A writer's journey of dating and living gay in Seattle exposed.
We live in a world of masks. Whether one is interviewing for that ultimate dream job or trying to win over the family members of his lover, many make an effort to offer that all-important, lasting first impression. Every strand of hair should be in place; button-down shirts should be properly ironed, starched to perfection and free of any unsightly wrinkles. Fresh breath…check. Skin and clothing emitting the pleasant smell of the latest designer cologne…check. Sense of humor and total positiveness toward life…check. Reality check…none of it’s real. In fact, if I went off such first impressions, I’d be fucking half the guys I’ve met throughout the years. That’s not saying that I haven’t done such with a few of them. OK, maybe a number of them. Needless to say, first impressions have become passe. Any person with common sense knows this. This is the reason I began dating. After all, it always seems that true colors come out in due time. Those first impressions only last two to three dates tops. I’m more of the “be yourself” type of guy from the get-go. No bullshit. What you see is what you get.
After several weeks since our first online meeting, and a dozen late-night phone calls to boot, The Stylist and I finally find time in both of our schedules for our first date or, as he likes to call it, “go hang out.” Hang out. I still try to wrap my brain around that term; I continue attempting to crack the code of the Seattle gay singles elusive lingo. “Why don’t you call it a date?” I’d asked The Stylist during a number of our phone conversations. I could tell that my obsession with the term was becoming an uneasy question for him. It became apparent from his defensive, high-pitched tone. “‘Date’ is so formal, don’t you think?” he would constantly reply. It truly had me wondering if he was interested in getting to know me or just my dick. Thus, I made it a choice to overlook the situation and go with it. No need to have drama before the first date…ahem, hang-out.
So our plan is a go and it takes place on a Friday. I’d previously secured a meeting with the owners of a Capitol Hill bookstore to talk about carrying an inventory of my novels and conducting a book-signing event. The meeting with them is to take place that Friday afternoon. Shortly thereafter, I am to meet The Stylist for pre-dinner drinks at The Crescent Lounge. The bar is easily within walking distance from the bookstore, just down the Hill a bit, so it seems to be the perfect meeting place.
The night before our date (I refuse to refer to it as a “hang-out” any longer), I talk with The Stylist to confirm our plans. I ask him where he wants to go to dinner. He tells me it doesn’t matter. I ask him what type of cuisine he likes (I can’t believe this hasn’t already come up in our several conversations). He tells me whatever I’m in the mood for. He isn’t making the situation easy, that’s for sure. That thought in mind, I decide to Google several local restaurants that might be suitable for our evening out. I find a nice, casual Italian place that I feel will be perfect and make online reservations for 5:30pm. That should allow us a good hour an a half to meet, have a drink or two, and make our way to the restaurant.
The next morning, I wake up a bit early since I have a busy day ahead. I go through my ritual of coffee and emails. Ever since my previous accidental-turned-all-night encounter with Wes, I tend to feel an anticipation when logging into my email account. It’s a different type of excitement than receiving an acceptance email for a short story or a publishing contract for a new book. It’s the type of sensation made up from those proverbial butterflies; a thought that, perhaps he remembered my website so he could obtain my email address and contact me. I think about him a lot these days. I continue to be lovingly haunted by those caramel eyes. Unfortunately, after a little over a week, I still haven’t received an email from Wes. I can’t help but wonder if that entire night was nothing but a dream or if Wes was simply an angel. Disappointment aside, I continue onward with my morning and focus on my afternoon meeting and tonight’s anticipated date with The Stylist.
The morning flies by. I print off my press kit package, grab a few of my books, and place them all in my leather satchel. I’m prepared for my meeting with the local bookstore owners. I grab some Hugo Boss slacks and a nice contrast-cuff-and-collar-spread dress shirt from my closet and lay them out on my bed. The outfit will go well with the Gucci leather loafers I’d purchased months ago and had yet to wear. A very professional look for the meeting.
