So the guy I was dating–or thought I was dating has vanished into thin air. Have you seen him? Well, I’m sure he’s not vanished–he’s likely snug in his bed in Morningside Heights right now as I type these words. He’ll wake soon, wipe the sand from his dreamy eyes, have a morning fart, check his Facebook, and realize it’s Valentine’s Day. When he realizes that, will he have a fleeting memory of me–the man he met on OKCupid, got off to a great start with, had great conversation, googly eyes over coffee, laughter, flirty texts, a hot and heavy make out session with, and then radio silence? Will he have a twinge of longing for me and consider picking up his mobile device to type “hi”? Or, has he already pushed me out of his mental sphincter and down the toilet where most modern love goes?
I kind of hope it’s the latter. Flush, asshole! Flush, flush, flush!
This is not bitterness. Because it’s been a year of incredible personal growth for me and I am now in a place where I recognize that when things don’t go my way, it’s not because there is something wrong with me. I credit this partially to The White Woman whose couch I sit on every other Thursday but mostly to me who has worked his heart, ass, and brain off to arrive at the truly living Michael Jackson. I jokingly call myself The Realest Nigga on OkCupid because the thing I have learned is that for all of my dating inexperience, I have only gotten more and more real and honest about what I need and what I will give. I will put myself out there, like friends always advise, but when I do it I put the emphasis on MYSELF. And so if you’re a man who is too chickenshit to tell me to my face (or fine, via email) that you are not interested in me because it’s 2014 and you don’t know how you feel or you’re having issues or you’re afraid you’re going to hurt my feelings, or you think it’s easier to disappear after you’ve asked me if I was a top or a bottom and told me how handsome I was and how you wanted to date me and how I was so handsome not knowing how many buttons this would press in me who grew up ugly and pathetic and insecure and closeted in his arrested adolescent mind then you are not a man who I want to be involved with and I have truly dodged a bullet.
This is not bitterness. Well, maybe there’s a germ of it in there, but nothing more than that because yesterday I took a long walk through the truly horrid puddles, ice, snow, and cold of New York City. It was just me, Dionne Warwick, and Burt Bacharach sotto voce. I leapt from street corner glacier to street corner glacier singing hits like “Always Something There To Remind Me” and “Are You There With Another Girl?” pretending like I was a mod heroine in a romantic 70s drama–someone like Raquel Welsh (but like with Annie Potts rising)–someone flawed but really classy and genuine–someone for whom love has always been elusive but who still holds candle flame of hope for it in the dark, dark, darkness.
I don’t know where I will end up. I’m writing a lot of good songs about my perpetual lovelessness which is good. I’m writing my black gay self into existence in this super duper Caucasian world. I’m looking and feeling better and better each day as I follow the diet and exercise regimen that has been so successful for me. I am not particularly pressed to be with anyone as I am particularly enjoying being with myself right now but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t going to remember those kisses with my now invisible man for a long, long time.
Fucking Valentine’s Day. Man.