Dumping Ground

            He dumped me the night of prom.

            That would sound much more shocking and heart-breaking if I wasn’t twenty-six and chaperone at the time.  And also if it wasn’t the third time he’d dumped me.

            There are two vastly different camps on the battlefield of breaking up.  One is either the dumped or the dumper.  Very rarely do the two warring sides come together in the amicable peace treaty of a mutual dissolution. More often, retelling the story of the break up, we begin with the phrase: “I never saw it coming …”

            There we are, blissfully sunning ourselves on the sun-drenched beaches of a seemingly solid, stable relationship when the drone of a bomb squad thunders in from the horizon.  Their hatches open and bombs drop,  We need to talk screams from the sky, hurtling towards us with stupefying speed.  The earth beside us explodes as I’m just not happy throws sand into the air.  The flaming debris of It’s not you, it’s me rains back down into the smoking crater as we scuttle to crouch, trembling, next to the yet unexploded We can still be friends.

            It’s a rite of passage, this psychological warfare we call breaking up.  Show me one person who has dated one—and only one—person their entire life and I will show you a person who lives entirely in their head.  It’s an odd dance we do though, with the stakes raising ever higher as we age.  As children and teens, we are expected to fall in and out of love with the changing seasons.  We applaud our children as they mature into heartbreakers and publically count the devastated trail of lovers they leave in their wake.  Parents affectionately clap their children on the back, beaming, and proclaim to all within earshot, “Yup, this one’s going to break a lot of hearts!”  Much rarer is the scene of a parent cradling their brood in the crook of their arm, stroking their hair gingerly, whispering, embarrassed, “Sadly, this one will get her heart broken too many times to count.”

            But broken-hearted in high school , we find solace in our parents, who assure us that it has to happen to everyone, that we’ll look back on this in our adult years and realize that it wasn’t all that big of a deal.  We are promised that it will get better.

            But it doesn’t.  In young adulthood, dating becomes auditioning a mate.  We are expected to filter through an expansive list of potential lovers and filter down to the promising few.  If we are twenty-two and casually dating our way through an ever-expanding Rolodex, we are reminded that you have to kiss a lot of frogs to find your prince.  If we are twenty-six and without a long-term romance, we begin to receive the not-so-silent reminders that our parents were married and pregnant by the time they were our age.  Every phone call and email home becomes a fresh opportunity for Mom and Pop to thump their finger on our biological clock, setting off the deafening ticking.  At twenty-nine, parents abandon all hope and lavish their love on your pets, substitutes for the grandchildren they’ve realized you will never provide them.  The sad part is, our parents aren’t the only ones abandoning hope like miners trapped in a collapsed mine.

            As relationships flamed out in college, I was unperturbed.  Somewhere in the instinctual, primitive, nomadic corners of my mind, I knew it was all temporary anyway.  Why get hung up on the end of something which had a definite expiration date from the moment of production?

            The anxiety increased substantially as I aged.  As I grew older, I lost the rosy optimism of youth, and the concussive blast of each ended relationship rang in my ears and stunned me senseless.  The end of my first post-college relationship I’m willing to label as approaching healthy and stable left me shell-shocked for months, painfully paranoid it all meant I would die alone, my body undiscovered for weeks and partially eaten by my cats when neighbors finally called to complain about the stench wafting in through the air ducts.

            In retrospect, I realize that we were two vastly different people and the third (and final) breakup was perhaps the healthiest thing that could have happened in our relationship.  In retrospect, I realize that we would have never been content living each other’s life, as I derived no joy from dancing on the bar in gay clubs, and he found no pleasure in growing old on the couch.  In retrospect, I realize he should have dumped me in person.

            There are two types of people when it comes to breaking up: the straightforward and the chicken shit.  The straightforward are honest and upfront, blunt and without the sugar coating.  “We need to talk” leads to an actual conversation and no mystery as to where we stand as an item.  In my experience, very few people can check this box when asked to describe their personal style.  It is hard, it is uncomfortable, and the role of villain is clearly defined.  We tend to go through life as if it is our personal film narrative.  Though the straightforward attempt is the more psychologically healthy of the two, we can’t help but vilify the person in hindsight.  The dawn of each new relationship sees us toting our emotional baggage to a prospective partner’s front door, hoping our overnight bag of communication issues matches their valise stuff with abandonment paranoia.  Yet the specter of exes lingers in our minds, like a silent movie villain diabolically greasing his handlebar mustache.  Though miles beyond The Worst Prom Ever, I cannot fully escape the fear that each new beau will text me a random “You prevent me from experiencing joy” message.

