I remember the first time I ever stepped into a gay bar. What terrified me most were the stares. Everywhere I looked people were staring at me and no matter how hard I tried to read the minds behind the stares, I stalled at considering the possibility people found me unattractive, dorky or badly dressed.
It took me a while before I realized the meaning of a stare in a nightclub:
– A short stare means I’m trying to determine if I want to have sex with you or not.
– Any stare two seconds or longer means I want you.
Understandably, not knowing this made my first steps into gay nightlife scary and uncomfortable at times. At the time I didn’t know I was being stared at for reasons I wanted to be stared at, except of course for all the times I dressed dorky.
Guy #120 was relatively new to this whole homosexuality thing. Everything about him radiated insecurity, the way he intermittently avoided then actively ached for eye contact, the way his soft-spoken voice trembled as he reached the end of his sentences and the way he clung to the glass of water I had given him. He reminded me of myself back when I was on my first date with a Guy and while I wasn’t the first Guy for Guy #120, I definitely was one of his first. I could tell, because Guy #120 was completely oblivious to how unbelievably good looking he was.
I mean, there’s hot and then there’s Guy #120.
Guy #120 was hot in the most generic way possible, meaning everything about his body and face was just about perfect. I didn’t get to see much of the person hiding behind the shyness, but at the very least Guy #120 was generically friendly, polite and well mannered. Long before he had finished his glass of water did I realize the two of us would not be having any interesting conversations and that we would not be establishing a meaningful connection. Guy #120 came to get sex and I was all too happy to oblige him.
The sex itself was rather disappointing though. It was great lying in bed with someone that could have been a model from one of my favorite porn movies, but beautiful as he was, Guy #120 was like a stewardess struggling to get a plane off the ground in terms of adequacy. Well mannered and friendly, sure, but nothing to get me high as I expected from such a beautiful Guy.
I imagine the sex was equally displeasing for Guy #120, who came suspiciously quick, probably as an excuse to leave.
A few years later I saw Guy #120 again as his beautiful face appeared on Grindr. I hit him up, asking how he was doing. He said he was doing fine. “Haven’t we met before?” I asked. “No,” was his answer. I left it at that.
Guy #120 wasn’t green anymore. He had been around long enough to know his league, long enough to know I wasn’t in it.
Good for him.