Leftover Disappointment

Good Morning Readers,

This juicy insider has some fried chicken to serve up this morning, and it isn’t KFC! Could it be that dating and compatibility can both be mutually exclusive, yet somewhat genetic and perhaps astrological? Nevertheless, this dance danced, was more of a step, than a step-touch. Though in the life of a single gay millennial, craving more than what the present situation offers, dating today, still seems to be somewhat complicated for me, an empath. Thus, other than taking myself out for a drink and a writing session -like I normally would, this "potential-guy" implanted a desire in me to go outside my bubble of comfort, for a little real-life interaction. I log into SCRUFF yet again... was I to experience a pleasure or the joke of the week? Hoping he’d say he’s too busy to meet, he contrarily and overzealously, like a cartoon character dashing in speed, with a cloud of smoke left behind, races to the bar.

Tag, you’re it!

Was this a competition? Well if it was, it was a team of one. Decidedly so, I race into the shower and drive five minutes to the bar. Meeting this guy relieved me of the stress that comes with the pressures of dating and mating, as disappointment is the best segue out of any unsavory situation. Running late, I question if he will still be there when I arrive. Dressed and out the door, I received a message. “I’m starving, so I went ahead and ordered.” I wonder if he meant, he’ll order us some appetizers? hmm… Either he’s really considerate, or he’s a selfish prick who can only bring misery to someone involved with his selfishness. “So much for pleasantries and well-mannered interactions.” I thought to myself.

Picture this: A dim-lit bar, the low bustle of locals conversing whilst drinking to the joys of life, and there in the corner is the man of my dreams: A guy like Nate Archibald, though a fictional character, definitely a man I would deem rush-worthy, gorgeous, kind with the gleaming-shine of someone with clean energy and a hopeful promise of ever after. Cue the tires coming to a screeching halt, as the self-proclaimed theatre undergrad–major, was more like Jean Valjean’s standby, as he wasn’t even understudy-worthy. I can’t help it if my expectation was a let-down, as expectations will do that. It’s not like he's going to shapeshift into the man of my dreams, though in my mind I did imagine him to be like the men in the movies; debonair, handsome and totally worthy of my swoon. Instead, I was greeted by a messy plate with two leftover brussels sprouts and a half-full glass of stout, as these items were more pleased to see me, than he.

Selfish prick.

Did I shower for this disappointment? I’ve been told by many, I’m intelligent, kind and more than qualified to grace the cover of GQ, yet this guy treated me like I crossed the moat with a troop of TMZ photographers after I slept with his mother! So, I am greeted by his leftovers and his half beer, only to walk into a trap. Should I have even approached the bar? I already felt like I was missing an assignment for class by being late. I compensate by asking him to tell me about himself, instead of going for the quick-witted sexually-hinted conversation. Big mistake. Huge.

To make it more of a pleasurable experience, the guy wouldn’t shut up about his affinity for deli meat. He went on-and-on describing how deli meat sampling is analogous to wine tasting, except with chewing and spitting of different meats. I was nonverbally reproached by a disdainful and subtle look upon uttering the sentence, “I think I’d like the filet.” As I considered ordering the steak-filet. Who knew filet mignon was inferior to that of his family’s multi-chewed roast beef deli-meat? So, I ordered the salad instead. Was this his subtle, muted-way of telling me he is too cheap for a steak dinner, because I can afford to pay for myself; or was the meaning of this pointless outing for him to tell me how his mother was overfed fried-chicken by his stepfather, which according to him, the doctor said the excessive fried- poultry binge manifested diabetes within forty-eight hours. This doctor is clearly Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs™. Nonetheless, I should be grateful I was able to comment on how delicious my salad was. Of course, this was at least within the first ten chews of my salad, before he arrogantly waved a hundred-dollar bill in the face of the kind barkeep, as to make the effort in letting me know that he is now ignoring me. So there he is, awaiting his change, and then proceeds to leave with a smile as big as if he just had the best sex of his life with a one-dollar-prostitute. Followed by a single eye-brow lift and the attempt at coolness by saying, “I’ll see you around.” He left whilst I was mid-chew of my salad. I was still eating. Was this a punishment or a reward for being late?

24601 -Standby, please exit stage right. Either way, I could not have been more relieved to watch him leave.

Upon his departure, replacing his seat was a married nerd-alert, who just made it back from Ireland. He was one of those guys you see in the movies that never had a date, yet becomes a successful techie, who whenever is out and about, by the grace of God, is swarmed by beautiful women. He ordered a salad and a drink for himself because his wife is at home. After sipping his beverage, upon receiving it, so it does not spill-over, the glass is lifted for a toast. A guest at the bar, about to be seated, interrupted to ask, “What kind of salad is that?” Mr. Bill Gates Jr., ever so rudely replied, “It’s lettuce!?” With that, "Oh! you didn’t know?" attitude, with a forkful of lettuce and added crunch. Following his wickedly, egocentric-filled, slow-motion head-tilt-backward, accompanied by laughter in a lower pitched, guilt-ridden tone, he said to the gentleman, almost in a quiet and quick-rush before the man was seated, “Market Vegetable.” He then postured back to his previous-self and continued his efforts to make a toast to the barkeeper for making such a good chocotini, “Cheers to you and your water!” He toasted to the bartender.

Remember, you cannot be me, but you can try. Money can’t buy you class, and it sure can’t buy you a personality!

So be you, as best as you can, even if you are not inclined to sharing your appetizer. Nonetheless, these impersonators are never flattering, especially when done wrong. It did not matter what he thought of me, for I know what I think of him, and that matters most.

This by far was #MyWorstDate ever! Never again!

Regardless of circumstance, not my circus and definitely not my monkeys.

Until next time…

When you see crazy comin', cross the street!

Stay away from early birds, rude nerds, and fried chicken.

You know you love me.

XOXO,

Gossip Gay.

P.S. He never spoke about consulting!