            But at least when we are told we are Joy Killers, we know beyond a shadow of a doubt that it’s over and it’s up to us to begin putting the pieces back together.  We spend our weeks attacking feelings of insufficiency with sugar and liquor.  We agonize our friends with elaborate and detailed analyses of everything that went wrong, until they wish we would shut up and just keep drinking the pain away.  Far worse are the break ups where no bombs are dropped, but the other side simply disappears from the map.  No peace treaty signed, no cease fire announced.  Hell, no opening salvo fired.  Its as if they simply burrow into underground bunkers, effectively terminating communication with the outside world, and leaving the rest of the planted to wonder: “What in the hell ever happened to X?”  We wait, we send messages, but when no response is received, we have to accept that we were dumped and never told.

            The Phase Out is the most mind-boggling break up tactic, and yet (in my experience) somehow the most popular.  Perhaps it is an evolutionary holdover from when a woman just had to change caves to lose a determined suitor, or a man need only hop on a camel and take off down a foreign trade route to free himself from the talons of some vicious shrew.  Perhaps even up to the mid-1900s it was simple to evade unwanted attention by tossing out a vague explanation and disappearing into the mist: “Baby, my country needs me; I’m enlisting.”

            But the modern age has decimated the coward’s way out.  Unless you sever all human ties and live off the grid, you leave some sort of electronic footprint.  A hilted lover can leave only so many voicemails and send unreturned emails before they start seeking answers.

            Though frowned upon in polite society, we’ve all engaged in a little cyber-stalking.  We refresh Facebook status obsessively and lurk invisibly in instant messenger programs, waiting for signs that the object of our attention is active.  We react with shock and outrage when we discover we’ve been blocked or unfriended, though the weeks of sending communication into an unresponsive ether should have been the tip off that this was inevitable.  The first status update confirms that they’re not dead, they’re just ignoring us, and we weep our way back to the red wine and Rice Krispie treats.

            Will I find my Prince Charming?  Undoubtedly, though at this rate I will have to kiss my way through half of the Amphibian and Reptile House at the zoo before finding the right one.  Together we will store our matching emotional baggage under the bed to gather dust, and stretch out to sun on the white sandy beaches of Healthy Relationship, with no ominous bombers casting their shadow.  But still, on my deathbed, I will gather my children and grandchildren to my side, and tell them a story of heartbreak and woe: “It was the night of prom, and I received a text message just as I was getting home.  I ate nothing but Rice Krispies and red wine that summer.  I lost fifteen pounds, but damn I looked good.”

Ring Around the Rosie

      The complete absence of furniture in the house should have been my first tip that something was amiss.  Or, failing that, the girl curled in the kitchen cabinet sucking on a gin and juice through a crazy straw was also a good indicator that I had stumbled into an unusual situation.  Alas, I wrote both of these off as eccentricities when in fact they were klaxons alerting me to some Crazy Shit going on.

            I was blinded because he was Hot.

            My first date with The Model had been a subdued affair, coffee and conversation.  His were the too-perfect good looks that instantly thrust me into the realm of self-deficiency:  bright green eyes set in a flawlessly rich, Mediterranean skin tone, and two careful lip piercings to give just a titillating air of Bad Boy.  He was an art student, and I stumbled my way through my extremely limited knowledge of art history, non-committal nods giving way to imperceptible flashes of recognition when he mentioned an artist or style I knew only through Snapple bottle caps.  He’d mention an artist who changed his world and opened his eyes to new avenues of creative expression, and I’d sip my coffee, fixated on his artfully styled hair, painstakingly coiffed for an affected indifference.  Only his faux vintage tee, strategically distressed jeans, and crisp skater shoes belied his affected disregard for physical appearance.  I felt shamed by my own appearance, my hair not knowing the touch of a comb for years and jeans—horribly baggy and now in their fifth year of continued wear—having come straight from the rack at Target.

