'How I Met Your Father'?

Remembering my first gay date. No, it’s not like this picture.

I remember my very first “date” i.e. my first gay date.

I was 21. This was just after the turn of the century, when cell phones were pervading into our daily lives—whether you were rich or poor, popular or unpopular, pretty or ugly. Computers and the internet were already ubiquitous if you were young and educated, which I was, but also permeating into the lives of the most ordinary as well. We were all going to have access to this new technology and way of life now.

Sensing this sweeping tide, and itching for amorous or at the very least, lascivious pleasures—I lifted my own stigma against online dating. It wasn’t taboo, strange, or deplorable anymore. And yeah, I just really needed to scratch this itch for human contact in this realm.

I signed up with that bane of loneliness for the lovelorn, Yahoo Personals. Well, for practical purposes: it was one of the few dating sites that didn’t demand financial compensation, and it wasn’t a gay hookup site that implied the bottom line.

Like any novice, I aimed high initially. What did I have to measure this experience against? Family and friends always remarked at how “Cute” I was, growing up!

Looking at profile pictures of attractive guys in my area, I already began to involuntarily foresee our futures together: first dates filled with the tingle of chemistry and mutual realizations. A hug that was building in us—or at least, me—our whole lives… which would lead to inevitable kisses. My love life was a movie waiting to unreel, and I was its beautiful, alluring star. The potential for contentment was boundless!

Shortly after, to my own delight—but in retrospect, to my own detriment—the first guy who pursued me online was quite my ideal: tall, fair, masculine, cute, and just slightly older—26 (Pffftt! For most of your adult life, 26 will actually be younger!).

We chatted on Yahoo Messenger, and sparks flew—as much as they can, through the written word and a few jpegs of your face as visual reference. I have to admit, I was quite charming—joking and flirting with him. See? The movie was unfolding, and I was proving to be quite the love object, just as I’d always thought I was destined to be.

He came off as a very sincere, sweet, together guy in our pre-verbal communication. He was actually a cop! Well, not the shoot-em-up and bang-bang type, but he worked in some branch of law enforcement that included the handling of firearms, yes. Naturally, I thought it was exhilarating as well as comforting on a subliminal level: cops are upstanding citizens, right?

Ben and I agreed to meet a few days later, I believe. That sounds about right, in terms of my eagerness, my caution, and of course—the tacit, implacable laws of internet dating.

I got my hair did and everything, that Saturday afternoon. For our date that evening, we could grab a bite at Panera Bread, because I was classy like that. And it’s what would happen in a movie, right? To be fair, knowing how prepared I always am for anything that involves my time, money, and—my time and money, I probably secured a short list of places to eat besides that—as well as things to do afterwards, such as a movie.

Ben picked me up in his clean, compact, and utterly masculine truck. With glee as a few neighbors looked on impassively, I hopped into his car.

He looked just like his picture, which no prior dating experience needed to tell me was a relief and a prerequisite for a worthy time.

I don’t recall much of our no doubt scrumptious and glamorous meal at Panera Bread, except that neither Ben nor I revealed that we were suffering from a mental illness, halitosis, or any other condition that impeded normal human contact.

Actually, I do recall that I was a bit more reticent when I found myself sitting face to face with an attractive person I considered for amorous possibilities. This is where lack of experience trumped any innate charm I may have had, tapping away on Yahoo Messenger with him.

Thankfully, Ben wasn’t ostensibly unnerved by my jitters. After we finished our meal, I ably offered suggestions for our next activity.

Ben coolly dismissed them in favor of us just hanging out together, no organized activity needed.

Searching for some privacy, he drove us to the large parking lot of the local grocery store plaza, shrouded in the early autumn darkness. The lot was adjacent to a major street in my modest college town, but afforded us enough privacy by its sheer expanse amidst the innocuous hubbub of passersby. To this day, I concede it is a good place to cuddle with someone privately, without fear that your cohort will murder you with no repercussions or witnesses.

And that’s just what we ended up doing—the former, alas.

Okay, he was my first (gay) kiss. It was nice. Mostly ‘cause it was just nice to finally kiss a man. And he was cute. He’d have to be epically bad to screw that up! I remember he smelled like body wash, which was just heady enough for a gay guy like me who was on his first date. It was sweet—the smell and the concept.

