Make Me A Match

            I do not condone torture.  However, if I were to meet the guy or gal that invented the online dating service, Guantanamo Bay would look like a time share on Fire Island.  After a few months of hitting the internet chat rooms and other virtual meeting halls for sex-deprived gay men, it was inevitable that I try the G-rated version.  Match.com. Obviously, mucho dollars are spent on advertising for these sites, and they take great pains to coax the lonely and needy into a world where everyone meets their Prince Charming or Sleeping Beauty.  So color me lonely and needy, because I bought into it and excitedly signed up. 

After I paid the hefty admission ticket to enter for three months, I was asked to create an online profile and answer a dazzling array of questions.  I hadn’t been that excited since filling out my senior book in high school.  Ten pages where I got to talk about ME!  My physical features, my favorite vacation spots, hobbies, future plans, favorite food and drink.  Like Christmas for the emotionally unfulfilled.  So I sat down and went to work.  I butched up parts of it in case a baseball fan wanted to take me to a Yankees game.  I toned down my love of show tunes for fear of stereotype.  I could be any person I wanted.  In hindsight, I should have settled for being me.

When it came time to search for my new husband, I was like the proverbial kid in a candy store.  I “winked” at or emailed practically every hunk on the site.  Each email was custom-made for each prospective beau.  When finished, I reviewed the emails and was quite proud of my witty repartee and intelligent anecdotes.  Funny how three glasses of Merlot can make the most mundane of sentences sparkle.  I went to bed that night tipsy and satisfied.  Satisfied, knowing that the next day my mailbox would be chock full of suitors.  It’s horrifying how wrong a human being can sometimes be.

The next morning I went about my day, going to my loathsome job at a downtown Manhattan bank, kowtowing to my uneducated boss, and hitting the gym with a semi-gusto.  I practically skipped home, overflowing with excitement and confidence that soon I would marry.  There were several responses in my mailbox, all unsolicited.  I was crushed.  No one that I reached out for reached back.  I couldn’t understand this.  I was so methodical in my choosing.  If the guy was hot, then he got an email.  Wait. Maybe I should have actually read their profiles.  Looked for similarities and differences.  Suddenly, clarity.  Despite all of their hard work trying to convince us otherwise, the internet dating world is just like the real world, only with emoticons.  Guys that aren’t interested in me in 3-D aren’t interested in my picture/profile combination either.  And the guys that follow me down Eighth Avenue in Chelsea unsolicited will also follow me down the virtual dating highway as well.

So I sifted through the junk.  I reluctantly set up a couple of dates, one of whom paid for dinner.  He turned out to be a nice guy.  A copywriter who accidentally almost form-tackled Katharine Hepburn on a busy Manhattan sidewalk years before. He offered to take me to a Yankees game—being I love baseball—but when I offered just my cheek for a goodnight kiss, that was the last I heard from him.  I retreated to lick my wounds which entailed several glasses of wine and a one-night stand to make me feel worthy.  After getting an unhealthy dose of faux self-worth, I hit it again.  This time I was more realistic about my wants and needs and tried to look for men who were more willing to reciprocate.  The new formula worked.  I started getting some responses from guys who I really wanted to follow me down Eighth Avenue.  At first. 

I accepted a date with John.  A cutie with wavy brown hair.  A buyer at Bergdorf-Goodman.  I met him at the mother ship of gay bars, G.  I was standing at the bar, nervously looking around for my date.  John tapped me on the shoulder, and I was pleasantly surprised.  He looked just like his picture.  I breathed a silent sigh of relief, and his facial expression told me that he did the same.  He bought two drinks, and we headed for a table.  I noticed his oversized man-purse.

“I like your bag,” I offered.

“Thanks,” he dramatically sighed.  “Fifteen hundred dollars.”

I almost swallowed my tongue.

“Really?  My entire outfit costs barely over a hundred.”

“Oh, how could that be?”

Easy.  I went on to explain how the jeans came from a really cool thrift store, my nice fitted shirt came from Century 21, and my new boots were on sale.  He looked at me in disbelief.

“That is so funny,” he went on.  “These jeans alone cost almost a thousand dollars.”

The night proceeded in just this fashion.  Everything had a price tag.  And not only did he tell me how much he paid for his clothes, his house, and every stick of furniture in it, but he also told me how much he made and the huge amount of his recent bonus.  And here I was.  Working for a shitty commercial bank using credit cards almost to their limit and shopping at thrift stores.  If the constant bragging wasn’t enough, each time he told me how much something cost, he dramatically rolled his eyes and looked so put upon as if to say “I stitched every last thread of these jeans” or “I laid every brick of my house.”  I was secretly plotting excuses to get out of going to dinner with him.  Turned out I didn’t need to.  Our income disparity and my obvious disgust were enough.  He didn’t ask.  Instead, he paid the check, and we headed home.  Separately. 

Still stinging from John and his gold-dusted jeans, I reluctantly kept a date with Stan, a date that I had agreed to go on the week before.  So three nights after my lesson in the economics of dating, I met Stan at Gym, a gay sports bar—which I’ve learned is not an oxymoron.  We were to have a couple of beers and then head to dinner at an Italian restaurant.  I walked in, saw him, and we both smiled.  Again, he looked like his picture.  Tall and handsome.  A blue-collar look.  Like he could pour cement or something.  We introduced ourselves, and he bought two beers and turned to me.

