Dating sometimes poses big problems
Many years ago, in the PH era (pre-Hubby), I was a single guy on the scene in NYC. This was not as charming as it might sound to some of you. Oh, yes, there are far more gay men to hunt for a boyfriend among here in this city than in any other locale in the country, but that in itself causes a few problems. The first is that many men are infected with the concept "Well, this guy is great, but what if there is someone better out there?" The second is "Will I be limiting myself by settling with one guy?" There are more, but those two are the big ones. In smaller places these thoughts are often not as prominent, as the pool is smaller and one must act on a good opportunity.
Thus, my meeting men had for some time consisted of frantic sheet tangling a few times followed by nothing. This was ultimately unsatisfactory, so I turned to the electronic medium.
And I don't mean Manhunt.
I carefully crafted a profile on Match.com, and waited to see what would happen. Now, I am the sort who gets picked up or chosen, rather than the aggressor. I put myself out there, whether at a bar or online, and wait and see. I'm not good at starting things. So I put up my profile and waited for them to turn up. And they did.
As anyone who has used such a service can attest, the freaks show up first. The ones who start out the conversation in a pornographic manner. Those were ignored. Then there were the guys who started out well, but for a variety of reasons (some of them shallow) I simply couldn't see myself dating. Then came the interesting ones. I met four really interesting men in a row, who had good jobs, sane profiles, and were fun to talk to. So I started going on dates.
And I was a good boy. No frantic shagging on the first date. However, being gay, the second dates were another story.
I remember the bigshot exec from Nickelodeon, who lived in a fabulously decorated apartment and who took me on a fantastic dinner date with great conversation. We eventually retired to his place, and began canoodling on the couch. I remember becoming gradually aware of this other ... presence ... on the couch with us, right between us in fact. And it just kept getting larger. And larger. And larger. As it turned out, bigshot was endowed in a manner I hadn't even seen in pornography. Endowed to the point that there was simply nothing that could be done with it, other than put a ribbon on it and declare it "Best in Show." And, of course, he was a total top.
Not. Happening. Wearing Depends for the next 40 years was not appealing. So I had to break it off.
Next up was the theater producer (yes, how New York). He was stunning, well over six feet tall, and charming. He took me on two dates where we had fantastic seats to the hottest shows in town. He was a blast to talk to. So, after date two, we retired to his place. To my shock and horror, the exact same scenario played out on his living room couch. While not quite "Best in Show," it was still in the category of "Only Suitable for Those Who Can Insert a Traffic Cone." And, again, he was a total top.
Next.
Third try was a pharmaceuticals exec, fifteen years older than me, but handsome in a silver-fox way that made the knees week. Oh, he was a charmer. Though much shorter than me, he was one of those guys who just radiated confidence and brains. Second date rolls around. Back to his place. The unveiling: I've seen jackhammers that were less intimidating. At this point I am laughing internally to myself. Three in a row and all unmanageable to me. And all of them exclusive tops. Hundreds of thousands of gay men would have killed their grandmothers for these scenarios, but despite my VALIANT ATTEMPTS in each case to make it work, they were simply impossible.
I tried. I TRIED. And it just wasn't going to work.
My last attempt was the firefighter. Who was totally gorgeous. Totally sexy. Totally manageable in that category. And six months later turned out to have been TOTALLY lying to me about every single thing about us, himself, and our relationship.
So I deleted my Match.com account, and set aside the idea of dating for a while. Three weeks later this obnoxious English guy picks me up in a bar in Provincetown for some sweaty wrestling. And here we are, so many years later, watching TV on the couch on Tuesday evenings.
You find love as you can. Some impediments, however, are insurmountable.
Or simply not mountable.
Thus, my meeting men had for some time consisted of frantic sheet tangling a few times followed by nothing. This was ultimately unsatisfactory, so I turned to the electronic medium.
And I don't mean Manhunt.
I carefully crafted a profile on Match.com, and waited to see what would happen. Now, I am the sort who gets picked up or chosen, rather than the aggressor. I put myself out there, whether at a bar or online, and wait and see. I'm not good at starting things. So I put up my profile and waited for them to turn up. And they did.
As anyone who has used such a service can attest, the freaks show up first. The ones who start out the conversation in a pornographic manner. Those were ignored. Then there were the guys who started out well, but for a variety of reasons (some of them shallow) I simply couldn't see myself dating. Then came the interesting ones. I met four really interesting men in a row, who had good jobs, sane profiles, and were fun to talk to. So I started going on dates.
And I was a good boy. No frantic shagging on the first date. However, being gay, the second dates were another story.
I remember the bigshot exec from Nickelodeon, who lived in a fabulously decorated apartment and who took me on a fantastic dinner date with great conversation. We eventually retired to his place, and began canoodling on the couch. I remember becoming gradually aware of this other ... presence ... on the couch with us, right between us in fact. And it just kept getting larger. And larger. And larger. As it turned out, bigshot was endowed in a manner I hadn't even seen in pornography. Endowed to the point that there was simply nothing that could be done with it, other than put a ribbon on it and declare it "Best in Show." And, of course, he was a total top.
Not. Happening. Wearing Depends for the next 40 years was not appealing. So I had to break it off.
Next up was the theater producer (yes, how New York). He was stunning, well over six feet tall, and charming. He took me on two dates where we had fantastic seats to the hottest shows in town. He was a blast to talk to. So, after date two, we retired to his place. To my shock and horror, the exact same scenario played out on his living room couch. While not quite "Best in Show," it was still in the category of "Only Suitable for Those Who Can Insert a Traffic Cone." And, again, he was a total top.
Next.
Third try was a pharmaceuticals exec, fifteen years older than me, but handsome in a silver-fox way that made the knees week. Oh, he was a charmer. Though much shorter than me, he was one of those guys who just radiated confidence and brains. Second date rolls around. Back to his place. The unveiling: I've seen jackhammers that were less intimidating. At this point I am laughing internally to myself. Three in a row and all unmanageable to me. And all of them exclusive tops. Hundreds of thousands of gay men would have killed their grandmothers for these scenarios, but despite my VALIANT ATTEMPTS in each case to make it work, they were simply impossible.
I tried. I TRIED. And it just wasn't going to work.
My last attempt was the firefighter. Who was totally gorgeous. Totally sexy. Totally manageable in that category. And six months later turned out to have been TOTALLY lying to me about every single thing about us, himself, and our relationship.
So I deleted my Match.com account, and set aside the idea of dating for a while. Three weeks later this obnoxious English guy picks me up in a bar in Provincetown for some sweaty wrestling. And here we are, so many years later, watching TV on the couch on Tuesday evenings.
You find love as you can. Some impediments, however, are insurmountable.
Or simply not mountable.