If I Were Your Woman

Dear Walter,

I’m dating this guy who used to be straight. Don’t they all say that! We started out really well. We went to classic dating places like restaurants and the movies. But nowadays all he wants to do is have sex. This is not the relationship I signed up for. What would you do in this situation?

—Dating Disaster

Dear Dating Disaster,

I stopped having sex. Blowing strangers in the Concrete Jungle left me empty-handed. Bobbing for boyfriends at 30 made finding love more complicated than the New York subway system. Chivalry flew somewhere over the rainbow. While impropriety paved the yellow brick road to gay marriage.

For New Yorkers, it’s romantic if someone offers you a seat on the subway. Dating is like a game of musical chairs, where you dance in a circle until the music fades. What happens when the music stops and there is no chair for me, and I’m tossed to the floor? 

Bobby and I enjoyed each other. We dined downtown, in restaurants with waiters and cloth dinner napkins. We talked for hours about our failed relationships and dreams. Each night ended with the inevitable goodnight kiss.

Then BAM! Bobby and I went from fine dining to fast food in a New York minute. According to Bobby, restaurants were like Secret’s deodorant, strong enough for a man but made for a woman.

“You’re acting like a woman,” he said. “You are not entitled to the rights and privileges of a woman.”

I may not be a woman but I’ll show you a woman scorned. Delusional excerpts, detailing ex-girlfriend drama from the previous decade, ruined my present. He thought he could pay less because I didn’t have breasts.

Two discreet homeboys’ whose sexual identities tucked in the closet. I devolved from boyfriend to homeboy. 

He wanted to take me out to Boston Market for a date on a buy-one-get-one-free-coupon, like he was taking me out to the ballgame. He tried to entice me with low prices. The meal deal was the deal-breaker.

Was there an edict, entailing the faster you eat, the cheaper the meal gets? Our romantic outings turned into speed dates.

I craved a fulfilling, long-lasting relationship like a Cornish hen on a summer afternoon. Melancholic memories wrought on the boroughs of the city like ghosts. Yet, those painful reveries will no longer keep me from finding Mr. Right. As a gay man in the pursuit of happiness, I prefer my chicken fried.

Until I find that thick and juicy relationship, you can catch Bobby alone at the Boston Market on 23rd and 8th Ave, enjoying two rotisserie chickens for the price of one.

In case I wasn’t clear, dump him.

Love,

Walter

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