first date (for science)

The musty smell of old books clouded the air like an invisible fog.  I slowly walked through the narrow aisles with my arms folded so as to not accidentally knock over a unnoticed stack of books.  The last thing I wanted was the image of me frantically picking up a stack of books as a first impression.  I wondered what my first impression would be?  I pushed the thought out of my head – it wouldn’t do any good to focus on that.  Instead I read the titles on the shelves.  Most were old westerns and romance novels.  There were a lot of self-help books and biographies.  None of the books caught my attention and I continued though the maze of books.

The methodology for the experiment was clear: in order to finally resolve my sexuality and my religion, I had to have an accurate picture of what both sides involved.  Since I had about twenty-seven years of Mormonism under my belt, including a two-year mission, I felt I could check off that one.  That just left the Other Side, which meant that I would have to do what terrified me more than anything else – go on a date with a dude.

In order for the experiment to be a success, a strict protocol had to be followed:

  1. I had to tell someone.
    Secretly going on dates with guys was a sure way to get myself a heroin habit, I knew that I needed to let other people in on my plan.  I chose three people: my Mom who, as expected, was opposed, my roommate who took this as a sign to move out, and my friend Ashley, who’s reaction was a welcomed display of subdued support.  With Ashley there to check my arm for track marks, I pushed forward.
  2. The “rules of dating” had to be the same.
    I couldn’t do anything with a guy that I wouldn’t do with a girl…wait…I couldn’t do anything that would get me in trouble with a girl…or I couldn’t…you know what I mean.
  3. I had to actually follow through with it.
    The experiment had to go for a minimum of three months of frequent dating – or as frequent as I could get however.  I mean, what if I liked men, but men didn’t like me? …Anyway, I had to actually do this, no chickening out, so I signed up for a gay dating website, uploaded some SFW pictures and started browsing.

Which brought me to the used bookstore in the Poncey Highlands.  I was early because I hadn’t quite gotten the hang of timing travel from my new apartment in Midtown – a tiny studio off Peachtree Street.  In our messaging online, he had come across as a voracious reader.  I liked the idea of being well-read, but in practice I found myself to be much more pedestrian, my cultural intake being mostly independent films in which no one smiled and no one’s ending was happy.  He also had a knack for telling stories and I seemed that he was unlikely to hit me over the head with a tire-iron, dismember my body, and scatter my remains over the Chattahoochee.  So, when he suggested we meet at the bookstore, I agreed.

With each passing minute, my the butterflies in my stomach became more and more feral, sharpening their demonic claws on my insides.  Even though it was only a couple of minutes past the decided meeting time, I wondered how long would have to pass before I would classify as being stood up.  I mean, maybe the rules for gay dating were differ- I walked around the corner to see him standing right in front of me.  Being our first time meeting, it took me a second to realize that it was him.  I first noticed his hair, which was styled into a mild faux-hawk and underneath that, his dark eyes sat behind thin-wire glasses.  He was my height and was slightly thinner that me, which wasn’t something very common.  He smiled a crooked grin, “hey.”

“Hey,” I exhaled.  A feeling of relief flooded over me, which I thought was in response to the fact that I thought him to be cuter than his pictures online, but was more likely because my “hey” was the first real breath I had taken in minutes.

The first few words were awkward.  I tried to be charming.  So did he.

He asked what we should do and I suggested we walk to the Majestic Diner on Ponce.  Built in the twenties, it was a 24 hour diner whose food was mediocre, but had the best people-watching in the city as it was frequented by hipsters, goths, trannies, business men, yuppies, queers, and freaks alike.  With women, it had been my “weed-out” restaurant.  If they couldn’t understand the charm of the Majestic Diner, there was no hope.  I had the feeling that it wasn’t going to be a problem with him.

It wasn’t.

I ordered too much food – forgetting that nervousness caused me to lose my appetite.  Our conversation stretched for almost a couple of hours as the pierced, tattooed waitress kept refilling our water glasses.  We finally decided to put her out of her misery and pay the bill.  He paid for his meal and I paid for mine – answering another question I had about gay dating.  Not wanting the evening to end just yet, I asked if he had seen Juno.  He hadn’t (and I didn’t reveal that I already had), so we headed to the Midtown Art Cinema for the late show.

As the movie started, the audience remained sparse and I welcomed the familiar setting (and movie) to calm my jittery nerves.  For the next hour and a half, I could allow myself to concentrate on the movie and not focus that I was on a date with another man.  He leaned over to ask me something – or so I thought.  Actually he had leaned in and placed his hand in mine.

Holy.  Crap.

I sat paralyzed in my seat.  The butterflies were using the nuclear option and I felt like throwing up.  I wondered what he would think if I bolted from the theater and ran to the nearest bathroom.  Of course, if I did that I would have to let go of his hand, which, at that moment, was the last thing I wanted to do.