“So like I said I’m Stan originally from the Midwest but I would never claim that to anyone HA HA HA HA HA HA no kidding I love the Midwest it’s so provincial and pure and my parents are still there who I adore and my siblings and their kids who I just love do you love kids? I LOVE kids I want three do you want kids?  It would be so neat if you took my last name and then we could name our son Henry!  How much fun would that be?  I love my job I’m a contractor and am so busy all the time and can never find time for a relationship but you’re too cute to pass up and you seem so interesting and fun and cool so what do you say?”

My eyes crossed. 

“I beg your—“

“What do you say about going steady?”

I downed my beer, put five dollars on the bar, and walked out.

“Well, you seem too wound up to have kids anyway!” he called out behind me.

Two weeks later, having given up Match.com for good, I got a message in my inbox.  I didn’t even look at his profile and picture.  I wasn’t interested.  Until I read his email.  No talk of walking on the beach or income level or how many children we were going to have.  Just simple and direct.

“Fuck this match.com bullshit. Do you want to go out to dinner with me?”

I met him for dinner the next night.  He was already seated when I arrived.  He stood up as I approached the table.  Well over 6’4”, he had the kind of smile that made my stomach flip.  Firm in all the right places with a little bit of gut.  Classic features with just a hint of flaw.  I said a silent prayer and sat down.  His name was Doug.  He was a successful visual arts designer from California who had only been in New York for two years.  Conversation was easy.  We talked about our likes and dislikes, the perils of online dating, and our respective horror stories.  Dinner and drinks turned into a three hour date.  I felt like I had known him for a lot longer.  He had exquisite taste in wine and was well-versed in just about everything, including theatre which I love.  Even his flaws were cute. 

“Do you want to go see a play sometime?” I asked.

“Um, yeah.  But I get kind of anxious when I’m boxed in with a lot of people, so I may need to sit on the aisle.  I actually had to get up and leave ‘Mamma Mia’ last month.”

“Well, that probably didn’t have so much to do with your social anxiety as it did with ‘Mamma Mia’,” I offered. 

At the end of the night, he wanted to walk me home.  Walk me home!  I couldn’t believe it.  We got to my front door, and he kissed me.

“This has been the best date.  I really want to see you again.  I haven’t met anyone in a long time that really grabbed me like you did,” he said.

This was it.  My last blind date.  I just knew it.  We made plans for the next week.

“Next time when I walk you home, I’ll come up,” he grinned.

I watched him walk away.  I was happy.  Content.  Smitten. 

I got an email from him two days later.

“You’re a fantastic guy and a great catch.  But dating is just not where I am right now.  Take care, Doug.”

Just like his first email.  Simple.  And direct.

The Way I Am

                              

            In the first thirty-eight years of my life, I’ve had Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, small pox, hepatitis, a brain tumor, gonorrhea, syphilis, and a recurring case of homosexuality.  None were diagnosed by a medical professional, yet more than once I asked my mother for a living will.  I brought this up to my shrink once, and she said, “Craig, I have to go to the bathroom.”  Upon her return, I completed a series of tests, and just like that, she wrapped up all of my previous diagnoses and even tied a pretty little bow on top.

            “Craig, I think you have OCD,” she explained.

            “Oh God.  Occasional Crabs and Dysentery?”

            “No.  OCD.  Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder.” 

            She explained that OCD is an abnormal brain function where a person has intrusive and unwanted thoughts and feelings and/or engages in repetitive behavior in order to halt them.  She told me that medication is not necessary since mine is a mild case and assured me that my recurring case of homosexuality obviously decided to stay.  It seems that part of my OCD causes me to project symptoms of various illnesses on to myself, but unlike hypochondriacs, I keep these feelings trapped in my brain.

            “So, my worries are unfounded?”

            “In most instances, yes,” she assured me.

            What a relief!  Now I could have sex with men without the nagging worry of giving them the Clap.

            At the time of diagnosis, I was twenty-eight, living in

Birmingham, Alabama 

and tip-toeing out of the closet.  Now with this newfound knowledge, my life began to make sense.  The faux illnesses, the angst and sense of dread, the constant praying.  Not to mention the typing in air.  I always thought I was fucked up.  Come to find out I’m just screwed up.

            As a pre-teen, I had an abnormal fear of being kidnapped after I saw a special report by Barbara Walters.  I also have an abnormal fear of Barbara Walters, but some things even medication can’t help.  Her report unleashed unfounded fears in my brain that could be so gripping and immediate, they often paralyzed me.  I went through phases where I never played outside after dark, even though we lived in a tiny tranquil burg where the talk of the town for an entire summer was the bank secretary’s affair. My dad spent many a happy hour at our local country club, and I waited by the window every night for him to come home.  Without him at home, I was more susceptible to being kidnapped by some deranged fanatic in a windowless van.  Each night, like clockwork, I saw his truck lights coming down the street and was relieved whenever they turned into our driveway.  Dad would come inside, sometimes sober and other times blitzed.  Either way, his presence served a purpose:  my physical security.  With him at home, I felt safe and could adjourn to my bedroom for the evening to do homework and watch “Dynasty.”

