Mutton Chop Queen

So this date starts off like so many others: we met online.  He responded to my profile.  He seemed a bit wack-a-doo, but fun.  Our conversations (in writing) were animated, flowed well, and covered a range of topics. Interesting person with some depth: Check. 

He seemed to have a sense of humor that was going to keep me on my toes, and enjoyed going to various music and dance venues.  While he wasn’t looking for a serious long-term relationship I thought, ‘He could be fun to spend some time around’.  Vibrant and enjoys living life: Check.

He also seemed to genuinely care about other people around him.  Kind soul: Check.

In appearance, he was cute, but he had this weird facial hair thing going.  Basically, his mustache and goatee were shaved, but his sides from the hairline to where the goatee should have been were fully filled-in with beard.  I’d call it mutton chops, but he had shaved part of the side burns too so that the hair along the sides of his jawline seemed to float oddly along the edge of his face.  I wasn’t sure what I thought about that, but I wasn’t willing to say no based on it.  Physically attractive: Check.

He asks if I’d like to meet and I say ‘yes’.  We make plans to meet at one of the local coffee shops for a low-key evening.  The day arrives.  I put on a cute little dress and grab a wrap in case it’s breezy.  He’s there in jeans and a light tweed blazer – nicely stylish, clean-cut, and attractive.  After we each grab a drink, we go find a table on the patio where we can be intimately by ourselves.  So far: Lovely.

Once we’re seated the conversation starts with chit-chatting about standard topics that aren’t much better than the weather…online dating history foremost amongst them. I want to know more about this man than how many other women he’s met for a date and eventually I’m able to steer the conversation to other topics.  As we chat several details emerge that, when strung together, paint a certain picture…

He lives in a commune of all men, most of whom share a common bathroom.  He made a point to tell me that he had one of the larger units so he had his own “private” bathroom.  Okay.  This is a progressive town.  The word commune doesn’t make me shudder.    

He loves to go out dancing.  I do, too.  He also says he likes to do dance videos - the ones with the dance pad, like Dance Dance Revolution.  As we are talking about where he goes when he goes out, I note that most of the clubs he mentions frequenting are prevalently gay clubs.  I ask about this.  He tells me that his best friend is gay and that a lot of the men he lives with are gay.  Okay, that’s all grand, but I’m thinking, most straight men don’t usually surround themselves with gay men, even those that are not homophobic.

He doesn’t have a car.  Instead he gets around town on his new sporty, little moped.  He wears a helmet so I’m now picturing him be-bopping around town on his brightly-colored ride, in a bomber helmet, with his detached mutton chops whipping in the wind.  (No, the hair there wasn’t that long, but it’s the image that was conjured).  I sound uncharitable.  I know it, but it is what it is.

He’s a professional, educated, normal guy.  He has never been married; he’s a veteran.  Aside from the date-history grilling he seems genuinely easy-going and friendly.  He’s several years older than me, but has obviously taken good care of himself - he has a nice physique, is well groomed, and could easily pass for much younger than his age.  However, by this point something that isn’t quite like an alarm bell, but still wants to get my attention, is twinging in the back of my mind. 

I should note that, over the years, I have been out with several men who my friends flat insisted were gay. In each instance, they have turned out to be correct.  One of them I was with for many years.  I hear this twinge, but I choose to ignore it, mostly.  I’m focused on the fact that he was a cool guy and that I very rarely have second dates.  I wanted a second date to see if there was anything there.  I really just wanted to have a second date with someone.

He had work hours that were a little outside the usual so he had to get to an appointment after our coffee.  After chatting for almost two hours, we part ways.  Instead of walking me to my car, he gives me a warm hug and a kiss on the cheek in front of the shop.  He turns to go his way; I turn and go mine. 

He and I keep in touch via text after the date, which is always promising.  The following week we’re talking about getting together again.  He’s tells me that his day has consisted of running errands on the moped and doing two entire dance game videos. 

I think back to our date and remember that when he told me that he likes to do the dance videos he mentioned that he does them for hours at a time, for exercise.  He stays in shape by doing the dance video games that tween girls just can’t get enough of.  He is surrounded by gay men.  He is well-dressed, creatively well-groomed, in-shape, and comfortable with himself.  He has not attempted sexual or flirtatious banter with me, and at the end of our date gave me a sweet peck on the cheek.  I look back at my phone and read his last text again.

Ugh.  Nope.  I’m out.  I just CAN’T do this. It reads:

“I AM THE DANCING QUEEEEEN!!!”

Ohh, I bet you are.