Wednesday, August 29, 2012
A Challenge - and Some Thoughts on Dating Gay Guys
Here are a few shots of me from this morning.
So, anyway, here's the deal. Does anyone out there know Jake Jenkins? Is he gay? I want to wrestle him. Yeah, he'd kick my ass, but I don't care. I want to try and wrestle this guy. Also, I'm tired of guys like Jake being consigned to the realm of fantasy. He's a real, flesh and blood person. He wrestles. What the heck. I wrestle, too!
So, what about it, Jake? Want to take me on? If so, let me know where you are located and I will look at booking a flight and coming to town.
Okay, okay. I get it. Enough of that nonsense.
It's been a long time since anyone has hit on me. Living in a relatively small southern town, I just don't run into guys who will approach me and ask me out very often. My gay-dar is abysmal. I think sometimes a guy has to almost hit me in the head before I will notice that they are flirting. But the other day at the gym I was hit on.
For the last eight years I have been out and wrestling. During that time, I have met and wrestled quite a few guys. I was trying to count how many the other day and I came up with around forty guys.
Wrestling with a guy is not the same thing as going on a date. Meeting up at a guy's house or in a hotel room, scoping each other out, and then peeling off some clothes and locking up is very different than going out for a drink or dinner. And, I have to say that I don't miss dating at all.
I was never a good dater. Oh, I could clean up pretty good and I can make conversation. Well, maybe I was an okay date, but I had the worse luck when it came to dates. I mean it. Rotten. Of course, my dating experiences all took place in a time in the distant past that historians call The Eighties. For you kids out there, that means before the Internet.
To find a date, I had to go to the one gay bar in my town. It was never open until midnight. The music they played sucked. It was a drag queen hang-out. I showed up in a pair of ragged jeans and a t-shirt, and I just did not fit in. The guys down there were always dressed up in the latest fashions. Like I said, this was the eighties, so I will leave what I mean by that to your imagination. (If you need help, go to youtube and look for a Flock of Seagulls video.)
Anyway, all this is to say that in a world where I didn't fit in because I was gay, I did not fit into that world either.
So what do I mean by rotten luck in dating? There was this one guy who told me that he needed to be very discrete about dating. He was very well-known around town and just could not afford to be outed.
He was an interior designer, and he was so gay that he couldn't be gayer if his name was Gay Gayerson (sorry Will and Grace). He worked exclusively for a bunch of old ladies who, I guarantee you, knew he was gay. Granted, he was very good in bed. That was a bit of a consolation for his self-delusion. But when he sat me down and began to tell me how aliens had been contacting him for several years, I checked out. Even a really good lay isn't worth being killed in your sleep.
There was this other guy I met who approached me with this line: "Are you Jewish?"
I guess in a small southern town anyone who isn't blond must look slightly exotic. I am not blond. Otherwise, I have no idea why guys asked me that so often back then. But the truth is that I was asked if I was Jewish maybe ten times in those days.
Well, finally, this one time, I answered: "Yes, I am."
I was horny and sick of the slightly mean-spirited, xenophobic attitude of my fellow southerners (it hasn't improved by-the-way). We went back to my place and as we got into bed he produced a Bible and began to tell me about how my people had "killed his lord." I'll tell you what got killed - the mood. I kicked him out and masturbated.
So, anyway, dating - it's tough and I'm not about to start that again. Not when I can meet a cool, masculine guy, strip off my shirt and wrestle. That, my friends, is what it's really all about.