What's the Rush? The Sequel

As I wrote before, my one attempt at speed-dating had not gone particularly well. I stumbled out of that event confused, disoriented and, as I would discover the next day via email, dateless. For a few days afterwards, friends, mostly single friends both gay and straight, asked how it had gone. I said the same thing to each one: "I will NEVER do that again."

Six months later, I am at the Gay and Lesbian Center, doing it again.This time, it's speed-dating limited to men who are 40+. This, it seems, is a good idea. The men will be more mature and certainly know what it is they want. Surely, at this age, many if not most will have had previous realtionships. They'll be more grounded, I tell myself. Plus, this time, the "mini-dates" will be six-minutes long, double the length of the dates in my prior experience, allowing more time to get a feel for the other person. And since I know what to expect, I feel more prepared and assume I'm in a much better position to come out with at least one interesting prospect. So, with my best Pollyannna-everything-is-possible attitude in place, I climb the stairs, hand over my $20 and sit in a room on the Center's third floor, waiting to begin. How could it possibly fail?

Probably because it's only about three weeks after New Year's and I'm sure everyone has made a resolution to get out more, the room is packed. There are so many unattached men coming in, that the organizers set up an "overflow" room to accomodate everyone. The organizers describe how it's going to work. Once we're ready to begin, those of us in chairs that are not against the wall are asked to stand up, turn the chair around and begin our first conversation with the man who is currently sitting behind us.

And we begin...

The first man I speak with is clearly unimpressed with me and not at all shy about letting me know. He sneers, rolls his eyes and then cruises the room to get a look at who might be more to his liking and, hopefully, coming up soon. When the whistle sounds he says the only two words he's spoken to me "See ya" and I move one seat to my right.I realize pretty quickly that longer mini-dates are not necessarily better mini-dates. As a gay man, this is confusing. Apparently, bigger is not better after all.

Date number six or seven, to be honest, scares me. A very thin, very pale man dressed in black from head to toe leans so far forward that he's too close for comfort. He speaks in a half-whisper, leaning in so close I can't see his face. His mouth is up against my right ear. I can feel his hot breath on my neck every time he exhales. I find myself wishing I had paid a lot more attention to Buffy the Vampire Slayer when it was on the air, because clearly I'm going to need a few of her moves very soon. He says softly "I'm looking for someone to have some fun with." Undoubtedly, before he needs to retire back to his coffin at sunrise. Six minutes with Dracula lasts a long, long time.

A few more men come and go before I'm face to face with a deeply tanned, good-looking man of about fifty or so. In our short talk, his sole goal seems to be communicating to everyone that he has an "all-over tan", which he says complete with Snidely Whiplash eyebrows being lasciviously raised.and lowered.And so it goes, on and on until we're done. Once again, just like last time, I have no matches.

Leaving the room and heading towards the stairs I have no choice but to think that maybe, just maybe, the problem is me. Maybe all these attempts at trying to find someone special just means that I need to take some time and figure out what I really want. Maybe it's time to stop. Besides, wouldn't it be nice to meet someone just by chance instead of through all these attempts? Wouldn't it be great to just be out somewhere and just bump into someone, leading to an awkward hello? I get to the door of the stairway at the same time as some guy who comes out of the "overflow" room. We literally bump into each other. He's cute, very cute. "Hello" he says awkwardly and I answer, just as awkwardly, "Hello." What do you know, I think, maybe meeting someone nice by chance actually does work.

So, does it? I'll put it this way, you can read all about "Mr. Bumped into by Chance" soon.

Look for him as "Dating Story #6."

Dating Story # 5 a/k/a...

Those 3 Little Words

When it comes to relationships, there's a lot of speculation and discussion over what many people refer to as "those three little words". I don't think it matters if a couple or potential couple is gay or straight, there is still the same focus on what gets said and when. You hear this referred to all the time. "Oh" someone might gush, "if only he'd say those three little words." Or maybe "Oh, last night was awful. She said those three little words."

