He’s Not my Type but Winter is Coming

Dear Walter:

I’m a 29-year-old black gay male from DC. I met this guy online and from the photos and conversation I thought he was going to one way. But after meeting him in person at a cook out, he was completely different. I normally go for the chill type, a homebody. Someone like a geek to keep me out the streets. But he’s like let’s hang out and do stuff. He’s sort of all over the place. I’m not saying I was “catfished” but I can’t help but feel disappointed. Let me tell you what happened.

I was there with a white friend that I used to date. This new guy there was also black. He was very polite, and put together. But he was kind of hood, which I don’t go for. After a few drinks, we  eventually hit it off in conversation. He kept trying to coerce me into spending the night. That turned out to not be the case. We just exchange numbers. That evolved into a drunk text later that night with him asking me to come and cuddle. And I responded with, “I want to play with your booty hole.” We laughed it off. Since then, it’s been kind of awkward. Until two days later, he invited me out for drinks. And that was cute. The gesture was nice, but he was being really standoffish. So, I left and took an Uber.

He texted me an hour later, wanting to come and cuddle. But I’ve already met someone else at a bar on U Street. He was this cute white boy from San Francisco. But it went left when he asked me for hard drugs. So I had to go—again.  I told him, we should call it a night. So the next day, the boy from the cookout texted me throughout the day to hang out that weekend. Unfortunately, I was too busy. So, my question for you is, should I date him, considering he’s making such an effort to hang out with me even though he’s not really my type?

Sincerely,

Typecast

 —–

Dear Typecast:

Don’t let that white friend that you used to sort of date, cock block you from your potential fate. There’s nothing wrong with meeting a man online. But it’s better that you met him in a public place first. It’s almost old-fashioned. Sounds like your guy had fun at the cookout, good times fueled by good food, booze, and music. I can even have fun with my family with a setting like that, as long as the liquor comes out.

But back to you. You two were having so much fun that he invited you to come and cuddle? Which, I read as cum and cuddle. Maybe later? Unlike you, I decided to come when I met this handsome stranger online. He seemed so different. Don’t they all? We met on Grindr. Don’t judge, I met my last boyfriend on there. A bipolar, buffed man who I fell deep down the rabbit hole for. Only to be led astray, seven months later. I’m starting to feel like the pre-pubescent girl in the blonde bangs. A distraction was needed. We swapped social media accounts. I had nothing to hide. But I wanted more to learn. I discovered he was a radio disc jockey, or at least he played one in photos. I later learned that he worked full-time for UPS for 15 long years and hated it. I usually like a man in uniform, but this took on new meaning.

It was like the perfect first date—but on the phone. We talked about everything from politics to philosophy. Three cocktails and a brief overview of the Roman Empire later, I slipped on my sneakers for the Uber he ordered for me. I arrived at the stroke of midnight. I left Alice behind and channeled Cinderella. But instead of glass slippers, I opted for a pair of pony-haired Rick Owens sneakers. It was too late to have second thoughts on my outfit—just jeans and an oversized tee would have to do.

He opened the door to a very clean one-bedroom apartment. I walked past a fat cat. It was like the Cheshire cat minus the stripes, that puss stretched on a post like a housewife in an advanced yoga class.

“Follow me back here,” he said.

I nervously stood next to his bed while the tv played in the background. I finally took a moment to realize how cute he was. He had a bald head and a belly, which, I found attractive because I felt skinny.

“Do you have something to drink?”

“Yeah, let me make you something,” he said while grinning.

He poured out a near-empty bottle of Ciroc and made me a blue cocktail. Photos of him and his UPS co-workers lined the walls. It was a cross between the group photos of men in the military and those in jail. I smiled and looked at the knives in the glass display.

“I used to be a black belt.”

I’ll take that over a serial killer. My mind enters dark places when I meet strange men off the internet. He threw some pebbles of food on the floor for the cat, who looked like it hasn’t skipped a meal. He shouted commands. The cat winced. It was clear this was the talent portion of the night. The cat disappointed. So we walked back to the bedroom.

“Before I take a shower do you need me to run you to the store for more.”

“No, I’m fine, unless you want to drink some more.”

I had no money for a bottle. And I had a small water bottle filled with vodka in my Louis Vuitton man bag. And it wasn’t clear if he was expecting me to pay for my own bottle. Oh yes, chivalry is dead and men are cheap.

“Wait here, I’m about to shower.”

