Personal Essay (so far untitled)

I first went on a date with a guy when I was 16. Although I had already come out to my friends and had thoroughly homosexualized my wardrobe, being openly gay at school, or in most public settings, was not something I was comfortable with.

His name was David and he was in my zoology class; we were partners for the fetal pig dissection lab. David exemplified every gay stereotype to perfection (or as I saw it, imperfection). I did the grunt work of the dissection, as David “certainly wasn’t going to touch that thing.” He had just had a manicure. We were writing our lab report, when David asked me if I wanted to hang out sometime, go to a movie or something.

“Yeah, sure . . . .sometime,” I hesitated in response. While I wasn’t sure what kind of homosexual I was or wanted to be, I knew what kind I didn’t want to be or be with.

At 16, like at 22, I maintained exacting standards concerning the kind of guys I presumed I was compatible with. It was a list of qualities, characteristics, and idiosyncrasies absurdly specific and idealistic. In my imagination the perfect candidate would be no less than two inches shorter than me, and no more than 4 inches taller. He would be slim but not more so than me. God forbid. Mr. perfect would be well versed in the cult classics of literature, film, and music; would share my love of Capote, Heathers, and The Smiths. At the same time that he would be intelligent and confidently well spoken, he would be elusive, irreverent, and walk with a mysterious air. He would possess mannerisms that were gentle and smooth but not feminine. This god among mortals would dress casually chic; have an effortless, sleek style. He would wear threadbare vintage t-shirts that hugged his torso and when with arms raised, reveal a glimpse of pale midriff. His kiss would sting sweetly, would paralyze my lips when it fell away. His scent would be so subtle but so alluring that its intoxication would make the girls wish he were theirs’. He would be strong, impenetrable to slurs and slander; he would be his own protector and mine.

David possessed none of these qualities. While he was in reality only an inch or two taller than me, the ridiculous shiny black leather boots he wore (a disqualifier in their own right) put him well above my height limit. He was painfully thin, and intentionally so. His preferred Nsync to Robert Smith, was ignorant of Winona Ryder’s oeuvre, and didn’t really read much. His etiquette and mannerisms made Emily Post look like Jabba the Hut. David only wore black and, I believe, used the same facial crème that my great aunt did and that Avon had produced the entire quantity of in 1974 and now continues to sell the remaining supply to elderly olive-skinned ladies and homosexuals who both seek its firming and lifting properties. David was not the kind of homosexual I was, nor the kind I wanted to be with.

I reluctantly gave David my phone number and secretly hoped he’d never call. It was not entirely out of pity that I wrote down my number. I did want to move what was up until that point, my strictly theoretical homosexuality into a practicing approach.
David called that Friday night when I was hanging out with my friends. I didn’t answer. I didn’t answer his call the next night either.

“What happened to you this weekend?” he asked me in class on Monday. I gave him a poorly fabricated excuse about my parents taking my phone away. When he asked me again on Friday if I was free that weekend, I concocted the excuse of being out of town visiting relatives. My series of lies and excuses continued for several more weeks until once David called and one of my friends answered the phone before I could silence the call. She handed the phone to me suddenly and I had no time for excuses; we would go to a movie the next night.

(this is as much as I have so far)