Let me be clear that I do not hook up with guys in saunas or steam rooms or anywhere else outside the confines of an apartment or the stall of a bathroom at a bar.  This is mostly because I never have paper towels in there and it’s really inconsiderate to leave mess like that in a public space.  My mother raised me right.

This was my first experience with an unknown gay man, that, had anyone but me been involved, a much better and X-rated story would have unfolded.  Unfortunately for me this is just another story about how I didn’t get laid. 

Chris is a journalist, at least that’s what he said in the sauna. He didn’t make his move there, if you could call it that.  He waited until we were in the locker room. His pick-up line was direct and far from ordinary. 

“You smell delicious.”

I was flattered, until I realized that I just put Burt’s Bee Milk and Honey lotion and I too would have confused it for food had I not squeezed it out of the bottle myself. 

He had come up to me while I struggled to put on a shirt that admittedly was a bit too tight.  My arms flailed in the air while my head crowned the neckline.  I imagine I looked like I was being birthed by a 100%-cotton vagina made somewhere in South America or East Asia, but I have been previously accused of having an overactive imagination. 

As he left we exchanged several glances, and not normal “hey man” glances, but those kinds of glances that seem to say “I would like to see your erect penis, good sir.”  He wanted this piece; I could tell.  But unfortunately it took me much longer to get my clothes on than I had anticipated, or he is an impatient person.  By the time I left the locker room, he was gone.  I desperately wanted to take advantage of the situation, but, alas, the moment seemed to have passed. 

Was there not something in this day and age where gay men with bad timing could go back and get a do-over for their potential caprices? Guess what, there is.  It’s called Craig’s List Missed Connections.

If you haven’t been to Missed Connections, here’s the lowdown: it’s a great place to go if you want to feel better about yourself.  Imagine a Web site where a plethora pathetic gay men who have seen Desperately Seeking Susan way too many times.  They delude themselves into believing that other men at Starbucks, or on the subway, or across the street, smile at them because they too were overly shy and could not admit their shared and miniscule encounter, if you could call it that, was a fleeting chance at love. 

I was scared to be among these men but I knew for a fact that my experience was different.  This was a real missed connection. He said I smelled “delicious,” what else could that mean?

GYM 66th and Lexington - 6:30pm - 24y/o
You said I smelled delicious. Let’s chat.  Tell me what my lotion was so I can confirm its you.

* * *

“Burt’s Bee’s :)” my inbox rejoiced, as I opened Chris’ e-mail.

“SUCCESS!” I thought. 

I’d ventured into the abyss of ultimate awkwardness and came out with the contact information of rather good looking, presumably employed, gay male who also thought  that I was attractive.  I wasn’t one of those craigslist losers.

I could tell something was off though. He responded in less than an hour and his e-mail address was U_better_B_hot@hotmail.com.  Something clicked in my head to tell me to avoid this person but I really wanted to get laid so I chose to ignore such evident signs. 

Within a couple of minutes were chatting online, but it wasn’t so much of a conversation as it was an interview.  I mean, he’s a journalist, supposedly.
“Do u have cam?”
“Are u a top or a bottom?”
“How hung r u?”

My only question was: “Why do you type like a 13 year old?”

The last query was the strangest, as he had just seen me in all my lotioned, albeit flaccid, glory.

“Umm, well, you just saw my penis, so that’s a strange question.”

“That’s means you’re small.” he snidely responds. 

“Well, no, I just think this conversation isn’t going the direction I had intended it to, and, you just saw my penis.  Either you see a lot of dicks or you should see your doctor about you short-term memory issues.”

Okay, I didn’t exactly say that but I wanted to.

“Look, there are two kinds of fags” Chris says in a snarky manner, or as snarky as a typed word can seem, “size queens and liars.  And I’m a liar.” Chris must have overheard that gem at drag night at the Duplex, I’m sure, but I was too disenchanted to come up with a witticism at the time, instead I responded. “Well, I don’t like to make generalizations about people.”

What I never understood was that we did not live very far from one another as we both walked home from the gym.  Why couldn’t we just meet up and have this conversation? We were just in the buck together in a locker room, why did he feel the need to flex his biceps and ask about dick sizes via iChat? I was happy he came up to me, but if all he could muster was this paternal arrogance, I know I had to say good bye.

