Dating, Mating, and Kicking Them to the Curb
His name was Jason, and frankly, that alone should have tipped me off.
I've always had bad luck with Jasons. My high school crush, Jason McAllister, spurned my advances for the better part of three years, then tried (unsuccessfully) to out me during a school-wide assembly. Years later I hired a contractor named Jason Amos to fix up my house: an overweight loudmouth with the personality of a used car salesman, he called me a “whiny faggot” in front of all my very gay neighbors and split before the job was halfway complete. (Before he was hauled off to jail, I saw him in a French Quarter dive, trying to pick up prison-trade dick-dancers.) Then, of course, there’s Jason Mitchell, the sadistic tennis coach from whom I took lessons during my “Bjorn Borg” period (which sadly dates me). And Jason Alexander, who’s completely ignored all my chub-tastic love letters and candygrams. And don’t forget Jason of Friday the Thirteenth fame…. Et cetera.
Anyway, his name was Jason.
Our mutual friend, Jean, got it into her head that Jason and I would make a great couple, so she decided to play yenta (which was odd, considering Jean looks more like Iman than Barbra Streisand and has never, to my knowledge, kept kosher). She introduced us one night at a club where the music was so loud I had to ask his name four times, so he and I soon bid adieu to the bathroom stall-set and adjourned to a kinder, gentler, neighborhoody kind of hangout just around the corner.
As it turned out, Jason and I did have a lot in common: we were both in grad school, we were both waiters, and we both had an aversion to Harvel Keitel. We preferred Lene, Nena, Ann, and Nancy to Cher, Madonna, Whitney, and Celine. Neither of us owned anything beige. On the surface, it was a match made in heaven…. After a couple of beers, he scribbled his number, I gave him a peck on the cheek, and we parted ways.
The next day I awoke at the crack of noon, washed the stale taste of Camel Lights from my mouth with day-old, reheated coffee, and picked up the phone to give the guy a ring. There was a new Christina Ricci flick (gee, remember her?) playing nearby, and I thought maybe we could catch the early show, get a little bite to eat, have a stroll amongst the beautiful freaks of lower Decatur Street, then perhaps--but my train of thought was cut short but those three fearsome phone tones and the strident voice of a Milwaukee librarian screeching that the number I dialed was no longer in service and urging me to check the listing and try my call again. Hmm, I thought to myself, maybe my fingers aren’t awake yet. I dialed again, and again with the librarian. After the third time, I shouted into the phone, “I’ve checked the fucking listing! It’s on a bevnap! Cut me some slack!” I hung up and called the operator, but she didn’t seem to have a directory of cocktail napkins. Sigh….
I never confronted Jason on his bait-and-switch routine. I saw him three days later leaning against the pool table at Rawhide getting…well, if you know Rawhide, you can imagine what he was getting. I courteously sprinted out the door before he caught my eye. He obviously had bigger--or at least, weightier--fish to fry than little ol’ me.
Jason was the last straw. See, I never liked dating in the first place: it’s too oblique. If guys could --pardon the expression--shoot straight, it’d be okay, but most of the men I’ve met haven’t had the balls for that. (You know what I mean.)
Obviously, I’m not the only one frustrated by the dating game. A bunch of--gasp!--straight boys in Atlanta were so distraught, they started a phone service to help soft-hearted folks dump sleazebags with ease. It’s a simple premise: you’re out at a bar, some schmuck starts making moves, and he asks for your digits. You give him the number for the Rejection Hotline (www.rejectionhotline.com). The next day, Disco Stu douses himself with Obsession and phones in, only to hear a strange voice telling him that he better start casting nets elsewhere because he is so totally not getting a date with you.
It may seem harsh, but at least it’s honest. And for nice people who just can’t bring themselves to say “no,” it’s a convenient way out. And it’s gender-neutral, so bisexuals can reap the benefits, too. In fact, the project has been so successful, they’ve expanded to meet the needs of meeklings in cities across the country with fake business cards featuring the Hotline number and email addy.
As for me, after Jason, I realized I’m more the “bath house” kind of guy. It’s not for everyone, but for me, it’s perfect: no expectations, no harsh rejections, and I’m out in time for the 10pm airing of The Simpsons. I did manage to go on one more date, though. We’re going on six years together….
As for Jason, I avoided him until he left town a couple of months after our ill-fated rendezvous. Last I heard, he was working as a regional manager for Pottery Barn. Obviously, it’s just as well.