The Riddler

Hello all,

I love dating. The anticipation, pretty new clothes, actually being interested in someone because you want to get laid, it’s what drams are made of.

I hate dating. The ambiguity, the body and man-scaping upkeep, wasting money to go out with someone who ends up being a bad kisser, it’s like waking up from a weird dream with the taste of last night’s dinner still in you mouth. I don’t care how good your grandma’s spaghetti is you don’t want that taste in your mouth come morning.

A week ago I was out with a friend and I saw a very cute guy at a casual restaurant downtown. He had an amazing body-arms the size of my thighs, a very handsome face, and cute silver glasses to boot. We smiled and stared, I left, but I came back to see if he was still there, and he was gone. Luckily enough when I was out for pride last weekend I saw him out and seized the opportunity to make an introduction.

He was out with friends and remembered me very well. As the evening went on one of his friends came into the foreground of the landscape and while the object of my affection was away I needed to get some things clear. The guy, who was not unlike me, cute, young looking, impeccably dressed, informed me that they were there together and it was their first outing. That was fine by me, so I went and told the guy that I would let him enjoy his evening with his twink and I would see him around.

He said that the twink was confused and this was not a date and he had been trying to shake him all night, asked for my phone number and kissed me on the cheek. I call this man the Riddler. The Riddler then told me that he hoped we could get together again without all of the drama, hugged and kissed me some more and left for the evening.

Later on in the week I called the Riddler to ask him out and he answered that he and his friend were just talking about me. I asked him out again and he said that I was very attractive and charming, but he had a birthday coming up and he usually didn’t date guys more than 5 years younger than him. I asked him out again and he said that I gave him a very great first impression. Yes, to the casual observer it may look like he was trying to brush me off nicely, but he was cute and I was persistent.

I asked him out again and he said dinner at 7.

Today is the day we’re going out and he texted me to inform me that he is wearing shorts. I find that very cute, we can coordinate, but not match. Thoughtful, no? I responded that I had already changed my outfit twice and I was looking forward to this evening. He said not to worry because this was not a date. (!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)

Mother Fucker says, “What?”

Let’s relay the facts:

1. I’m cute.
2. He’s cute.
3. He told me I’m cute.
4. I told him he’s cute.
5. We scheduled dinner together.
6. He informed me of the appropriate attire.

Bitches, that’s called a date!!!!!!!!

My friend (SSS) was right; the cute ones have all of this mental baggage and holdups and the nice ones……well, aren’t the cute ones. I told him that I was going to treat this like a night out with a guy that I’m interested in and he could call it whatever he wanted. All I can say is that I’m wearing cute underwear tonight and someone, except for me, doesn’t see it, I’m gonna be pissed!

Oh, and whenever there is a miscommunication (like, all the time) with the Riddler, he starts off the text with “Ha….”. Fair readers, correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t “Ha” supposed to be directed towards something that’s funny? You know what’s not funny? A pathetic 36 year old dancing homo who didn’t find anyone 10 years ago to spend the rest of his life with and now he’s face down in a pint of Eddy’s Samoa girl scout ice cream while his partially judgmental and infinitely more desirable Scottie hides from the gurgling sounds from my stomach because I turned lactose intolerant 11 years ago when everything took a turn for the worse. Christ on a stick!

I’ll tell you how my non-date, but clearly a date-you S.O.B., goes later.