I have nothing to say, nothing to write about. Everything on my mind seems too difficult to mention right now. Are we clear? There’s nothing serious tonight, people, just nonsense. So, what else is there to talk about other than what’s really going on with me? Perhaps some random bullshit will do, maybe I’ll tell you about one of the off putting, and somewhat humorous aspects of my personality: my blunt-force honest style, and lack of discernment; and how this combo platter lands me in all sorts of uncomfortable scenarios such as this:
So I’ve been looking for a gay-boyfriend to hang out with, someone fun, safe and like-minded to run around with and kick up a little mischief. Basically, I need a playmate. I’m not interested in dating anyone, and most of my friends are either straight and married with children, wife’d-up lesbians, or single-lesbians who want to be more than just friends, or single-straight women with different agendas. Again, another case of self-indulgent, dramatic, upper-middle class, gay-white girl problems, this is the real world I’m living in over here in my city- tree house. Blink twice if you think I’m joking.
So I set my sights on this certain handsome fellow. He seemed to meet all the criteria of my desired private boy-toy: Attractive, active, not too flamboyant, and well-dressed. I was in yoga, and he appeared, fantastic, we already have something in common. I saw his ken-doll-perfect hairstyle, almost like he was wearing a helmet. He wore a matching Lu Lu Lemon (expensive and trendy yoga, and athletic wear) yoga uniform, (I know straight, beefy guys wear this shit too, but I’ve never seen one completely match like this before.) He set his designer, and color coordinated yoga mat, block, water bottle and strap next to my yoga set-up. I was envious of his gear, damn the man was straight up more high maintenance than I, which I didn’t think was possible, I loved this about him.
Once he settled on his mat I glanced over and gave him a Wrigley’s spearmint–smile. He smiled back. Class started. We flowed together; we twisted, turned, balanced, and stood on our hands and forearms. Our movements always seemed to be in sync, I was certain we were going to be the best of friends. Or at least go on tour together as a synchronized yoga team.
At one point he did a super fancy trick, I gave him the thumbs up and said, “Nice.” He nodded. That earned him some serious respect. I thought for sure we were going to couple-skate on every gay-bar in town. Well, not really, I’m not that wild, but I thought we’d at least enjoy a few sun-filled patios in mid-town and a couple of bottles of wine together.
Class ended, I went in for the crush. I wiped my Betty Davis–as Sweet Baby Jane—eyes that were dripping-black with mascara and leaned over towards him and said, “Great practice.” He laughed and said, “Yeah, you too. You have beautiful energy.” “Thank you.” I said, “I do what I can.” He took a sip and toweled off. I knew I needed to act fast. “Is this your first time here? I’ve never seen you before. You look like you’ve been practicing for a long time. You’re amazing.” (Cause every gay man loves a compliment. Who doesn’t?) He was mine. He grinned, laughed again, blushed and said, “No, I’ve been here a few times before, but I usually go to a studio in Charlotte. I travel to Atlanta, for business once or twice a month. “ What? That’s a bummer.” I said. “I thought I’d found a new friend.” He was amused. “We can still be friends.”
I was a little disappointed. I needed my new friend to be a little more geographically stable. I said, “How long will you be in town?” He replied, “Well, I usually don’t like to stay all week because I have a daughter.” The gears in my brain sort of hiccuped, but then I thought, well, yes a gay man can have a child, too. So I said, “Oh, who keeps her while you’re traveling?” “My ex has her during the week. We got divorced over a year ago, and that’s when I started yoga. My life was in transition.” I was a little concerned at this point, but I kept moving forward with my questioning, knowing that yes, a gay man can also be married and get divorced, that his ex-spouse could indeed have custody. But just in case, I was very specific and deliberate about my next line of the inquisition. “Does your ex live near you?” “Yes,” he said, “SHE lives a few miles away from me in Charlotte.” I still didn’t fully accept what I was hearing. He couldn’t be straight, no fucking way, not with that accent, tight ass and coiffed hairdo. My mind scrambled. Maybe we were alike: straight to gay. So I went further, and without a drop of couth. There wasn’t any way around it other than to just come out with it, and because I needed to know. “ Listen, you probably think I’ve been hitting you on you but I wasn’t. I thought you were gay.” And then I dropped my eyes on him just waiting for a response.
He scrambled, and laughed uncomfortably. “No, I’m not gay, but you can hit on me.” My dreams and plans for us were crumbling. There would be no walks in the park, no bitchy comments passed between us, no war of the wits, our relationship fell flat in those undefined sexual undertones he set down before me, we didn’t have a chance. I shut that shit down quick. I told him, “I’d probably rather hit on your wife, If you know what I mean? I held his gaze–one eyebrow lifted–until he was forced to look away.
I stood, rolled up my mat and told him, “Well, it was nice to meet you. I’m Shannon, by the way.” He reached out his hand; I took it in mine. He told me his name, which I have sense forgotten, and said to him, “Until we meet again.” And then I turned, dropping his hand, looking over my shoulder, as I walked out the door. I was pissed. How could my new boyfriend be straight? The problem is that he’s not really straight at all, but he just doesn’t know it yet. And to think, he could’ve been mine. We would’ve been so cute together. But I need a real gay man, a man that totally owns his gayness and doesn’t even think he might want or is supposed to want a piece of me. Sigh.
“Where have all the real men gone and where are all the gods?” I’m holding out for a gay-hero until the end of the night, he’s gotta be strong, and he’s gotta be fast and he’s gotta be fresh from the fight.” I need a gay-hero.