It's hard to save a relationship when someone has waited too long to hear those three little words (TTLW). But just as hard when when they're spoken too early. Too-early TTLW will almost always bring things to a dead stop. You know how it goes: you've held on seeing someone month after month, or year after year, convinced that someday you'll hear TTLW that just never, ever come. Or, maybe you're only on date #3 and out of nowhere, BAM! one person says those three little words way too soon and the other person begins to ready up the "It's not you, it's me" speech.

Three little words way too soon is what happened C, a very handsome man in his mid-30's that I met at a networking event held in an uptown museum. I first saw C from across the room, all dressed up in a light gray suit complete with power tie. After making eye contact a few times he began making his way over to introduce himself. We talked for a few minutes, exchanged info and promised to be in touch. It was nice to have that feeling of heading home with the phone number of someone I actually liked tucked away in my pocket.

But, a little while later, over dinner with my friend N, it happened. N pulls out his hand-held device and begins hitting some buttons. And then, before the first date even happens, those three little words are spoken: "Let's Google him."

Googling C proves to be far too easy. After just a couple of clicks, N frowns, looks up from the screen and hesitantly says "Um, how secure are you feeling?" The Google search brings up C's resume. Considering the universities he attended, it's a surprise there isn't ivy sprouting from between the keys and trailing up N's arm. Words every parent longs to hear are leaping out at me. Harvard. Stamford. PhD. Published Articles. Keynote Speaker, etc., etc. A few more clicks and N discovers that C lives in a registered historic landmark house that, of course, he owns. Educated, handsome and apparently, wealthy. We're doomed.

One week later, I am sitting with C over a casual dinner. We’re chatting away about the usual things you say over a dinner with someone new. He’s talking about his job and I find myself saying "So how is your…" and then stop. I was about to say "…first year of teaching?" when I suddenly couldn’t recall if I know he's new to teaching because he told me, or because Google did. For that matter, did he ever say Harvard, or was that from Google, too? Who said his house was a landmark building? Him? Google? PhD. Him? Stamford. Google? His last name. Him, I think, definitely that was him. Or maybe not.

I look up from my confusion and find that C is staring at me, looking perplexed because after having said "So how is your…" I simply stopped talking. From his point of view, I’ve been sitting there with my mouth open, saying nothing for about a minute or so. "…dinner?" I add. He looks a tad confused. "Oh, fine." I try to continue as if there's no raging debate in my head over what I know but am not supposed to know. But, in just a few seconds, I do it again.

On New York.Me: "So how do you like living…" Stop. Can’t say "New York", not supposed to know he’s a recent transplant.

On education.Me: "It must have opened a lot of doors, having a…" Stop. Can’t say "Harvard education."

On his age.Me: "I’d hardly call you old at…" Stop. Not supposed to know he’s 36.

By the end of dinner C is shifting around in his seat, looking rather uncomfortable. During dinner, there have been at least six instances when I suddenly stopped talking mid-sentence, while asking myself the "Him or Google?" question. I’m fairly certain C’s convinced I’m either having a series of small seizures or simply incapable of finishing a sentence. Whatever he thinks, it’s obvious he’s hoping the waiter soon appears with the check.

On the way out of the restaurant, since things are going nowhere, I decide to have some fun. "So, " I say "would you like to…:" and purposely don't finish the sentence. I just stop talking, shake his hand and walk off.I'm not exactly sure why, but in my mind I hope that C told a friend that night about his date's rather odd disability. I like to imagine that friend agreeing the condition sounded strange and then suggesting "Let's Google it." If C and I ever run into each other again, he can be the one to worry about saying something he's not supposed to know.

Coming Back

I gave myself a month off to figure out some computer issues and take a little break. Everything's now good as new, I've had my summer break and it's time to get back to my blog. And what better way to return than with another dating story?

So, coming very soon, Dating Story #5!