In the shower, I’m instantly struck by a new obstacle. No, it’s nothing like that. I realize that I plan to meet The Stylist after my meeting at the bookstore. Since we’re meeting for drinks, it’s no doubt that I’ll be using the public transit system (again, I’m not an advocate for drinking and driving). The one problem with this is that I don’t want to show up for drinks looking like a corporate professional; rather, I want to dress accordingly. After all, The Stylist and I had talked about not dressing too formal. And that is also the reason I picked a three-star restaurant instead of a five. Keep it casual. Furthermore, after reading the reviews and checking out the website for The Crescent Lounge (where we were to meet for drinks), I would appear highly over-dressed. One alternative would be to go the meeting, come back to this side of town, change, and then head back to Capitol Hill. However, there wasn’t enough time in between my meeting and the beginning of the date to do such. I know, there are worse problems in the world and this might have me sounding pretentious. Still, it’s our first date and I don’t want to fuck it up. In fact, it’s my first official date in Seattle (with the exception of my night with Wes, and I still don’t know what to call that). The solution: I’ll take a change of clothes with me. I’ll be toting around my satchel anyway, might as well make more use of it. I’ll simply change in between my meeting and my date.
After shaving the stubble from my face and styling my hair, I make my way back into the bedroom, slide the closet door open and retrieve a pair of Abercrombie, low-rise jeans and a tight, black t-shirt of the same label. This outfit will match the loafers that I’ll be able to pull off for both the meeting and the date. I nicely fold the jeans and t-shirt and place them in the satchel. I quickly remember to grab another pair of underwear as well. Yes, I’m always accessorizing like that. That’s something I don’t think will ever change.
Before l leave the apartment, I grab my Hugo Boss leather jacket (again, accessories), spray myself with a small bit of Diesel cologne (the Armani from last week reminds me of the night with Wes) and, considering I’m taking public transit, I make sure I have my debit card and an extra cell phone battery with me. We learn from past mistakes, do we not? I don’t intend on having a repeat of my last outing.
At the local bookstore in Capitol Hill, my meeting with the bookstore owners goes well. They appear impressed going over my press kit and books. They tell me they plan on carrying a few of the titles to see how they sell locally and that they’re interested in having me do a book-signing in the near future. I feel accomplished, and that is a feeling that can never be stripped of a person. It’s part of the small victories that make up the overall picture of success. As a result, it makes you high in a way no other drug can or will.
It’s shortly after 3pm as I shake the hands of the bookstore owners and thank them for their time. I add that I look forward to hearing from them regarding the future book-signing and plan to stop by in a couple weeks to see how local sales are going with my books. I exit the store and beginning making my way down Broadway, all the while thinking that I have half an hour to get to The Crescent Lounge. I’m suddenly in “rush mode” as I realize that I have to change beforehand. I notice a restaurant across the street. The Barrio Cafe. Surely, they have a bathroom I can utilize as a changing room (well, I’m not planning to tell them that).
I enter the restaurant and am immediately greeted by the sweetest, young girl. “One?” she asks.
“Actually,” I say, “I’m just stopping in for a quick drink. Can I just sit at the bar?”
“No problem, sir.”
Sir, I think. Really? OK, she just lost my respect for being sweet.
I make my way to the bar and am greeted by a striking, young man with lovely Italian features. I make a mental note to make a visit back to this place real soon. “What can I get you?”
“Patron,” I order.
“Do you have your I.D.?”
After the “sir” comment made by the hostess, I am redeemed by the bartender’s doubt of my age. Definitely coming back for a visit.
I hand him my I.D. and he quickly surrenders it back to me. As he grabs a shot glass and a bottle of Patron, I ask him, “Where’s your restroom?” He explains that it’s around the corner, on the other side of the restaurant. “I’ll be right back,” I inform.