            I am not a romantic. Though I enjoy the occasional romantic comedy, I find I need none of the theatrics in my own life.  Flowers are sweet, and I’ll appreciate the gesture, but immediately after receiving them I’ll remember I don’t own a vase and the flowers end up in either a souvenir Houston Rodeo cup or salad dressing shaker.  I’ve never enjoyed candy, so chocolates in a clichéd heart-shaped box end up in the trash as soon as my beau walks out the door.  To make my heart flutter, a man need only crack open a domestic beer and say he wants to load up a zombie flick on the DVD player.

            Yet I resolved to flex my long-atrophied romance muscle for the second date with The Model.  He was A Catch, and I knew I had to step up my game. I suggested an outdoor screening of a silent film, complete with intimate picnic dinner.  He agreed, and I realized I had nothing with which to put together said picnic dinner.  My kitchen is atypically Spartan in terms of domestic accessories.  I have perhaps two pots, a mismatched collection of dishware, and an old potholder that has been repurposed into a dishrag.  My Martha Stewart nesting gene is noticeably deficient.

            I tried to cobble together a romantic picnic to woo my potential boy, by the task was daunting.  In hindsight, I realize that Costco is not the best source for epicurean delights.  Economical, yes.  Sensual, no.  Lacking a picnic basket, I loaded my two pounds of kiwi (“It’s an aphrodisiac,” I told myself), off-brand box of red wine, and pallet of string cheese into a plastic shopping bag.  Bag bulging, I patiently awaited The Model to whisk me away to the park and fall madly in love with me.

            He called me only after he was thirty minutes late and I’d begun to depressively gnaw on a still-fuzzy kiwi.  “He’s lost,” I rationalized, “He needs directions and called only once he realized he couldn’t find my house without help”

            “Hey dude, change of plans.” He sounded unconcerned about his tardiness.  Or his abrupt decision to derail my careful plans.

            Change of plans?  Was that valid? Can you change plans when they weren’t yours to begin with? But, my level of flexibility and understanding is directly proportional to how much the sparkle in your eyes makes my heart flutter.  I began to unpack the shopping bags.  I resolved to be optimistic.  He was Artsy and Creative; he probably had a much better plan for our second date.

            “Okay, what’s the plan?”

* * *

            Thirty minutes later found me coasting through an unfamiliar neighborhood in the suburbs of Houston.  The Model’s friends were having a house party and the invite had been extended for us to join. Though I’d hoped he would pick me up and chivalrously ferry me to the party, he was already there when he’d called to suggest the change in plans.  I ordered a gag on the logical corner of my brain demanding to acknowledge this discrepancy, but again: eyes sparkle, heart flutter.  I parked, desperately trying to distinguish each house from its clone neighbor and cursing the designer who’d decided street numbers are best when hidden like Waldo.

            When I finally found the house, tucked indistinguishably off the street, I realized I was three hours late for a party that had been going on since late afternoon.  Though guests still in attendance were remarkably few, the array of empty bottles on the counter suggested an entire fraternity had vacated only moments before.  It would have been impossible not to notice my entrance into the house, as I represented a substantial increase in the number of party-goers and I knew immediately that a subtle retreat was now impossible.

            And then there he was beside me in his Urban Outfitter graphic tee, tousled hair tucked into ironic trucker cap, taking my hand to lead me into the kitchen to meet the other guests.  Two stood in the kitchen, standing over the stove and eating cold pizza directly from the delivery box.  Another was taking a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon from a fridge stocked with nothing but cheap beer and a box of baking soda.  I was introduced to Maggie, a stocky blonde who sat cross-legged under the kitchen counter as if there was no other place than an empty cabinet that one should drink gin and juice.  The Model led me into the dining room, where a couple was enthusiastically making out on the pristine cherry hardwood floors as a disinterested girl sat watching and shoveling chips into her mouth.

