Today I had another undate. Really, this is getting to be ridiculous.
I answered the planet out ad of a guy who seemed to possess both a sense of humor and a social conscience, as well as the ability to spell and a cute photo. He wrote back and said he liked my ad, too, but added, “in the interest of full disclosure, though, I’m also more of a catcher.” (For those of you unfamiliar with gayspeak, this means he too is a bottom.) But he suggested that we could always get together for a friendly cup of coffee.
So I said, sure, why not, and we arranged to meet.
Please don’t ask me why I felt like I was going on a date even though we’d expressly said it wasn’t a date. Maybe it was that “more of a catcher” left at least some room for him to be a pitcher, or maybe the capacity of the human mind for denial—or at least the capacity of my human mind for denial—is even greater than I realized. In any event, I arrived for our meeting dressed in something form-fitting, and far more nervous than a friendly cup of coffee warranted.
So he showed up and had terrible teeth.
It seems to me that, if one has a job that comes with health and dental insurance (which he did), then having terrible teeth is a clear sign of misplaced priorities.
Plus he knew far too much about the differences between the Star Wars special edition and the original version.
Again, the fact that there is NO WAY HE AND I COULD BE A COUPLE because we are SEXUALLY INCOMPATIBLE should have made me not care in the slightest.
But instead, I spent all afternoon resenting him and his teeth.
Don’t ask me to explain myself, because I can’t.
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