Shitty Date No.1 – Don’t Say The “D” Word

So how did a year that went so badly, begin?

For most of 2007, there was a guy that I was seeing in LA. Let’s call him Stan. He was always a little on the odd side. I do kind of like the odd ones, so I have to share the blame on this; you get what you chase.

To intro some caveats, I was away for 6 months of that on various trips, working in Berlin. Plus, I really didn’t know if I wanted to live there in Berlin or LA, so I know that I’m not the safest of bets here.

But I’m back for a nearly two months and I’ve finally been granted a work visa. Which means for the first time ever, I actually have the right to reside and work in the US. This has to be renewed every year, but I have a feeling that there could be some permanence for me here. And over the last year when I have been in town, Stan and I would spend a couple of nights a week at each other’s places, talk most days, go on trips, meet each other’s friends. Hang out all weekend sometimes.

You might call that dating. I know most people would. But this is LA.

Back from my trip and between apartments, he offers to let me stay at his place with him. I’m not sure at first, but Stan’s rather insistent. For a man who seems to have a Phd in mixed signals, this I think is the clearest one to date that there is more going on here. Which makes me very happy.

We have been happily co-habitating at his place for 6 weeks. Everything is going well. To all appearances, we look like a couple.

So I decide to initiate the, “So, what are we doing?” conversation and mention that we are kind of dating. I may as well have thrown dynamite onto the logfire in front of our bearskin rug.

Because I said the “D” word. And that means, the relationship now must be named. And that means two people, at least to some degree, have to c-c-c-commit.

To my surprise, I am met with surprise. More than that really; he was flummoxed, desperate and suddenly into survival mode like a man who had been ambushed. Actually, it was more like a fish out of water, flapping around for dear life, eyes bulging.

“Dating?! Oh, I don’t know if I would call it dating. We’re more good friends, and there’s a physical side to it as well.”

Strange, I thought. Because I don’t sleep in the same bed as my other friends, have wild monkey sex and then whisper sweet nothings in their ears, before I get up and fix them breakfast.

Stan then went on to point out that when we had first met, 12 months ago, that I had mentioned I wasn’t really into dating at that moment. And that was his get out of jail free card. Apparently we were just, you know, hanging out. Because I said…

So with that, I packed my bags and stayed with a friend. One I don’t sleep with. I discover as I speak with our mutual friends, that I am by no means the first guy to walk away from Stan, scratching my head, asking what the hell that was all about. And I marvel at the way that no one will tell you this stuff when you’re with someone, but as soon as it’s over, people have to take a number and line up to give you their two cents.

As soon as I found a new place in Venice to live, I swore to myself that I would just find some normal guys to go out with.

Ha, ha, ha.

I move into my new place, get sick, go to hell and back and then get well again. Back in health at last, I spak-filler the scratch marks on the walls of my pad from where I’ve been climbing.

A lot of that time being sick was spent online chatting to guys all over the country and quite a few little cuties in LA. In my mind, they are primed, ready and lined up for my plundering.

Or not as the case may be. Welcome to the world of dating in LA.

Flakiness happens all over the world, but in LA, it’s exponential. They are actually developing a quantum theory here based on the parabolic nature of the West Coast gay male’s inability to remember, care or follow through. So many megatons of cosmic flakiness has accumulated in LA in fact, that the sheer weight of it has turned it inside out and opened up a black hole into which anyone with a sense of morals is sucked inside, never to be heard of again.

Stephen Hawkins has been working on it, but quite frankly he’s stumped. Yesterday he rolled out in his wheelchair to speak to the gathered media through his vocoder. The quote in the LA Times read, “I thought I had problems, but there is truly no mathematical explanation for these fags. I’d rather try to disprove light.”

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About Some Gay Guy

I'm getting divorced. So... yeah.
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