I take my satchel to the restroom and go into one of the stalls. Thankfully, everything is shiny and clean. In a matter of two minutes, I strip off my shirt, slacks, and underwear and replace them with the outfit in my bag. I laugh because I feel like Superman going into a telephone booth and making his transformation to fight crime Mild-mannered writer turned cute gay man. I bolt from the stall, quickly walk to the mirror where I fix my tousled hair (a result of pulling the t-shirt over my head), and exit the restroom.
As I walk back up to the bar, I see my shot of Patron awaiting me. I go to pick up the shot glass, and I hear the voice of the bartender. “Someone’s sitting there…” His words are cut-off when he recognizes it’s me. “I’m on a tight schedule,” I try to explain. He smirks, but looks a bit confused. I down the shot. Here’s to the small victories. I throw a twenty on the bar and make my exit. “Thanks,” I call to the bartender. “I’ll be back soon.”
Twenty minutes later, I arrive at The Crescent Lounge. It’s a dive bar with 80′s music blaring from the weak speakers of a standalone jukebox. It’s one of those bars that is so dark inside that people wince when the squeaky door opens and allows the light from outside to shine in. I make my way to the bar and order a margarita (on the rocks and with salt). Since I’ve already consumed a shot of Patron, I have to keep from mixing different alcohols. I am ogled by a group of overweight, hairy men. I can’t help but wonder if I stepped into a bear bar. There’s small platform that overlooks the bar. Since nobody is sitting there, that’s where I decide to go after the bartender serves up my drink. An awkwardness washes over me as I feel the eyes of the men following my ass as I make my way up the few stairs to the platform. I almost feel dirty.
I take a seat at a table for two, pull out my cell phone, and text The Stylist to see where he’s at. He replies that he should be arriving in about three minutes. I keep myself busy by using my smartphone to peruse the social networks. Not to mention, I’m trying hard not to make eye contact with the number of eyes I can sense are on me. A couple minutes later, the ungodly squeaking of the door to The Crescent Lounge announces another visitor as the gray light of day floods the bar. In walks The Stylist.
I can tell it’s him because, not only because we the youngest people inside this joint, but he is glancing around the bar in attempt to locate me. Our eyes lock and I wave my hand. He saunters toward me and I meet him halfway on the stairs of the platform. “Hi, it’s finally nice to meet you,” I say as I extend my hand.
“Indeed,” The Stylist says as he goes in for a hug.
OK. I’m a hugger too, so it’s all good.
He pulls back from me and says, “I thought you’d be a bit taller.”
At first, I don’t know what to say and I reply back with, “Whatever; we can’t all be six-foot-two. Go grab yourself a drink.”
The Stylist returns to the table with a vodka-cranberry. After setting it down, he stands and says, “hold on a second.” He walks over to me and rearranges a few strands of my hair. He stands back and looks at me. “Much better,” he says as he takes a seat.
Seriously? This is what I get for going on a date with a hair stylist.
“OK. Does my hair now meet your standards?”
“Sorry,” he chuckles. “It’s an occupational hazard.”
The Stylist looks all right. He appears a bit different from the pictures on his Facebook page. His hair is black (obviously dyed) and gelled into wisps. His face is almost an unhealthy white beneath his dark hair. His eyes are a brilliant blue and his eyelashes are long. I can tell he put mascara on. Then again, there’s nothing wrong with man make-up. I tend to don the guyliner from time to time when I go out to the club. His lips are glossy and full, and he has a slight double chin. I’m not one to judge on outward appearances; I’m not out to look for an Adonis or any ego that might go along with such a man. The inner self is just as important to me as the outer shell.
We have our drinks, discuss ’80′s music (one of our most common discussions), and order another round. He talks about his work and when I tell him that my earlier meeting at the bookstore went well, his response is, “That’s cool.” I’m slowly starting to see that the conversation tends to return back to him or his job. And as much as I like the music coming from the jukebox (it’s a nice escape when I can’t get a word in edgewise with The Stylist), I’m ready to leave. I have an opportunity and make the most of it before he begins talking.