I bid him adieu and proceeded to watch porn, like any other weekday night. 

I’ve seen him a few times at the gym and sometimes out.  He’s not as attractive as I remember, though I’m usually too plastered to care.  He also seems so much less confident then pretended to be over the computer.  In fact, he seems like a very timid man.  The moral here: don’t assume your online persona with people you’ve already met in real life.  It won’t get any of us laid.

I spent last Saturday with my friend’s Shaun and Mike. They are an interesting duo.  I’d talk more shit about them but I kind of like them and I’m not sure if I’ll be sharing this blog with them.

They are short; I’ll tell you that.  As a tall person, I inherently feel much cooler than they are, but they make more money than I do so I’m sure that helps their esteem.  One day we’ll take our dongs out and settle once and for all who the better man is but for now we’ll play this pas-de-deux of height versus cash.

Returning from Santo’s Party House that night, Mike has the bright idea to return to Shaun’s apartment to smoke a bit of marijuana and relax before heading home.  This seems to be the norm for these fellows. Needing to stop by Shaun’s to pick up a bottle of wine I had left there, I agree.  As we head home in a cab, I overhear Shaun mention my and Mike’s names over the phone to someone listed in his iPhone only as “Peter F.I.”

“Okay guys,” Shaun says, “when Peter gets there, you guys have to leave in 5 minutes.”

Apparently Peter is 21 years old and enjoys cocaine, anabolic steroids, gang-bangs and getting fisted.  I am dying to introduce him to my mother.

“Well, why don’t we just smoke and leave before he gets there?” I say, not wanting to see what kind of person enjoys putting so many external substances in so many of his orifices.

“I bated him with the promise of getting gang-banged by you, me, and Mike tonight; it’s how I’m getting him here,” Shaun admits.  To this day, I’m honored that I was used to bate another person’s booty call.

* * *

Shaun recently got back with his ex-boyfriend of 5 years who had dumped him because of his excessive drug use and infidelity. He also wears those things in his shoes that make him taller. In the middle of the break up he would breakdown and demand Xanax.

* * *

Peter is a slightly effeminate but handsome.  He speaks with a hint of an outer-borough or suburban New York/New Jersey accent.  The last time he came over, according to Shaun, he brought rubber gloves and some Boy Butter. He reminds me of another coke head friend of mine Billy who works at an all-girls college, but that’s neither here nor there. He’s wearing a pink shirt.  Without asking (or having the courtesy of going to another room) he takes out a key and starts doing bumps of cocaine. I haven’t done hard drugs in a long time but the rules, if i remember correctly, state a) you ask if it’s okay to do said drugs b) you offer.  He did neither right away.  He offers only after having done several bumps and setting out three tiny lines. Shaun continues to snort Peter’s dope, and I wonder, “do either of you want to be able to maintain an erection?” It was the makings of one of David Sedaris’ older raunchier short stories.  You know, around the part you realize, “Whoa, this dude is a gay meth-head hillbilly and he made it.”

“No, thanks. I don’t do drugs,” I say as take a hit from the pipe. The pot’s not bad at all.

“I don’t understand smoking pot if you’re already tired.” Peter inquires.

“I think it’ll make the cab ride home a bit more enjoyable.”

Peter looks extremely disappointed that I’m going home. Mike acknowledges that he too is heading out.  I think he’s disappointed because I seem like I have a much bigger penis than I do (I’m tall, confident, and partly “ethnic,” but not small dick ethnic) and remember he’s into gang-bangs.

Seriously, Peter? You think we were going to have sex? First of all you’re into fisting. Friction is a big part of why sex feels good.  If the circumference of your anus dwarfs the girth of my junk then I’ll decline.  Moreover, your having said “I only take a milliliter of steroids, like you’re supposed to,” your proclivity for cocaine and stranger’s penises (the proper plural is penes but I don’t want to scare you all just yet) really tells me you’re not ready for this jelly, your undergraduate business degree, or whatever you use to fit another man’s hand into your pooter.

That’s how I didn’t get laid that night.  Awwwkward.