a big part of my final weeks in New York. I saw them frequently, we always had great conversations and Robert's fire escape was the scene of many great times. Robert is an art teacher at a private school in the Bronx. He paints and also designs clothing while Martin is a photographer/art director/creative type. Martin and I became really close since we share a lot of the same ideologies and outlooks, and we had intense conversations, funny conversations and a lot of fun together. He also is looking for a job currently, and since I didn't work we had a lot of free time to spend together.
Tali is a beautiful New Yorker I met one afternoon in February at the Ritz. I was alone, she was with a friend named Ronak across the bar from me. Ronak called me over in a friendly manner and we all started speaking. The rest is history. We became friends, I hung out with Ronak a few times and it was always fun but Tali and I especially became close since we both lived in New York and were young and didn't know many people. She lives in a beautiful studio overlooking 9 Ave in Hell's Kitchen, was always up for coming to gay bars with me and we fell in love with each other.
Two weeks before I left my friend Kristian from Trinidad visited (from Friday 17th May - Sunday 19th). It was amazing, considering I hadn't had any visitors in New York until he came. It was fun showing him around, feeling like I knew things about the city, etc. The first day we went to Times Square, had breakfast close by and then shopped like crazy teenage girls. Then we headed to Chelsea which was somewhat boring, on to the West Village where we drank copiously at Boots and Saddle, one of my favourite hangouts. After B&S, I took Kris to the East Village to Yuca Bar for their amazing mojitos. After that, everything was a blur. We got intensely drunk... at about 2PM in the East Village. It was funny, but it didn't feel funny at the time. I was hunched over on a stoop on E 7th Street for about an hour while Kristian took numerous compromising photos of me. An example of such photos:
Kris was staying in Williamsburg so at about 4PM we headed there and completely passed out in his bed, only to wake up around 10PM to text messages and a voicemail from Ren since we were supposed to meet him in Times Square to see The Great Gatsby. Suffice to say, I felt like a dumbass for a) ruining Kris' first night in New York and b) standing up Ren when I really wanted to see him. All worked out well though, since I sent Ren a text and he told me to come spend the night at his place anyway which I did gladly and Kris was admittedly tired after his 12-hour bus ride from Toronto and wanted to rest up.
The next day, I messaged Kris to meet me on Christopher Street with specific instructions on which trains to take. Of course he took the right train lines but went in the opposite direction which was hilarious. He ended up at Penn Station/34th Street instead of taking a Downtown 1 train to Christopher. All in all, it was an adventure for him and he did eventually make it (like a true New Yorker). There was a fair on Christopher Street so we walked around for a bit, had massive sausage dogs that weren't as delicious as they were impressive, then decided to head to the Staten Island Ferry terminal so he could see the Statue of Liberty. The plan was to take the ferry itself to SI so we could get some views of Lady Liberty and he could snap some pictures, but the terminal was paaaacked and Liberty Island didn't open until Memorial Day (which was the following weekend) so we just went upstairs and viewed the statue through the glass windows of the ferry terminal.
It was a pretty dreary day (contrasted to the beautiful weather of the day before) and we headed back uptown to Hell's Kitchen where there was also a huge street fair on 9th Avenue. The events that followed were both hilarious, terrible and fun.
We first headed to Rudy's which had become one of my go-to spots. Free hot dogs and $3 beer was like heaven. After eating and polishing off some beer on the rainy outside patio, we went to Posh on W51st where Kristian flirted shamelessly with the very cute bartender. His name was Ricky (like Martin), he was Latino (like Martin) and his body was super fucking cut (like Martin). I asked to touch his nipple and he was very gung ho for it. I will hold that cherished memory close to my heart for the rest of my life.
After getting slightly sloshed at Posh, we headed to Boxer's on 50th. By far, the most fun I'd had in Boxer's my entire trip was with Kristian (which makes sense. Trinis know how to party). After being there for about half hour I went downstairs to use the facilities. Back upstairs, Kristian is taking pictures with a huge group of drag queens and ladies. I jumped into the picture, excited that we had made new friends. These drag queens were serious. They had had a show earlier that day at Traffic and were crazy. One of them really liked Kristian and he showed us his picture of him as a guy (he was infinitely cuter as a man, which almost never happens for DQs but who were we to judge?) After getting smashed yet again, I made out with who I presumed was a cokehead from Alabama who I had met on the street in the fair. He was cute (although Kris insisted he wasn't), I was drunk and it was funny. We behaved badly, went down into the restrooms and fooled around for a bit. I would've felt like a whore except I was drunk, it was Saturday and why the fuck shouldn't I?
Upstairs once again, a guy who was hanging out with the drag queens and I started to have a conversation. He was a red-haired Jew who wore glasses. Again, I thought he was cute and Kristian argued that he wasn't (he was probably just jealous that he could only pick up a drag queen. Snap) and this guy and I proceeded to make out, do dirty acts and then got thrown out of Boxers. It. Was. Awesome. I'd never been thrown out of anywhere in New York, plus the fact that it was Boxers was poignant and hilarious.
I found Kris, told him I was getting the boot out of the bar and we left with Kirsten, one of the drag queens' friends. She was going to a friend's apartment in HK and invited us to come along. Kristian peed on someone's stoop (which was funnier while we were drunk but slightly horrendous to think about in retrospect) and we headed to Kirsten's friends' place. They had a beautiful apartment overlooking 10 Ave and we drank some more, flirted with the guys whose apartment we were at, went to the roof and took a bunch of pictures like piny tourists, compared penises (because what else do gay guys do in New York?) and engaged in tons of debauchery.
When we left, Kris headed back to Williamsburg and I went to Ren's apartment to spend the night.
On Kristian's last day (Sunday 19th), we had breakfast in Brooklyn and then took the G train all the way to Park Slope which takes fucking forever. After that we headed to Times Square to meet one of his mum's friends, Lisa, who lives in Greenwich Village. We had a lot of fun with her, she was gracious and funny and kept buying us alcohol. First we went to a bar off 42 Street which was alright. Then we headed uptown to collect some documents and then went to the Meatpacking District for more alcohol. The Meatpacking is beautiful - everyone is trendy and fancy and shiny. After that we had some dinner in Chelsea and then bade Lisa goodbye. I dropped Kris off at Port Authority and we had a tearful goodbye, then I headed to Ren's again to spend the night.
All in all, Kristian's weekend was a lot of fun. We're best friends and I hadn't seen him in months and probably won't again for many more (he lives in Canada now) so it was nice to reunite in the Empire State. Very fitting :).
Monday, April 22, 2013
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.
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.
Thursday, April 11, 2013
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.
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.
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