“So, are you ready to grab some food?”
“I’m really not that hungry yet. I had a late lunch.”
I’m kind of pissed at the idea of his having a late lunch, knowing he was going to meet me for dinner. “Well, I made reservations for 5:30, but it’s not like it’s a fancy place. We can go a bit later.”
“Should we grab more drinks?” he asks.
“Sure, we can grab a drink. But let’s go someplace different. I really don’t care for the ambiance here.”
“The only reason I suggested to meet here was because they play a lot of ’80′s music. Since we both like ’80′s, I thought it’d be cool,” he explains.
“Oh, no. It was a good idea. I just need a change of venue.”
“Where would you suggest?”
“R Place?” I suggest this because I know I can relax and enjoy myself. Not to mention, it’s my favorite bar in Capitol Hill.
“R Place is so pretentious.”
You don’t say, I think. The word “hypocrite” suddenly comes to mind. “All right. What would you suggest?”
“Have you ever been to C.C. Attle’s?”
“No. I haven’t?”
“It’s pretty cool. They just finished renovating it and they have good happy hour specials.”
“That sounds like a plan then,” I agree.
With that, we exit The Crescent Lounge and make our way through the streets of Capitol Hill. It’s not exactly raining; rather, it’s misting. The Stylist opens his umbrella and holds it over the two of us as we walk. I’m letting him lead the way, since I’m still a bit lost in these parts of the city. Without warning, The Stylist grabs my left hand and interlaces his fingers with mine. I look up at him.
“Does this bother you? Public display?”
“No, not at all.” I smile as we walk forward. I’m a bit shocked by The Stylist’s forward gesture, but decide to not make too big a deal of it. However, once I notice him making sure others passing by notice us, I pull my hand from his.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“I feel like you’re trying to show us off in front of others.”
He laughs. “Of course I’m showing off that I’m with you. You’re cute. Why not?”
“Because it makes me look like I’m a prize you won at the fair.” For the first time during our date, I’m speaking with a serious tone.
“Calm down,” he says. “I was just joking. The bar is right here anyway.”
We enter C.C. Attle’s and the first thing I notice is that it’s a nice step up from The Crescent Lounge. The Stylist and I make our way to the bar where I notice a television screen displaying a slideshow of naked men. OK. Why not? I’ve never been here before, what’s one drink going to hurt?
The conversation between The Stylist and me is unlike the conversations we’d previously shared on the phone. It’s simple and, for the most part, consists of talk manly related to sex. Every time a guy walks by us, The Stylist eyes him up and down and asks me if I think he’s cute. I let this go until I’ve been asked five different times in the hour we’re there. “Why does it matter?” I ask.
The Stylist responds with, “Just curious what type a guys you like.”
“Well,” I explain, “I prefer the looks of a Hispanic or Latino man, but it’s not a deal-breaker. Besides, I’m here with you to get to know YOU better, not other strangers walking by.”
“OK, well; I just thought I’d ask. My ex is Hispanic.”
No, I’m not going to start talking about exes. I decide to interrupt his potential history of he and his ex before he has a chance to start. “So, are you hungry yet?”
“Not really,” he casually replies. “Let’s stay for a few more drinks.”
At this point I’m getting frustrated. After all, my idea of a date is not spending it bar-hopping. As much as I’m getting pissed that none of this has turned out how I’d expected, I entertain the idea and decide to start talking to the guys who have been sitting beside us the past half hour. At least their conversation (or what I’d overheard) was somewhat intellectual.
