Same Shit, Different Gay

Everybody usually has a type. Some people are into tall blonds. Some people are looking for the class clown. Others want the nerd. Bill Gates is somebody’s type. Colin Farrell is EVERYBODYS type and he knows it.
My type is closeted gay men.
I don’t know how it happens but I’m becoming the Margaret Cho of the Lower East Side. I attract closeted gay men like no other. If you’re looking for a hetero-experiment, you’re probably looking for me.
Saturday night, I went out on a date with A, a nice guy I had met at a bar the week before. He didn’t seem gay when I met him, but I guess alcohol really does dull the senses. I did get my suspicions when he called me to tell me where he made reservations and told me, “I asked my boss where I should take this nice young lady I met last week to dinner.” Nice young lady? Really?
I got there early and had a glass of wine at the bar, watching the thunder storm that had just opened up on New York. He arrived. I noticed his eyebrows were more nicely manicured than my own.
We sat down and looked at the menus. The restaurant was really nice and the menu was interesting. “Feel free to have whatever you want,” he tells me. That makes me cringe. I’m a young professional with a decent paycheck. Honestly, I could buy you dinner. I hear that and I feel like it’s a sign of false generosity. Pet peeve, but he’s nice, he’s just a little awkward. Let it go.
“Are you really hungry? Do you want an appetizer?” He asks a few seconds later.
“Do you want to split something?” I ask. I’m more concerned with wasting food than wasting his money.
“Oh my god! I was just going to ask you the same thing!” He squeals. Squeals. The hint of a familiar accent creeps in.
We order, he excuses himself to go to the bathroom. While he’s away, I make friends with the couple sitting next to me, a married couple in their 40s with two toddlers who are thoroughly enjoying the fact that their dinner does not come with a toy and you cannot color on these menus. A comes back. The date resumes. I think I hear that same familiar accent when our appetizer comes and he offers to make me a “little plate.”
We had a good time. We didn’t run out of things to say. But a lot of that is because it is rare that I ever run out of things to say. If I’m not talking, I’m sick or really, really tired. It’s also a good way to tell if I’ve had too much to drink (basically because I get sleepy, then I shut up). He’s not doing a lot of the talking. But that’s okay. I’ve had enough wine where I’m fun, gregarious drunk.
There’s just certain things about the conversation that make me think “girlfriend” instead of “boyfriend,” which is troubling when you’re out on a date. This is the pitfall of dating in New York. On average, every New York girl winds up dating a guy who comes to the realization that he’s gay. I just happen to date more of my share, to maintain the average that would otherwise be thrown off by the girls who avoid this New York dating pothole. It’s just with the whole metrosexual trend, it’s hard to determine who is and who isn’t. It used to be easy. If he’s got more Kehil’s products in his bathroom than you do, that was a good sign. If he gets manicures, that was another one. Now, that’s basic New York maintenance. The modern New York couple gets their mani/pedis together.
He excuses himself to the bathroom again (the bladder a size of a pea!). The woman next to me has now had a few drinks in her and she sees this as her moment of opportunity.
“Honey, I’m looking at you and I just, I just think you’re great. You’re beautiful and dynamic and you’re talking and you have a lot going on. I think you can do better.”
Honey, I’m thinking the same thing.