the case of the dateless boy

[Title] the case of the dateless boy
[Byline] by sean robert

I’ve always said that I look better in lower lighting. That is why it comes as an absolute mystery (if not downright travesty!) why I have yet to get a date at the bar on a Friday night.

Far from the horrendous glow of fluorescent lighting and close to hundreds of men whose vision is slightly impaired: by logic, you would think that men would be lining up to buy me drinks. But judging from my dismal track record as of late, by jove I can assure you, I don’t got it!

The unsettling nature of my dilemma led me to seek direct help with an insightful friend who has been known on more than one occasion, to have the answers to my life’s problems. After inviting him over for a delicious dinner fit for two starving students, I began to lay him out the facts.

Starting with a vodka-martini appetizer, I told him that it could not be my outfits, because I have spent thousands of dollars to ensure they are fabulous. I also told him that I was fairly sure it was not my scent, because what man does not love the smell of spiced rum and coke after midnight?

Moving into our full-bodied main course, I disclosed to him the private details about how I am a closet-Narcissus, and told him about the strange feeling that has overcome me, only while at the club. “Sometimes it just feels like, like you know, the pond has dried up.” Grappling the gravity of my situation, he pried me for more details and the two of us moved anxiously into our fortified dessert.

Suddenly, when it seemed like we had exhausted every possible reason as to why, against all odds, I kept bottoming out – I got it. My brain working a tenth-a-mile a minute I stumbled over my words to him, “It’s not that, I’m not hot…It’s just that, I’m not hot at the bar.” Having broken on through to the other side, the two of us felt it more than appropriate to award ourselves with a drink to celebrate.

For those of us who do not look like we just walked out of a Bruce Weber photograph, the club might not be the best place in which we can properly strut our stuff. I mean please. There is no way that I can compete with a set of biceps, when the only exercise I get during the week, is from turning the page of a textbook, or lifting a 10oz. glass of red wine. Case in point, this is why I love Pride so much.

There is no way that I can compete with a set of biceps, when the only exercise I get during the week, is from turning the page of a textbook, or lifting a 10oz. glass of red wine.

Pride is the one week in the year, in which gays in this town can be lured out of their homes without the promise of drink specials. Whether you are a movie-lover, baseball player, poet, or roller-skater: the week’s festivities actually offer something for everyone under the rainbow. And if you are like me and have developed freakishly good legs after walking everywhere this winter, the march is the one day in which you can hold your shorts up high and say, “Screw you biceps, I have killer calves.”