A couple hours go by as I continue drinking margaritas. The guys sitting next to us have since introduced themselves as Ken and Neil. Great guys, really! They’ve been together six years and enjoy coming out to have a few drinks every once in a while. They tell me about the operas they’ve been to and about the plays they’ve attended at the Admiral. The love between them shows in the way they laugh together and stare into each other’s eyes. I could only wish to find a guy like that. During the entire time, The Stylist chimes in every once in a while and says something irrelevant. But, for the most part, he is off in his own drunken world as he continues to stare up the other guys in the bar. There comes a point in which Ken and Neil tell me how sorry they feel for me that this is my first date. Then there comes another point in which The Stylist drunkenly falls off his bar stool and the bartender cuts him off.
The Stylist tries to argue with the bartender, but I tell the bartender I’ll take care of it and ask if he can call us a cab. I say my goodbyes to Ken and Neil and let them know I enjoyed the conversation. As I hoist-up The Stylist and put his arm around my neck to keep him from falling, Ken and Neil laugh and tell me, “Good luck.” It feels like I’m dragging dead weight as we exit C.C. Attle’s.
The cab arrives within five minutes of the bartender calling. I help The Stylist into the backseat. As I shut the door, I ask the cab driver to make sure he gets home safely and hand him a twenty-dollar bill.
“Where does he live?” the cabbie asks.
“Good question,” I say. I open the back door to the cab. “Hey, give the cab driver your address.”
The Stylist looks at me and gets wide-eyed. “You’re not leaving, are you?” His words are slurred and I can smell everything from vodka to rum come off his breath.
“Yes. He’s going to get you home.”
“Please come with me,” he begs. “I need to make sure I can get up to the apartment. It’s on the seventh floor.”
Shit! I’ve always been one to make sure others safely arrive to their homes. Call it the good Samaritan in me, but I can’t help it. I jump into the backseat with The Stylist and repeat the slurred address given to me, from him, to the cabbie. As the cab starts moving, my drunken date has his arms all over me.
Ten minutes later, we arrive at The Stylist’s apartment building. I pull him from the cab, but it seems he has already sobered up quite a bit in very little time. “Come on,” he says. I follow and watch as he taps in a security code to open the front door of the building. We go inside and take the elevator to the seventh floor where we pass a series of doors before getting to his. He unlocks it and invites me in.
“That’s all right,” I say. “You made it.”
“No, come on in. Let’s make something to eat. I know it’s not much, but I can make us some sandwiches.”
Sandwiches? I’m instantly reminded by the niceties of Norman Bates from Psycho. I am indeed hungry, so I figure it should be fine. Not to mention, I know how to defend myself if it comes to that.
The Stylist’s place is a studio apartment. The bedroom, living room, and kitchen are pretty much one open space filled with furniture. I’ve never cared for studios. I’ve never cared for my bedroom being openly available to guests. I take a seat on the couch in the living room. The Stylist puts on an ’80′s themed Pandora station. He walks over to his kitchen counter and grabs two glasses, a bottle of tequila, and a sweet and sour mix.
“Oh, I don’t need another drink. I’m good.”
“Just one more while I make our sandwiches.” He’s already pouring.
Depeche Mode comes onto the Pandora station. I love it and have always been a fan. I look around The Stylist’s studio and notice a picture of he and another guy kissing. Obviously, it’s an ex.
I instantly realize I don’t have my satchel with me. Fuck! Where did I have it last? C.C. Seattle’s, I remember. I quickly look up the number on my smartphone Internet and call. The bartender confirms that they have the bag and they’ll keep in behind the counter. My only hope is that my Hugo Boss outfit wasn’t taken from it.
“Everything all right?” The Stylist calls back to me.
“Yeah. I left my bag at the bar. It’s cool though. They’re holding it for me.”
The Stylist returns with my margarita. “Here you go,” he says. “Cheers!” Our glasses clink and I take a good two or three gulps.
“Who is that?” I point to the picture.
“Oh. My ex.” He sits next to me, grabs the back of my head, and goes in for a kiss.
I pull from him. “Sorry,” I say, “I really didn’t anticipate the night turning out the way it has.”
“That’ s all right.” He leans in to kiss me again, this time trying to push his tongue into my mouth. After he is unsuccessful, he pulls back. “Come on, let’s fuck.”