            “That’s Robert and Amy,” The Model said, tapping the intertwined legs of the dry humpers with his toe.  “And this is Alyssandra.”  Alyssandra grunted in my direction, her version of a polite handshake, I assumed.  An unsettling air hung around her, as if she hadn’t bathed in a week and took it as a personal challenge to see how long she could go before anyone called it to her attention.

            Alyssandra shook an empty jar at The Model, “We’re out of fucking salsa,” she managed through a mouthful of chips.

            “I have some kiwi in my car,” I offered, unsure of the proper response. “I bought them fresh today.”  The look of such extreme revulsion skittering across her face told me this girl could only be satisfied with another jar of fucking salsa.

            As The Model headed back into the kitchen in search of salsa—a futile task, I was sure, I’d seen only liquor and pizza to this point—I lowered myself to join Alyssandra sitting on the floor.  There were no chairs or tables in the room, and a look over my shoulder confirmed that there were none in the kitchen either.  The living room had not a single couch or armchair, with only curtains hanging around the sliding glass doors.  Maybe I’d never realized that furniture was so bourgeoisie, I thought.  I wanted to show The Model I could get along with his Bohemian friends and their way of life.  A foot away, the lovers writhed and moaned.

            “Are you two dating?” she shrugged her shoulder in The Model’s direction, who I desperately wished would hurry and find the salsa.

            “This is our second date.”

            “The two of you fucked yet?” She licked salt and tortilla crumbs from her fingers.

            “We’ve only been out once.”

“Not my question, Sugar Teats.”

I shuddered involuntarily.  I am, by nature, an intensely private person, reluctant to let anyone see me naked let alone discuss the finer points of my sex life with a total stranger.  Especially when my lack of details made me look like a Victorian coquette.

I was saved by The Model, who reappeared with a bottle of beer in one hand and bag of candy in the other.  “There wasn’t any salsa,” he said.  “But I found you some Twizzlers.”  Alyssandra snatched the offering bag from his hand, accepting the substitute.  He turned those panty-dropping eyes in my direction, “Do you want to get out of here?”

I nearly leapt into his arms in a show of my unbridled enthusiasm.  “Sure, whatever you want,” I managed to return coolly.

Unfortunately, his idea of getting out of the party was literally stepping into the back yard, also conspicuously devoid of any decoration and ornamentation—minus a slightly incongruous swing set.  The swings barely held our adult mass, creaking in protest, but we sat and watched the pink glow of urban light pollution to the east.  I waited for the conversation to unfold, but the silence remained oppressive.  Surely there should be something for us to talk about?  Maybe he just wanted to be alone to make out.

“Are you having a good time?” he asked.

I scanned my memory banks for the appropriate canned response. “Yeah, your friends seem really nice.”

“I don’t really know anyone in there.  Just Maggie.”

“The girl in the cabinet?”

“Yeah, she’s fun.”

Or drunk.  Half a dozen of one, six of another.  “You don’t know that girl Alyssandra?  She seemed pretty interested in whether we were together or not,” I said.

He chuckled.  “That’s weird.  Just because I invite you to a party doesn’t necessarily mean we’re hooking up.”

I tried to not let the crushing disappointment read too obviously on my face.  “Yeah.  Crazy.”  The conversation wasn’t unfolding as I’d hoped.  If we’d stuck with the original plan, at least the movie would have filled the awkward pauses.

Alyssandra, ears apparently burning like the Hindenburg, stuck her head out of the back door.  “Hey, we’re about to play a game.  You boys want in?”

I am a fiercely competitive person.  I’ve lost friends over an evening of Cranium, and in college I once dislocated a girl’s shoulder while playing Red Rover.  Put me in a situation where there is the possibility of winning and I will abandon all scruples and sense of decorum in the quest for that sweet, sweet victory.  When Alyssandra offered up the prospect of a game, I knew I could play it one of two ways: I could dominate the game and prove to The Model that I was a prize worth keeping, or I could lay low and end the evening with my dignity in tact.  Crossing back into the house, I decided I would play to win and snag a victory kiss from The Model.  I understood this crowd, and knew that, without a doubt, we’d be playing some variation of a drinking game.  No matter.  Cajun blood runs in my veins, my people are no strangers to the drink, and I’d spent a fair share of my years in academia displaying an Olympian prowess in Beer Pong and Quarters.

