I have a valid gay-card. I’m up-to-date on fashions, know the latest news on Britney Spears and I’m on the “Repeal Prop 8″ mailing lists. I create new phrases at whim and my whit can get me out of the toughest situations without even having to bat my eyelashes. None of this prepared me for my next date…
We met in the most romantic place on earth…the internets.
He started the conversation and we talked over the course of several days. His pictures were cute and his body looked amazing. While younger than what I generally go for, he seemed to have the whit I required and could actually hold a conversation… well, as much of a conversation you can have online…
We finally chatted on the phone and agreed on a date. We met at my apartment (which at that time was on the 17th floor and had a great view of the city – it’s a guarantee lay). After giving a tour of my spacious 570 square foot apartment, we walked to a local (up-scale) pizzeria. The food was great! I forget what we ordered, but we ate it all (he actually ate one of “my” slices). While the food, wine and atmosphere was the setting of a perfect date, things went downhill quickly. The wine would be necessary later.
First, I must have missed it on the phone, but as soon as he opened his mouth, a purse fell out.
I thought, “Wow. This dude is gayer than me. Good thing he’s pretty.” So sad for a well-built body to go to such waist.
Through the course of our conversation, I discovered that what I let go as just “working retail” actually meant that he works at the MAC cosmetic store. (I instantly became self-aware of my skin, but took confidence in my Clinique for Men regimen). It’s a respectable job – and he was young, so surely he had career goals and a plan.
To my suprise, he did. He was currently in beauty school (cue the song from Grease).
Please pause to allow this to set in.
…
Now, don’t get me wrong. Many wonderful people are beauticians – however you define it. They are necessary and I patron their establishments frequently. But, let’s face it. It’s not gonna work out. I need someone that’s off on weekends.
Not wanting this to get in the way of a good fuck later in the evening, I had another glass of wine and let it pass.
This date was during the early summer, so “Slave to Beauty” was wearing a baby blue deep V-neck shirt and skinny jeans that hugged all the right places. The sleeves on the shirt cut perfectly along his well built, but not massive biceps. And as I was checking him out during dinner, I noticed he had a tattoo on the inside left bicep. I couldn’t really tell what it was and since our conversation was going no where beyond Britney, boots or boobs, I decided to ask what it was.
He, in all of his pride, lifted his shirt and flexed his muscle to reveal a stylized tattoo of “Slave to Beauty.” He then went on to talk about how Paris Hilton was an idol of his…
First, LMFAO (laugh my fucking ass off)!
Second, if only I could have seen my facial reaction – it would’ve been priceless! I lack any ability to mask my emotions on my face – it’s a blessing and a curse.
Third, how the hell can I end this date within the next 30 seconds? Can I choke on the crust, have them call an ambulance and on the way to the hospital, wake up and tell them to drop by the liquor store on the way back to my apt?
I drank another glass of wine while he continued his story. While blurry, at this point, I’m pretty sure I kept a straight face. I know for sure that I didn’t do a spit take (which that would make a great story). Thankfully, this all happened at the end of dinner. I promptly asked for the check and we walked back to my apt. I ended the evening in the building’s lobby and sent him on his way…
There would not be a second date – only awkward moments when I see him out (which is like everytime I seem to go out).
So, we call him “Slave to Beauty.” It’s classic…