“Probably not a good idea,” I laugh. “Aren’t you supposed to be making sandwiches?”
“Why is it not a good idea? I’m horny. You’re horny. Come on. Besides, my roommate will be home soon.”
“That’s all right. Oh, so you have a roommate?” I’m confused because there is only one bed in the studio. He notices my looking at the bed.
“Actually, I live with my ex.” He gestures to the picture.
So the truth comes out. “Uh, OK. If he’s your ex, where do you sleep?”
“We sleep in the bed together, but we don’t fuck around. We have an arrangement We can see whoever we want, but we can’t bring them back here.”
Now I feel even more pissed than I had before. Date over. “OK, well, I’m going to leave now.”
I go to stand and my world goes blurry. I immediately sit and The Stylist grabs my arm. “Are you all right?”
No. I’m not all right. The room begins rotating to the right and I feel like I’m going to fall off the couch. And while I’m not the biggest party boy in the world, I do know a thing or two about drugs. The drink, I immediately recognize. The drink he made for me! “What the fuck did you slip into my drink,” I yell.
“Calm down,” he says as he tugs at my arm. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Bullshit. Fuck you. I’m out of here.”
I pull my senses together as best I can and get to my feet. My equilibrium feels off and I almost want to fall to the ground. Still, I make my way to his door.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
“I’m done here. Fuck off,” I yell as I open his door and slam it behind me.
The hallway seems to stretch forever. I know he slipped something into that drink. I also know that I don’t want him chasing after me. What a fucking creep! I walk down the hallway toward the elevator, keeping my hand alongside one of the walls to maintain my balance. From behind, The Stylist is yelling my name. I don’t bother looking back and, thankfully, the elevator is waiting for me with its door open. I slip inside and hit “1.” I get to the first floor and race to the exit of the building.
I can’t risk The Stylist coming after me, so I decide to make my way down the road a bit. The lights from the passing traffic are illuminated, psychedelic tracers on the black of night. I know I’m stumbling all over the sidewalk, trying to keep myself from falling over. I pull out my cell phone to look up the number of a cab company I can call. It becomes extremely difficult for me to push the correct letters on the touch screen to spell out “taxi.” I feel the urge to get sick but do my best to hold it back. My cell phone slips from my hand and hits the sidewalk. As I go to pick it up, my body tumbles over and I slam to the ground. The sound of shrieking tires infiltrates my world.
A car door slams. “You all right?” I hear a man’s voice. I look up and am greeted by a blurry face and brown eyes that veritably pierce through me. “C’mon.” He picks me up and opens the passenger side door of his car.
“I’m not fucking going with you,” I holler.
“Sit there and be quiet,” he instructs. But his words sound like they’re echoing from a tunnel. “Cops…see…they’ll…you in!” He shuts the door and I close my eyes.
Awake for a minute. “Hey,” the guy is yelling. “Where do you live?” We’re moving. In a car. “Hey!” We’re moving and I feel sick. Sleep.
In this world of masks, it’s difficult to tell who is the good guy and who the bad. We go off first impressions most of the time. We go off an honor system of sorts, a trust in a person we think we know but cannot always recognize the true intentions that hide behind their innocent eyes. Perhaps our kindness can get the best of us and there are certain precautions we must take. Perhaps I shouldn’t have gone home with The Stylist. I cannot go back and change my actions. All I can do is learn from the past and not make the same errors in judgment. Still, I believe that everything, no matter how bad, happens for a reason. When one door closes, another opens. I have faith in that.
At some point in the night, I open my eyes. I’m lying in bed. A cold sweat has formed upon my head and chest. I’m shivering. I feel something wet press against my forehead. “What?” I almost sit up but have no energy. “Shhhh,” I hear. “You’ll be fine.” I close my eyes. I feel comfort. I feel safe.
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The journey continues next Friday, January 25, 2013!
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