Back in the dining room, a few collapsible lawn chairs had been arranged into a circle, all facing outwards.  “I don’t think I know this game,” I told my date.

The Model looked at me like he might a small child stepping off the short bus. “Don’t you see?  We’re going to play Musical Chairs!”

I hadn’t played Musical Chairs since I was at a schoolmate’s birthday party in third grade, and I’m pretty certain that even then I found it juvenile and childish.  “Oh.” At least this was a game I could win; as an adult male, I was capable of feats of strength and brutality my frail boyhood self could only dream.

I searched for an adequate follow-up, to somehow assure my date—and in no small part myself—that there was nothing I wanted to do more than play childhood party games, but the only thought racing through my brain centered on the fact that I was surrounded by a group of twenty-somethings, drunk beyond all reason, raring to play Musical Chairs.

“Come on! Let’s get started!”

From a corner I hadn’t noticed before, music began blaring.  Of course, it only made sense in a house with no furniture or decorations there should be an enormous DJ mixing table and amp system.  Something unreservedly house/trance/techno began pouring out of the speakers and The Model urged me around the circle.  He was giddy with anticipation of the music stopping and seemed physically anxious when away from the safety of a seat.  The music cut and we all rushed for a chair.  Alyssandra, bereft of a chair, sulked away, presumably to renew the hunt for some fucking salsa.

The game continued, our small band of revelers cut down to just three battling it out for two chairs: The Model, myself, and the girl who only moments ago had been writhing on a hardwood floor.  I lost the round.  I’d love to say I did it in a heroic show of chivalry, sacrificing myself so The Model could stay in the game.  But the truth is that The Model shoved me out of the way and I tumbled to the ground, splayed out on the floor in a pose reminiscent of 50% of the Lovers from earlier in the evening.  I slunk off the game floor, dusting off my bruised knees and ego.

Maggie stopped me by the kitchen. “I’m so glad you could come to my party.”

I didn’t know she was the hostess, and I found my opportunity to clarify something that had been bugging me for the past hour. “Are you just moving in?  I notice you don’t have much furniture.”

She tittered. “This isn’t my house, silly!  My mom is a real estate agent trying to sell it.  I just used her code to open the lock box on the front door.”

The party fell away, the cheering for the Musical Chair champion impossibly distant.  I am unabashedly a Good Boy, and can count on one hand the number of times I’ve ever broken a rule—though even in the counting I risk an elevated heart rate and hyperventilation.  I still remember with haunting clarity the one time my mother caught me slicing open the tape on Christmas presents with the precision and stealth of a CIA agent.  I’ve never done it since.

“So, we’re breaking and entering?” I squeaked.

She tittered.  Again.  That wasn’t an answer. I could hear police sirens in the distance.  I would be taken away in handcuffs, mug shot taken, I’d lose my job as a teacher as a result of my criminal history.  Sweat began beading on my forehead and rolling down my neck and back.  My mouth felt dry and I began planning the quickest exit in the sure event the police began beating down the door.

“Hey,” The Model was beside me now, sneaking up unnoticed like an experienced felon. “We’re going to play Twister in a second.  You in?”

“Did you know that no one lives here?” I yelped.  “That we’re here illegally?”

He laughed. “Yeah, we do this all the time.  Didn’t I tell you that?”

It was over for me.  There is only so far down the spectrum of criminal activity an eye sparkle is able to move me, especially when that sparkle is dulled by gin. “I should be going,” I told him.  A rigid Good Boy to the core, I couldn’t maneuver my body into the positions he needed on a Twister mat or in an empty cabinet.  I assuredly wasn’t flexible enough for a wrap sheet.

He didn’t miss a beat, didn’t beg me to stay, didn’t offer to come with me and finally have that picnic. “Cool.  I’ll catch you on the flip flop, dude!” And he skipped back to the gathering group to play Twister.

On my drive home, I noticed a police car in my rearview mirror.  I sat straighter in the driver’s seat, smoothed my hair, and practiced my speech for the inevitable moment when the cop pulled me over: “I’m sorry officer, I didn’t know I was breaking the law!  I would never have played Musical Chairs if I knew jail time was the only prize.  It was for a guy.  An artist.  And I don’t even like art!  Or Urban Outfitters!  Can I interest you in a kiwi?”