We talked and kissed innocently. It wasn’t love, come on. Even I knew that a single date wasn’t the equivalent of finding your soul mate. But so far, the guy certainly had potential, and I could see more dates to follow, with the possibility of love beyond that horizon.

I vaguely expressed that I was a little uncomfortable cuddling and smooching a guy in public, technically, so he suggested we go back to my apartment. Since my roommates were gone for the weekend, I felt no resistance. I remember I did have one rule for myself: This would be a date, not a hookup. So no matter what temptations there were, I wouldn’t go all the way with this guy. But kissing was certainly not off limits.

We continued making out on the couch of my apartment, with the TV on in the background. At this point, even I realized he wasn’t the best kisser, but he certainly wasn’t awful either. You see, I prefer tongue—I’m what they call “Passionate”, in Italy. Ben had a strange habit of keeping his lips sealed when necking. I guess this could pass for passionate in some other country (Iceland?).

He wasn’t thwarted by my inconvenient ardor though, and insisted we take our canoodling into my bedroom. I don’t recall if I put up a fight for the sake of my honor or innocence, but I did oblige eventually—still confident that we wouldn’t consummate our online romance that night.

We didn’t. Ben and I just continued cuddling in the dark, while lying down on my bed.

He did inevitably produce an erection and tried to pawn it off on me, while clothed… I artfully and quietly murmured: “I don’t want …. Not on the first night…” Something like that. We had plenty of time—I mean, we were gonna instantly become boyfriends after this, like every gay guy who goes on his first gay date in those forgettable gay indie movies right?

The night hit its climax literally, when Ben proceeded to jerk himself off (I guess I was fine with it; that was the furthest I’d “go”—letting him do that). He came, and I handed him some tissues. It didn’t feel dirty or profane; and in retrospect—with many years now of anticlimactic (pun unintentionally ironic) experiences dating men—it was actually pretty tame.

When Ben left shortly after, we were still mutually and physically into each other. It wasn’t like he threw on his armor, hopped onto his awaiting steed and sped into the night, while I had nine months to find out the consequence of this brief medieval dalliance.

We agreed to call each other the next night, between peppered kisses leading to the front door of my apartment. Oh, he was so cute! And smelled so sweet…

At the door, we still couldn’t get enough kisses, before saying goodbye for the night.

Aw.

The next evening, Ben called me just as he’d promised. This was signed, sealed, and done, right?

He was sweet and affectionate over the phone, as I told him about how I had pizza for lunch, and how my mom called me that day to check on me. He told me we should definitely hang out soon, that maybe we could go dancing at a club sometime.

I felt great for the next couple of days—or for me, whatever level it is that precedes “great”: a cautious middle ground where you are waiting to truly be launched into the higher ground of shared happiness: love.

I was desirable! I could be desired by someone desirable! I wasn’t a crude weirdo incapable of beauty and affection! Okay, this all sounds shallow, but come on: us gays often don’t get to truly experience dating someone we’re attracted to, until much, much

later in our lives compared to our straight peers.

Then it happened: I never heard from him again.

You know the drill: voicemail, unanswered emails. More voicemails and unanswered emails—just to make sure the other person got them, and knows that you’re truly interested.

Us gays are also late in realizing the harsh realities of dating.

And that was that.

It’s all been downhill ever since, I often joke.

Okay, so I have since gone out with (a few) guys who were even cuter and nicer than

him—on more than one date at that! But sometimes I idly wonder if I would’ve been better off having my “first real date” with some ogre. Then everything else would subsequently seem so much better in comparison, right?

But then again: wouldn’t a truly terrible first date with a creepy guy scare me off of men for good? (Hyperbole, of course).

The next guy that I ended up going out with shortly afterwards, did deftly bend my learning curve by sparing me the bullshit of deception: he was an outright Ass. At least he was up front about it. But hence: everything seemed like a let down after the ivory tower of my first date with a “cute” nice guy.

And in succession, most of the guys that eventually comprised my repertoire of dates, proved to be unremarkable matches. That little movie I had in my mind started to turn into just a boring sociological exercise in futility. I wasn’t a star after all. I was just another face in a crowd of millions, trying to get noticed. As time went by, it became increasingly clear that I would spend the majority of my time wallowing in obscurity, like most everyone else.

I’m still waiting for that big break—holding out for that cliché role that everybody wants: boyfriend.