I sat on the edged of the bed. One week out of a relationship, I’m meeting my third guy. I haven’t slept with either of them, although I slept next to them. It was as if I was giving tryouts based on how well I slept like I was trying out beds. I was looking for a suitor, not a Serta. Yet seeking men sedated me from my pain. Hell, it’s cheaper than therapy and could lead to a happy ending. He emerged dressed in a tiny, tattered towel.

“Come out here with the cat while I get dressed. Since I don’t know you like that.”

I sat on the couch while the cat stared at me. It was like an omen. He came back out in a grey tank and plaid boxers. He reminded me so much of my ex. But binging on this bald, black “brotha” tonight, won’t bring my boyfriend back to me. So I planned to lay there until I fell asleep.

“I forgot to put on underwear.” I smiled then winked at him.

“Well, I can take off my shirt to make your more comfortable. But, we not having sex tonight.”

“I have no intentions on screwing you,” I said.

There we were face to face underneath the comforter. Our hands glided over our bodies like we were discovering them for the first time. Because we were discovering them for the first time. I was aroused and began to pre-cum. How embarrassing? My penis is always giving my intentions away.

“You must like me.”

He rubbed the tip with his index finger and placed it on his tongue. I gagged. Red flag number one. We just met. I caressed his fingers and massaged him. He oohed and aahed.

“Oh Sean, oh shit whatever you name is. That feels so good.”

Can’t remember my name? That’s another red flag. I smiled and continued massaging him. I turned him on his stomach and glided over his body just like I did with my ex. I like to titillate not penetrate. The next morning I awoke to his erection. He stroked it underneath the sheets. I grabbed it. I was complicit, guilt-free, and tethered to no man. All we had was this moment. But what becomes of us when this moment is reduced to a memory. So, I turned over on my side. Unbeknownst to me, that was an invitation to penetration.

“Fuck it. Let’s do it.” He grabbed a tube of lube and squirted it on his pecan-colored penis.

It was the same brand my ex-boyfriend used. He tried to shove it in with no narrative. No Prep talk. No references. No story about how clean his dick is. No mention of his allergy or intolerance for condoms. He wanted to go all the way with no way out. There was a stranger in this room. He was not the guy I spent hours on the phone with. He was just a bald man with a belly, wanting to get off before his horrible shift started. When I was 17 and up for anything as long as it was free, I would have given him a sympathy fuck. But those days are long gone. And call me old-fashioned, I like to get to know the people I sleep with.

I didn’t want to be another conquest on his mattress. He got dressed and put on his brown uniform. His shitty job awaited while he ordered my Uber. And just like that, we were done. I stood in front of his apartment building, watching him walk to the car. It was 80 degrees, and yet I felt cold and nervous. What if he cancels my Uber? But you can’t put out because a man offers to pay for your transportation. But if he offered to buy me a car. I would have been spread-eagle like in Chicago, singingAll That Jazz.” Two minutes later, a text flashed on my iPhone. The Uber will be here in one minute. Maybe he wasn’t so bad?

I tried to contact him the next few days to arrange a time to get back to those Ted talks I liked so much. We never did.

“But you tasted my cum, that had to mean something.” I texted.

“I do that with everyone. That’s how I say hello,” he texted back.

“And suddenly, I have the urge to go to the school nurse.”

Whether he was joking or not, he said it. He also needed to focus on a work/life balance. Looks like those 12 hours days won’t be getting any lighter. And winter is coming.

I took a chance and put myself out there because I still believe that my imperfect person is still out there. Although ideally, I should have spent more than a week after my breakup up to find someone new. The point of this story is that perception isn’t reality. How something appears on the surface doesn’t translate underneath. I thought I wanted him because he represented a type, he was quite similar to the guy I just dated. And seeking comfort in something so familiar turned out to be uncomfortable.

So this new guy who is clearly not your type is into you. You connected with him anyway despite him not representing what you like physically. At least he’s not doing hard drugs or licking your cum (unless you’re into that sort of thing). And he’s making an effort to connect with you. Why not? Aren’t you still young? You have many mistakes ahead of you. And focusing on types when you’re just beginning to figure yourself out can hold you back. And that would be a disservice.

Types are for people who dated a revolving door of the same men with just different names. Don’t be a stereotype. Date outside of your comfort zone. But if you see a bald man in a UPS van, run.

Love,

Walter

Got a question? Email your letters at Walter.Reed@soule.lgbt His advice column will appear weekly.

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