Freaky Feet

The world of online dating continues to fascinate me.  Granted, it no longer has the attached stigma of a few years ago, when couples would sheepishly concoct fabricated stories to hide from their friends and families that they actually met as a set of pixilated, posed portraits and series of halting email exchanges.

            “So where did you two meet?” an inquisitive mother would ask.

            Both would studiously avoid eye contact and mumble something about a bar or mutual friends.  Anything was better than “online,” which smacked of pathetic desperation.  “That’s nice,” Mom would continue.  “At least you didn’t meet your husband at an S&M ball like I did!”

            But times have a-changed, my friend.  When we now learn of a new friend’s single status, we ask which dating site they’re registered on.  When you break up with your boyfriend, friends crowd around to console you with ice cream and the increasingly more common promise to help revamp your online profile with gorgeous candid shots showing just how much fun you’re having without him.

            The gays have it a little differently.  The wonders and options of online social networking are nothing new.  Since the dawn of internet chat sites, queers have been working them to their advantage to meet new people.  But my people take it to a more primal depth.  From AOL to Grindr, if there’s a chance for sex as an eventual outcome, we’re all over it.  As long as I can remember, the internet has been the gay gateway to porn and sex.  Only recently has Farmville started taking the gays away from their hunt for cock and placed them on their own virtual plot of land.

            As a timid young college student, trolling the internet for sex was always a forbidden novelty to me.  While guys my age were whittling notches on the bedpost at a pace which would put a beaver to shame, I stuck to the shadows and waited for Mr. Right to pull me out into the light.  My parents were somehow tremendously successful in instilling a 1950’s sense of morality and shame which hobbles me to this day.

            Not that I wasn’t online.  I was, but I insisted on conversation, wit, and intelligence.  I latched onto any guy that started a conversation with anything more complex than “Horny?” or the ubiquitous “Lookin’?”  Yes, I was lookin’, but not for a quick blow in the library bathroom or no-strings sex with a guy who didn’t even know my name or major.  When I didn’t match the sexy banter, and my flirtation was limited to a winking emoticon, men moved on to find a quicker, guaranteed good time.

            As the world of online dating flourished for my straight friends, so too did it flourish for the gay community.  Though barred from certain sites which catered exclusively to the straight community, we had our niches where I was free to post a few comments about my quest for something beyond a sweaty roll in the sheets.  I had my carnal needs, true, but also the specter of Catholic guilt crouching on my shoulders.  Though there were indeed men searching for the same things as me, there were more and more men blatant about their need for sex above all else.  Even Craigslist, a site originally dedicated to apartment hunting and used furniture sales became a hotbed of hook-up activity, with men posting frank descriptions of their fetishes and phone numbers to avoid the tedium of email exchange.

            I cannot knock the world of online dating.  Two of my former relationships grew out of a connection made online.  And though they both eventually ended, for their duration they were meaningful and real.  For the online gay community, they can probably be described as success stories, lasting more than one night and not fueled by poppers and ecstasy.  Granted, no ads will be made any time soon spotlighting my online match as we celebrate our 10^th anniversary, but a nice tagline could be “Managed to celebrate a 365-Night Stand!”

            I have, however, made mistakes. For all the harsh puritanical notions drilled into my skull, I’ve had the odd moment where I’ve fallen from my moral high horse and into the gutter of baser desires. More often than not, these moments come in times of extreme stress and anxiety; dumped by a boyfriend or frozen out by a prospective new one, my answer to “Lookin’?” suddenly becomes “Yeah, why not?”

            The fat kid growing up, I’ve always had body issues plaguing my adult sense of self.  My greatest nemesis in life is the crease in my jeans waist band made when I sit down and my gut pours onto my lap.  Though I qualify as “straight skinny,” I’m two toes into “gay fat.”  There are only a few commonly accepted gay body types, and mine is not one of them.  I’m too thick to be a Twink, and no chubby/hairy enough to be a Bear.  The Holy Grail of gay bodies is the Gym Rat, the man whose daily routine includes at least two hours in the gym and crunches measured in sets of thousands.  The body, chiseled and toned, is usually hairless (though whether through genetics or Nair is left a mystery).  Men clamor for this body.  Ideally, a gay man wants to develop one of his own, but it requires too much work and commitment, so we settle for touching that of someone who has put in the work.

