A few months earlier, Frank said to me, “I don’t really think I have time for an unhealthy relationship with you. I need to work on fixing the unhealthy relationship I have with myself. And I’m not going to apologize for that. So, until next time!”
Once upon a time, a confused gay boy who was still not over his last love took a chance. By confused gay boy, I obviously mean myself, but I’ll deny it if anyone asks. In any case, I went out with a guy, although he wasn’t necessarily my type – at least physically. Denver has some meat on him, but mostly some serious muscle. You know, he’s the type of guy who can decapitate you and tie the rest of your body into a knot with his bare hands if he wanted to – a little much for me. He even seriously warned me about some of his former sex partners having lost consciousness during. I didn’t know if I thought this was promising or scary. His brawn, however, was balanced by the most insightful and beautiful brains I’ve encountered in LA. He was so smart, in fact, that we skipped all the traditional small talk and coy games of the first date. At least he did.
“I really am very shy,” I said, confident in my certainty that I’m a shy person. We were alone in his car, so I didn’t feel the pressure of an audience.
“I don’t buy it,” Denver said looking at me with his hazel eyes, which stand out dramatically against his very dark skin.
“What do I have to do to prove to you that I’m a shy person?” I asked with a smile.
“Why don’t you just come over here and kiss me?” His eyes didn’t flinch for one second as he said this. He didn’t even do the cute eye batting and smirking traditionally associated with a first kiss. He was dead serious, and that’s when I knew I really liked him. He’s a know-it-all, I thought to myself. My heart raced as it remembered this type of person: self-assured, successful, sadistic – the perfect complement for an emotional mess. Just like Frank, my unconscious whispered, but I ignore it. I try to kiss Denver, with the thought of Frank and all, but all he got was a shy peck.
“OK. That was weak,” Denver says, “That was like the kiss you give grandma!”
“No,” I reply laughing at my embarrassingly weak kiss. “Grandma usually gets tongue.”
“Is that right? I wonder what mom gets.”
“She usually gets head.” I say as he gives my giggles a real kiss.
With the idea of maternal fellatio in the air, it didn’t take much coaxing for me to invite him over to my place. He went on to approve of my movie and book collections – he also likes Miyazaki and high literature. Denver even quoted Shakespeare’s Sonnet No. 6, which in my book would’ve gotten any other guy laid. In this case, it worked the other way around, though: when I like a guy a lot (and I’m sober), I tend to not put out (at least the whole way). Instead, we cuddled and talked the rest of the night – and like the classy girl that I can be, I had a hidden hard-on the whole time. But somehow I didn’t enjoy Denver as much as I wish I had. He didn’t seem to be the guy I pictured myself with. A part of me wondered if it was because of his looks: tall, dark, and handsome, but so much bigger than myself in both bulk and height that the pairing seemed unnatural. It’s kind of hard to imagine a reindeer and a moose in a long-term relationship. The other part of me was hoping that it was indeed my superficiality stopping me, and not that I’d regress to thinking about Frank again: the last son-of-a-bitch who broke my heart.
The next night, I texted Denver fairly early. When I didn’t get a reply the whole day, I was unable to sleep. I kept thinking that I still didn’t see myself with Denver, but I wanted him to see himself with me. Why wasn’t he replying? Had he read my mind? If so, did he not like what he read? What if a tribe of ninjas whose only purpose in life is ruining my love life killed him? That can happen, right? Being in the delicate existentialist crisis I was in, I did what any decent sex blogger in my position would’ve done – field work!
I called Kyle, a six-foot-four-inches tall, blue-eyed, blonde German guy with the type of body you only see in magazines or the West Hollywood crowd. I had gone out with Kyle a few months ago, and hadn’t called him again because he’s sensation-seeker type; he only wants to have a good time, no fuss and especially no muss. I would retell how the conversation with Kyle went, but hearing the word “shwanz” (German for cock, naturally) about five times per sentence gets old rather quickly. Happily, that kind of conversation is much more compelling in the nude. Or so I thought.
“You know why I really love going back to Germany?” he asks rhetorically with the type of surfer-with-no-IQ voice you can only pull off if you look like Kyle and you’re taking your clothes off. “The sausage, ha!”
We started making out, and it went well for a while. That is, until the words “the sausage” began to repeat themselves over and over again in my head – taunting me with the promise of the Oscar Meyer theme song instead of an orgasm! That, and I heard my phone receiving text messages, most likely from Denver. What is my problem? I thought. I have him: the Gay ideal, perfectly naked in my arms, but my heart is evidently not into it (especially considering it didn’t pump enough blood for my schwanz to rise for the occasion). I left Kyle’s apartment both embarrassed and disappointed. What was I even trying to prove? I suppose that at least I figured out that a moose and a reindeer make a better couple than a reindeer and a wiener.
The next day I was ready to marry Denver: great conversations, mutual erections, similar interests, almost identical tastes, and most importantly, no mentions of sausage. What’s not to love about that? Well, I sadly figured out the answer to that question that same night. I slept over at his place, which is a good sign that he doesn’t think I’m some kind of psychopath who needs potty training. The place was immaculate – not one thing out of order, except for a very sloppy new guest. Comfortable in his home, he revealed he’s the type that pulls your hair to him when he wants a kiss as The Carpenters played a deceptively sweet tune in the background. The second time he pulled my hair, my prideful part was reaching its limit, but the masochistic part of me was more than titillated. I went along with it for a while. All in the name of research, of course.
And I even liked the rough ride, until he opened that know-it-all mouth of his, “By the way, don’t go falling in love with me, alright!”
It caught me off-guard, like being hit by a car when you’re parked. I asked in the most composed manner I could manage, “Why not?”
“Just don’t do it,” he replied as if his instruction had been to not touch fire: self-evident. I hate when they do that.
“Why not?” I asked again, looking him in the eye. It was difficult to maintain eye contact with a guy as strong as Denver, but not as difficult as not hearing his answer.
“Fine,” he replied casually. “I’m in a stage in my life in which I can’t afford to pay too much attention to love. I have a career where I have to travel and work ridiculous hours: not necessarily the schedule most conducive to a relationship.”
He had practically repeated Frank’s last words to me verbatim. I obviously can’t stop attracting and being attracted to the same man – even when he has a different body and a different name. The problem hadn’t been Denver’s looks at all; the problem was that he wasn’t Frank – just some of the things about Frank that had hurt me most. I didn’t have sex with Denver that night either. Two misses in one week – if I were a straight guy, I’d feel emasculated. Instead, being the apparently atypical gay man that I am, I just felt lonely. As it turns out, loneliness is not caused by not having company, but by lacking the company you truly wish you had. I suppose this sex-blogging deer will have to keep going stag – at least for now.