Tate and his Man-Dates are a new addition to David. He takes a much more promising applicant to Feast for the next column, and you’ll hear all about it. If you're at Feast, he'll be the one doing a mental check list in his head. Send him comments, advice or suggestions for future date nights through editor@davidatlanta.com.
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TATE BRINDLEY
| 8.20.2008
WHEN HE LOCKED THOSE GREEN EYES ON ME, I knew it was on. I think he looked at my crotch. I know I looked at his.
Normally, I'm pretty insecure in these situations, sometimes stopping the action even before it begins. But let’s face it: Nothing comes from doing nothing.
So I laid a look on Green Eyes and I made my way across the bar at Beleza. We held a gaze as I did a pseudo Samba (read: stupid-dance) on my way back to my best friend Luke who was waiting for a table.
Hey, “dance like no one’s watching,” right? But someone was watching. Oh well, fuck it. A killer live band puts a little Latin-Jazz fusion into Beleza’s step on Fridays, and I was feeling it.
The whole mass of people - gay and straight — moved to the music as if designed to get my weekend started. I heard this place was hot, but now Green Eyes made me feel like it was exactly where I was supposed to be.
CALL ME CRAZY, but he looked smart. I assign personality traits that way, especially to people I find physically attractive.
It’s a problem, I know. But I can’t be the only one who starts mentally filling out a guy’s date application a little early:
Looks? Check.
Good taste in restaurants? Check.
Age appropriate? Check.
Smart? Gainfully employed? I think so. Maybe.
Unmistakably grinning from ear to ear directly at me? Check, check and check.
LUKE BUSTED ME AS I RETURNED to the spot where we were waiting for a table. He knew to turn around and see where I was shamelessly staring.
“Hello, Tate. My name is Sex Tonight.”
Luke is so classy. That's why I love him.
“Whatever, bitch” I said. “I’m not you. I don’t assume sex is the goal of every glance.”
“Glance! You're still boring holes through his ass! And you’re not going to meet him by just sitting there and staring.”
“Mmm hmm,” I dismissed.
“Mmm hmm,” he repeated.
That’s our signal to each other that the subject is closed.
He kicked me. That’s our signal the subject is officially closed.
“He is hot, though,” I say.
“Oh, totally … and he’s headed this way.”
I TURN ON THE SMILE, and right at the wrong moment, our table was ready. I shot Luke the look, and he went ahead. I hung back.
“Hi. I’m Ronnie,” Green Eyes said.
Assertive. Check. With an accent. Bonus points. Was I smiling too much?
“So ... I saw that smile from all the way over there, and I had to at least say hello.”
Makes me feel at ease. Check.
“I noticed you too ... Hey, I know the timing sucks, but we just got our table, and my friend is by himself ..."
“Just a friend?”
Cautious. Check.
“Absolutely, definitely.”
I turned up the smile to full bright, then during a flash of awkward silence, my head was rattling trying to form the perfect sentence. He beat me to the punch.
“Well, I love it here, so have a great time." he said. “Hey, I’ve always thought this would be a good place for a date. Wanna meet here next week?”
Too assertive? Oh, what the hell.
“Sure!”
I was smiling too much.
DESPITE WHAT SOME SAY, dating in Atlanta is alive and well. Ronnie and I met back at Beleza last Thursday, and he insisted on ordering for us both.
I generally don’t let people run me that way, but he said he had an inside track on the menu because he is Brazilian. I admit, he did a pretty good job ordering, because it was even better than my first meal there.
After dark, Beleza’s dining room sparkles. All the white, glass and chrome seem even more romantic and chic. The food was raw, summery, South American and delicious. Come to think of it, so was Ronnie.
“You know Beleza means ‘beautiful’ in Portugese,” Ronnie says to me. “I think you are 'belezo.'”
I couldn't keep from rolling my eyes, but he was too far into his schtick by then to notice.
“I specifically told you – NO ICE!"
When he raised his voice at the waiter, necks snapped in our direction. That was the first red flag on his application.
“Tate, people need to understand we are the customer,” he said.
Yeah, but other people need to understand that mistakes happen, and that my mama didn't raise me to treat people that way.
I decided to ignore it and move on. By 10 o’clock, DJ Santiago was throwing down International House, and the homos were in full force. I started chatting with the gay couple seated near us, and they reminded me why I keep at this dating thing.
They smiled into each other's eyes in a silent understanding. Just a look asked to share a bite off the other guy’s plate; just a nod acknowledged it.
I remember that. I miss that. And I certainly wasn't going to get it with Ronnie.
“Baby, don’t you feel lucky to be with me here on such a beautiful night?” Ronnie interrupted.
Seriously.
“Um, yes?” was all I could think to say.
THE BLANKS ON RONNIE’S APPLICATION were filling in fast. True, he was smart and successful, but he was also an egomaniac. A loud one at that. And he kept correcting me, even when he was dead-ass wrong.
I really, really hate that.
Eventually, I gave up and just decided that I couldn't stand him. It sucks when a guy can't live up to his looks. Or is it my expectations he can't live up to?
But that’s what first dates are for, right? At least I got a great meal out of it.
Oh yeah, and I had sex with him anyway.
Mmmm hmm.
I TRIED TO justify such a stupid decision by telling myself that there were no good men, and that it wasn't my fault.
It's totally my fault. I'm the guy who had sex with the hot Brazilian even after deciding he was a horrible person. I don't want to be that guy.
The problem is really fear — of rejection, of letting down my guard, of exposing my vulnerabilities — that makes me go for the easy date, if only half subconsciously.
Ronnie and I didn't have to go to dinner to do what we did that night, and I should have owned that up front. I owe it to myself to make better decisions.
I picked up the phone and asked out a guy that really makes me laugh, but he also makes me nervous because I think we could really like each other.
“WIN SOME, LOSE SOME,” Luke said on the phone the next morning. “Did you do him anyway?”
“Shut the fuck up, Luke.”
“Well, did you?”
I sighed heavily. “Mmm hmm,” I said.
“Mmm hmm,” he repeated.
I’d have kicked him through the phone if I could.
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