            Browsing though online gay personals, it’s impossible not to notice the vast majority of profile photos are of naked, headless torsos.  The men I am chatting with (should they decide to return my opening chat invite) are reduced to washboard abs, pecs, and pert little nipples.  The implication is impossible to miss: men aren’t wanted for what’s in their heads, but for what’s underneath their clothes.  It’s a virtual meat market, where we choose potential mates not on personality and dependability, but on BMI and max bench press.

            I don’t have that to offer up.  My unclothed torso will drop no jaws nor trigger salivation in admiration.  I’ve never posed scantily clad in my boudoir, or even soaking wet as I emerge from the pool in my Euro trunk swim suit.  I rarely swim, and when I do, I scurry like an exposed crustacean from the water to my towel to prevent others from seeing my jiggling flesh.  I tend to dress in clothes even the Amish would deride as being overly-conservative, and love winter fashions which allow me to hide my extra pounds under layers of sweaters and scarves.  You’re never fat in the winter—you’re jolly.

            But gay men don’t want jolly.  There’s a reason kinky, man-on-man Santa fantasies aren’t flooding the internet.  Gay men want the Adonis bodies, the ones that show a man spends an equal amount of time at the gym as he does his desk job.  And Santa’s never been on a treadmill in his life.

            Even with just a headshot I can’t win.  My neutral expression reads as severely pissed off, and smiles morph into a forced grimace.  So, paradoxically, from a distance I’m jolly, but increasingly angry and pained as you come in for the closer look.

            I have landed a few hot bodies my rare forays into the world of hooking up.  When I can keep a pair of pecs (or is it set?) talking to me beyond the initial “Sup?” or “U hung?”, they notice I have a quirky sense of humor, and maybe a spark or two of smarts.  If somewhere in the conversation I notice the guy too is funny and intelligent, all bets are off.  I’d gladly—nay, eagerly—saw off my left foot at the ankle with a rusty hacksaw to land a guy with the trifecta of hot, smart, and funny.

            But not all men are as perfect as they might seem on a computer or phone screen.  Chiseled abs can hide some very disturbing insides.

            We began talking one night as I stared up from the bottom of a very oppressive well of sexual frustration.  He was never meant to be Mr. Right, and wasn’t even supposed to be Mr. Right Now.  My initial plan had been to land another guy, the tantalizingly mythical hybrid of geek and super hot jock I’d been talking to all week.  But, like a magician’s illusions, he’d turned out to be all smoke and mirrors, leaving me to pull the rabbit out of the hat solo.  So when I received yet another “Horny?”, I could only honestly answer “Yes.”

            Though hook ups in the past had left me feeling unclean at the molecular level, my morality was forced to ride shotgun as my libido took the wheel.  Our conversation was a series of monosyllabic words arranging a meet, like apes trying to communicate the best way to navigate the New York subway.  A quick text to let a friend know where to find my dismembered corpse should I wind up missing, and I was out the door.

            The cooler winter weather was just arriving in Houston, which meant the temperature dropped thirty degrees in the twenty minutes it took to find his house based on his cryptic directions.  While the thin shirt and flip flops had been practical upon leaving, they were comical stepping out into the 50 degree night air.  With my car parked precariously ditch-side on an unlit street, I began my search for his condo in the sprawling complex.  He hadn’t given any street numbers, just vague landmarks with nonsensical directions: Enter gate 18, go left to stay straight, after four rights, go left with a slight northerly trajectory.  I wandered aimlessly around the complex, one paranoid corner of my brain waiting for the garrote to slip unexpectedly across my throat until I heard the whistle.

            It wasn’t the wolf whistle favored by construction workers to express admiration for a beautiful woman, nor was it like that used to call your faithful Labrador Retriever to your side; it was a bird call.  Three notes, repeated twice over, the signal my hook-up had chosen to let me know I was in the right spot.  A scan of the area revealed nothing, and I peered awkwardly into the shadows, willing him to emerge.  Nothing.

