Worst Date Contest: Don't Ever Try to One-Up a Gay Man

So, last night I mentioned Restaurant Refugee‘s Worst Date Blog Contest to my gay bff out in LA. Big mistake.

Ever thought you had a bad date? Want to feel better about it? Tell it to a gay man. I don’t know if it’s because of the heightened sense of drama, the free-flowing booze, or the rampant testosterone in the homosexual world… maybe it’s just that my boy can tell a helluva story. Whatever the reason, a gay man’s dating experience is always going to be way worse/funnier than yours.

And really, I should have known this truth, if I’d only thought about it. After all, I spent 3 years at his side in college, witnessing these over the top and amazing, yet completely truthful events. There is, perhaps, a small element of exaggeration perhaps added in for good measure in the retelling of said events, but overall, and I saw it with my own eyes: The boy just attracts some crazy ass shit.

There was the president of the Young Republicans from Dook. The closeted Colombian waiter at Maggiano’s. Half the Carolina wrestling team, and a ridiculous percentage of the frat boys as well. (Whenever we’d walk by a pack of them, “That one… and that one… oh, and that one’s still calling me.”)

Take, for instance, the story he told me just last night. Apparently, a couple mutual friends thought he and this guy might hit it off (Thomas had never met him before). In good faith and always up for an adventure, he agreed to meet him for an early evening cocktail- a friendly get-together, if you will, with no romantic pressure (allegedly).

Thomas arrived at his favorite low-class, tacky Mexican joint in West Hollywood (2-for-1 drinks every night from 4-7!), grabbed a beer, and spotted the date in question (courtesy of Facebook stalking).

He was standing at the bar, tasting the stomach of another dude.

Never one to balk at confrontation, Thomas tapped him on the shoulder and gave him a huge, shit-eating grin.

“Hi! I’m Thomas, your date,” he crowed, much too enthusiastically. (We invented sarcasm in Chapel Hill, circa 2003, if you weren’t aware. Or at least the ability to make others feel extremely uncomfortable when we thought we’d been wronged.)

Sketchy McSketcherson looked at Thomas unsteadily, seemingly only slightly aware of any faux pas.

“Oh hi,” he swayed, obviously well on his way to Drunk Town. At 4 pm. On a Wednesday.

At this point sticking with it for the story, Thomas suggested that they sit down. After helping Sketchy over to a table, my boy sat down across from him- and noticed that Sketchy was apparently only using one eye. The other was mostly closed, but did not appear to be the result of an affliction of any kind. Rather, it seemed deliberate. Sketchy was, it seemed, trying to give Thomas the stink eye.

“So, when did you move to LA?” Thomas tried a little civility.

Nothing. Sketchy just eyed Thomas, swaying gently in his chair, occasionally sipping his Electric Blue vodka slushee.

“Um… are you okay?” Thomas tried to politely inquite after Sketchy’s health, or at least alert him to the fact that he looked like he’d just taken a shot in the eye. (And I don’t mean bullets. This is gay-town, after all.)

Sketchy promptly burst into tears.

This was not one gentle tear glistening on a cheek, people. The guy was bawling. Heaving, ragged-breath sobs escaped from the blubbering mess of gay boy in front of him as Thomas looked on in horror.

Multiple inquiries as to the source of Sketchy McSketcherson’s tears proved futile. People were starting to notice, and it was not the kind of attention my boy enjoys. All of a sudden, Sketchy looked up, his face blotchy and red, teeth neon blue from the slushee.

“Yoo wantsh to get outta heah?” Sketchy slurred. Perhaps it wasn’t the stink eye after all, Thomas thought. Perhaps Sketchy was trying to eye-fuck him (shoulda taken a lesson from me, obvi).

“Ummm… I have a full beer.” Thomas glanced around, anxious to ascertain the total lack of… well… anyone he knew.

“Let’sch go to my plache,” Sketchy murmured intimately, swinging himself around the table and into the chair next to Thomas. Thomas quickly extricated himself and slid into a chair on the opposite side, only slightly appalled (I told you he’s dealt with a lot of this).

“Uh, yeah… like I said, I have a full beer.” Thomas took a swig and held it high in the air, his proof of inability to go anywhere with Sketchy McSketcherson. Finally, when it became clear to Sketchy that Thomas would not be going anywhere with him, he stood up from his chair and stumbled out of the bar, head held high, proud gay face front and forward.

Thomas collected himself, decided Sketchy was not going to come back in with a trash can or something and bash him over the head, and got another beer. Five minutes later, a text came through:

From: Sketchy McSketcherson

Text: Ass.

(One can only hope it was an insult, and not a request.)

Love you Tommy! Happy weekend everyone.