For quite some time I’ve had it in my head that it might be amusing to recount various online dating encounters I’ve had. Inspired by Leigh Alexander’s post on the matter at Thought Catalog, here is an attempt.
In the summer of 2006 I had just graduated with my BA, and when heading to Chicago had no real plans but to experience life. Initially, Boystown seemed a daunting prospect, in both the navigation to reach it, and the thought of going to a bar by myself. Both would eventually be dealt with in quick order, but that meant in order to experience a dating life, I went to Gay.com first.
In those chat rooms, I met one chap who insisted that I was sooooo cute and he was coming over right away. Figuring this could be amusing, and generally wanting to just have experiences in the realm of dating (to which I’d never really had prior access), I told him I lived in Wicker Park, and we could meet up at a certain street. It being a weekend, I figured there would be plenty going on in the neighborhood that could provide amusement.
Luck would have it that the power on my street went out shortly after finishing my chat with him, so as I headed out to meet him, there was this unmarred with street lamps dusk—a time that typically communicates an adventure to come in my mind. My luck would further be founded by the fact that as soon as he saw me, he insinuated we should head to my place, with a knowing wink. Without missing a beat, I shrugged, and informed him of the power troubles.
As I began suggesting we head to a local cafe I favored, he brought out a CD case and thrust it in front of my face. Taking it in hand was more an effort in making sure its case was not squashed into my face. Holding it at length, I saw an image of the chap before me, replete with Photoshopped splendor. I looked up at him, “Musician, eh? What type of music?”
From the sparkles and sheer bright hue of the thing in my hands, I assumed it was some sort of pop music, but could not anticipate his response labeling it Christian pop. At the time, it did not recall memories of the ex who took me to a Christian concert in Crawfordsville, IN, it merely struck me as quaint—in that way that a toddler will tell you of what they did at Kindergarten that day.
An awkward tension had been achieved, my standing there holding a CD for which I had no plans of ever listening, he looking around as if to ascertain where I lived. Finally handing him back the case, the suggestion to head to the amusingly named Earwax Cafe spilled forth, its awkwardness forgiven in the face of breaking the silence. Agreeing, we headed into the center of Wicker Park’s streets, walking in crowds.
Trying to strike up a conversation with him, I asked him about his musical influences, assuming he would take to the subject. The resultant reply of a string of boy bands and sugary divas should hardly have been a surprise—it was at this point that the decision was reached not to discuss my love of either the industrial or metal scenes. Upon asking me what music I liked, I decided to go with some of the artists I figured had some commercial appeal (I really had no clue, as I didn’t listen to the radio or watch television): “Oh, The Dresden Dolls and Regina Spektor.”
The utter confusion on his face told me all I needed to know about how far any further discussions of music would go. As if my response had never been given, he went off on tirade about how difficult it was living in two cities. Considering my job as a barista at that time, my response was just to squirrel up an eyebrow and stay quiet.
“By the way, your accent, it’s English, right?”
No, I’m German, actually. Having trained in theat—
“Sieg Heil!”
By this time we’d been seated at the cafe, having ordered and received our shakes. Staring into the bruise-blue of my blackberry banana concoction, it dawned on me that Gay.com dates would require further scrutiny in the future. Of course, my inexperience at actual dating also meant I had no idea how to end this gracefully—or at all.
Oh. Hitler. Did you know he was a vegetarian?
Cue being lectured on the evils of vegetarianism and silly people who don’t know what real food is. Of course, sitting in a restaurant that deliberately caters to vegans, vegetarians, pescetarians, omnivores, and varying degrees thereof, as a vegetarian I was only glad we’d not ordered dinner. Splitting the check, I imagined the time had come to say goodbye.
Unfortunately, forgetting our paths led in the same direction, a rather quiet walk back ensued. By this time the street lamps had returned, and he triumphantly exclaimed he would escort me to my front step—my knight in Holy armor.
Opening my door, I stepped in, all too ready to close the door, but, spotting my roommate, introductions of which I was not the MC ensued. Pleasantries, smiles, attempts at weak jokes, all while the roommate was giving me side glances that clearly communicated our beloved phrase, “WTF, mate?”
Naturally, silence visited again after professions were casually exchanged. Christian pop singers are apparently not a big hit among my acquaintances. I would never have guessed. Taking it as a cue, I escorted the lad out of my apartment, as he leaned in for an attempt at a kiss.
Sidestepping, I thanked him for the evening.
“You roommate’s a cute lesbian. I might know someone who would want to date her.”
Oh. Well, actually, he’s not a lesbian. He has that whole Y chromosome thing going for him.
“Really?” At this point the mechanisms in his brain were obviously working, though I failed to see in which direction they were driving until too late.
“Well, maybe he’d like to go on a date with me sometime?”
The feeling of rejection from someone I didn’t want anyway must have been excruciatingly present, so as I told him my roommate was actually straight, I was pretty sure he believed I was lying to save face.
Closing the door on that evening, I dutifully went to my computer, and as if by habit, logged back on to Gay.com.