            The bird call again.

            I finally saw him on the darkened upstairs balcony to my left.  I started making my way to the unit and he receded back into the shadows. 

He’s already naked? I thought, figuring he was trying to avoid drawing unwanted attention to himself.  The door in front of me unlocked, but didn’t open.  I knocked timidly.  Nothing.

            Should I do the bird call? I wondered.  I knocked again.  This time the door cracked open slightly.  A bird call came from within.

            The logical part of my mind should have told me to leave, recognized this for all kinds of weird shit, thrown up a deuce and gotten the hell out.  But if Morality was riding shotgun that night, Rational Thought was hogtied in the trunk.  Plus, I was freezing and his house at least promised heat.  I stepped inside.

            Though not unattractive, I understood immediately why his profile photo prominently featured his torso and not his face.  Soon to coast over the hill into middle age, he had the look of a forlorn rabbit who’d seen a few too many freaky things his earlier days.  I extended my hand and offered my name.  He shook it and said “Nice to meet you,” but gave me no name in return.  At least he’d stopped whistling.  Slipping out of my flip flops, I followed him into the bedroom decorated in the classic style of a Motel 6.  And that’s when it started to get weird(er).

            Rather than ask if I wanted a drink, his first question was: “Are you ticklish?”  My answer that no, I wasn’t, seemed to disappoint until a small grin crept onto his face.  “So that means I can tickle you anywhere and it won’t bother you?”

            I can’t remember the last time I’ve been tickled.  Probably as a small child, and most certainly never as part of foreplay.  The concept of tickling has never been remotely erotic to me, though the Whistler seemed to feel differently.

            “Um, I guess?” More of a question, really, not a definitive statement.

            “I could tickle you all over your back and it would be okay?  I could tickle your armpits and you’d enjoy it?”

            “Well, I think ‘enjoy’ might be a very strong—and wrong—word to use in that case.”

            He didn’t hear me.  “And I could tickle your feet while we’re fucking and you’d get off on that?”

            Whoah there.  This was a man who looked like he should be filling out tax forms for the school board, but sounded like he was planning the dirtiest birthday party ever.  I started to inch my way closer to the entryway, fearing his next question would be feeling out my inclination to dress up as large furry animals and squeal for his pleasure.

            “You have big feet.”

            That I do, I can say with all honesty.  When I hit my growth spurt in high school and shot up to 6’2”, my feet exploded into size thirteens.  My flip flops are like skis on slick, tractionless surfaces.  And those flip fops were now lined up neatly by the door leading to my freedom.

            “I guess,” I said, suddenly self-conscious of my flipper feet.

            “Are your feet ticklish? It would be so hot to watch you squirm while I tickle your big feet.”

            “Again, not really ticklish.”  I left out the fact that all sensation in my feet had been destroyed by my years walking around barefoot on the searing hot sidewalks of the Middle East.  He’d just take that as a personal challenge, like the messiah come to heal the quadriplegics.

            “Can I suck your toes?  Do you want to suck mine?  Do you want to tickle my feet?”

            The answer to all three posed questions was a resounding “no,” but I simply shook my head in mute amazement.

            “What are you going to be doing with your feet while I fuck you?”

            “Well, I figured they’d just kind of be … there, you know?  I didn’t have anything special planned for them.”  His face fell as if I’d just told him there would be no pony rides at his birthday party.

            “Look,” I continued.  “I don’t think this is the best plan.  I don’t think we’re looking for the same thing tonight, which means at least one of us won’t have fun.  And I’m willing to bet that’s going to be me.  I’m just going to head out now.”

            “Can I at least slap your feet with my cock before you go?”  But my big feet were out the door before I had a chance to respond.

            Morality was waiting for me back in the driver’s seat once I clambered back into my car, while Rational Thought mean-mugged me from the backseat.  I drove home, my only stop a brief meeting with friends to get an outsider’s opinion on my freakishly large feet.  I ended the night as it began, settled into the couch with my non-ticklish fins tucked beneath me, clicking through endless online profiles, looking for the genuine Mr. Right.