Things really got odd once I hit puberty.  It was 1985, Rock Hudson had just died of AIDS, and an older football player at my school, Steve Avery, was giving me hand jobs on a regular basis.  I was skinny and unsure, an awkward kid who enjoyed attention from both girl and occasional boy.  I enjoyed a modicum of popularity but quickly learned my role was the class clown, the jester with the effeminate gait.  I also had braces which paved the way for all sorts of nicknames and catcalls and also irritated my gums.  So they bled easily.  Our biology teacher added a new unit to our curriculum that year about AIDS, which was quite revolutionary for a small Southern town in the mid-80’s.  I’m still not quite sure where she got her facts though.

            “One of the first symptoms of AIDS is bleeding of the gums,” she instructed.

            Pangs of horror shot through my gut.  Goddamn it!  I knew I shouldn’t have let Steve touch it!  I went home, locked myself in the bathroom, and looked in the mirror.  With all the melodrama and nuance of Susan Lucci, I wailed at my reflection.

            “Oh GOD!  I’ve got AIDS!”

            Steve couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t play around with him for six months.  I didn’t want to tell him that I possibly had AIDS and that I needed to wait six months for any other symptoms to appear.  Again, not sure where my revolutionary science teacher collected her data.  I waited and occasionally worried that each new zit was a lesion.  Each bleeding gum episode was further AIDS infection from Steve’s hand jobs.  Every cough was AIDS-related pneumonia.  However, six months passed, my gums healed, and I didn’t die.  All clear. Steve was thrilled.

            Throughout my teen years, I was getting reborn and baptized as a result of my pastor’s sermon on homosexuality.  The word ‘reborn” triggered something in my brain, and I had regular engagements at the baptismal pool.  I also prayed.  Constantly. At the time, I subscribed to the Southern Baptist Laws of Christianity and Tolerance.  “If you don’t believe in God, you go to Hell.”  Easy. So to avoid the down under, I prayed the same prayer every night of my life, verbatim.  My brain dictated that any deviation in the prayer would cause my world to fall apart, and I would keep the devil company for eternity.  But when my Sunday school teacher said that we must vary our prayers and not recite something that we don’t mean, I simply reversed the sentences and prayed with conviction!

            “Dear God. Please don’t ever let me or my family get kidnapped, killed, or robbed. Keep us safe from all sin and evil. Please forgive me for my sins. And please let me get a hard-on with my girlfriend without having to think about Steve.”

            Looking back, I’ve exhibited classic symptoms of OCD as well:  keeping everything in certain order, doing tasks a certain way, not readily accepting change.  I’ve always hated cleaning, but my bedroom has always been kept just so.  Everything has a place, albeit sometimes a strange place, but a place nonetheless.  Condoms always in the same drawer as the Bible.  I’m not sure why; it just seems like God intended.  But some things even perplexed my shrink.  After I learned to type in junior high, I began to simulate typing random words that I would hear in my head. The principal could be lecturing me in the hallway. Before I knew it, my arms would be at my side, and I’d be typing in the air with my fingers:   

W-H-A-T  A-N  A-S-S-H-O-L-E! 

            Balance has always been very important to me.  I’ve gone through phases where if I scratch one arm, the other deserves a scratch too.  Smooth the right eyebrow?  My brain would be in a state of fury until the left one was smoothed also.  In gay bars, I’ve gotten more than a few odd looks from men who would playfully pinch one of my nipples, and I would turn and say, “Wait, you have to do the other one too.”

            There are darker compulsions as well.  Since coming out ten years ago, I have discovered that all men, straight or gay, are horny pigs.  The only difference between the two is that straight men don’t have the luxury of sex in the gym.  And never has there been such easy access to compulsive sexual behavior than now in the age of the internet.  It’s easy to mask the fears and doubts of self-worth and the disappointment of rejection when you’re sexually compulsive. Instant validation with the aftershocks of regret and depression.  Sort of like snorting coke with the added benefit of orgasm. But with time and therapy, I found myself surfing the virtual sexual highway with irregularity and confronting the taunting thoughts and fears head-on.  Spontaneity may be gone, but so are the crabs.

            OCD, just like homosexuality, is my DNA. Both needed to be hidden for awhile. Both needed to be eventually accepted. And in the end, both were embraced. And every so often, I’ll meet a kindred spirit. A few years ago, I met a guy at New York’s gay pride parade. He was a tall blonde strapping fellow from Nebraska on his first trip to our fair city.  We talked all afternoon among the revelers and drag queens. We had dinner with my friends, and I walked him back to his hotel. Standing in front of the Gansevoort on a breezy June evening, I was feeling quite randy. Using my substantial sex appeal and with all the romantic intention I could muster, I slowly brushed one side of his blonde hair back behind his ear, a la Streisand and Redford in “The Way We Were.”  He looked at me rather sheepishly.

            “This sounds so weird.  But can you brush the other side back too?”

            I smiled.

            “Absolutely.”