TATE BRINDLEY
| 9.3.2008
WHEN I WAS FIRST OUT IN THE big gay world, I knew instinctively that affairs of the heart are so much better than affairs of the moment. I waited for bells to ring in my brain instead of in my pants.
Duh. I hate when I have to face the obvious.
In all other areas of my life, I'm fearless when it comes to tough choices, expressing unpopular opinions, and barging into difficult conversations. So why do I become weak when it comes to dating?
The answer is really simple, especially for a predicament I was trying to make into some big drama. I protect myself from being hurt by building a barrier against the rest of the world. And it works — except for one small problem: I'm all by myself behind that wall.
And that's part of why we date, right? Because somewhere deep down, there's a fear of ending up alone? Hell, I know guys who are afraid to be alone at all, ever.
"This is not who you are, Tate," Luke drones through the phone with no shortage of exasperation. "And frankly, you're on my nerves with this namby-pamby bullshit."
Attitude adjustment in hand, I knew immediately who I wanted to ask out, but psyching myself up to make the call was proving slightly more difficult.
"Just pick up the damn phone and call the guy," Luke says.
So when I reported last time that I up and called the acquaintance with the most genuine smile ever and an easy laugh, the truth is that it still took a push from Luke to actually get me on the phone with Jay.
JAY STEPPED INTO MY LIFE some months ago when he darkened my office door at work. I looked up, and a colleague introduced him as a new vendor we'd be doing business with.
I looked at Jay for the first time and felt it. (No not that.) An instinctive, undeniable wave of "something" made me feel like we were going to be good friends.
Swear to God; it's true.
But I was at work. My job has nothing to do with vendors other than to be appropriately friendly, so I lowered my voice an octave, shook his hand and slipped into my "Welcome-to-our-office. Glad-to-meet-you" Southern hospitality bit. He turned on that easy, almost-laughing voice that salesmen can do to make everyone feel comfortable.
No one around us would have ever known it, but in the seconds that such encounters take, I met a kindred spirit.
Our jobs bring us in contact relatively often. At company mixers, Jay is an expert at group chitchat, but somehow, he and I always end up deep in conversation. From movies to politics to catty comments, we see eye to eye, and he always makes me laugh — you know, the ugly laugh that's real, not the social laugh that's simply the right thing to do.
We both take our work — and work protocol — very seriously. So with that (as well as my fear of a real connection) keeping us at arm's length, neither of us has acted on, or even admitted, that something is going on here.
Until I called.
He jovially agreed to have dinner. As one of those Decatur people (Hey, I didn't say we were exactly alike), he suggested we eat at Feast.
The place is supposed to be really nice and really good, but who goes to Decatur? Well, Jay and I did. And it couldn't have been better.
READY FOR MY BIG ADVENTURE outside my in-town comfort zone, I swung by Jay's place to pick him up. By the time we settled into our little corner in Feast's bustling dining room, I was at ease. The restaurant fits nicely into the small-town-smack-in-the-big-city feel of Decatur.
Turns out, Feast is a lot like Jay: laid back and approachable, but well rounded and slightly refined in its tastes. No pretension, but an eye for detail and a sixth sense for what I want.
I like an atmosphere with some life in it, and the energy there was undeniable. Lots of big parties, lesbians (in Decatur? Go figure) and a peppering of all-guy tables made enough background noise to feel festive, but not enough to interrupt us.
The brick walls, wrought iron and vintage fixtures absorb no sound. We were able to say exactly what we thought, laugh as loudly as we wanted, and never worry about others overhearing. Our table became our own little universe.
"So, I've had a crush on you forever," he said.
"You have? I wasn't sure. Well, I mean … me too, actually. But the work thing might get in the way … I don't know."
"I do know, but I was thinking about it after you called. What's more important — something that has the potential to be really special, or the chance that we might have to see each other at a couple of events if it doesn't go well? I mean, we're still friends no matter what, and that's what I look for, ya know?"
"Yeah — yeah!" I beamed. I gave it about two seconds, and just leaned in and kissed him. That "something" I felt the first time I saw him became "that something" I haven't felt in quite a while.
"I've wanted to do that for way too long," I said.
FROM THERE ON, the date was a breeze. Jay's a no-pretense kind of guy, so I was comfortable ordering up meat and potatoes and jawing about anything and everything. Turns out, we're both from Texas, we're both "Battlestar Galactica" geeks, and our connection became clearer with each little discovery.
I even admitted how I fantasize about Val Kilmer in "Tombstone."
What?! I had some wine. Whatever.
"I'm your huckleberry," Jay said in a perfect impression from the movie. I melted a little.
"So I'm just going to go ahead and admit that this was a difficult date for me," he said, casually grabbing and gobbling the last bite of cake as I reached for it.
"Oh?" My heart sank.
"No! No no no. You've made it so easy, don't worry. I mean I was nervous before the date. I'm a total over-analyzer, and I get pretty scared about dates with guys I actually like."
"I'll tell you what. As long as you never, ever take the last bite of cake, I'll totally go out with you again."
This time, he leaned in and kissed me.
"I'll never, ever promise that," he said. "You just need to be faster and beat me to it."
"I see how you are."
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