Gay? Me? No, but not that there's anything wrong with that.

Wednesday at 7 you said, right? The Red Parrot right? Well, I was there spot on 7, you could ask anyone who was there. Ask Greg the bartender --- who asked me for the tenth time if I wanted something to drink. I’m guessing that’s his job? They close at 1 am you know. Did you know that? So, I went back Thursday, just in case I had the day wrong. It can happen. I waited for a while, tried your cell number and got some pizza place in Providence --- I think there may be something wrong with my phone.

Some manager came out and suggested that I go someplace else. How rude right?

So, I went to the Cheeky Monkey up the alley, and they were closed for a private party but let me right in anyway. Wow, they are nice. Turns out it was one of those 8-minute dating events. You know those things? They put you in a big room, fill you with some cheese and wine from a box and you sit across from a potential date and talk for eight minutes. Then switch tables and so on. Sounds fun right? Right? I figured I could kill some time while I waited for you --- so I went on in. I guessed girls must be scarce these days because there wasn’t a girl in the entire place. It was then and there that I realized that this was 8-minute dating for gay men! The things that happen to me, right? So… I’m not even a little gay --- well not in the sexual sense. Although I cook a mean soufflé, know what an accent wall is and I shop for my Ralph Lauren 800 thread count sheets at Home Goods. But not gay, so I went on in.

So, I am at the registration table and met by Vance, who is extremely excited to see me --- his hands covered more of my body in just a few moments than my doctor has in a lifetime --- and that includes prostate exams. You know those things? I am given a number and a name tag. I registered as Richard Hurtz --- isn’t that funny? Dick Hurtz? “You’re Dick Hurtz?” Can you imagine the hilarity? Vance ushers me into a room with hungry looking men everywhere --- all wearing outfits appropriate for Dancing With The Stars. I feel a bit overwhelmed at first --- but soon there were many hands to guide me. What is with all the touching? Personal space --- what if I were gay? What the hell is that all about?

“Okay boys, lets begin!” Vance clapped his hands and screamed with a voice that sounded like he was out of breath and a 10 year old girl. We were herded like homosexual cattle into another room. There were tables everywhere and we were given pads to write down the numbers of the men we liked.

Any more boxed wine?

We are assigned tables and I sit across from Steve, a plump, balding insurance salesman from Cranston. He is crammed into a purple colored silk shirt that made him look like a plum with a comb over. Trying to assimilate and have a little fun, I asked, “Steve what do you do?” “Hopefully you, a bit later,” he said coquettishly, turning his pencil in his mouth. HOLY SHIT! Not sure weather I thought it or blurted it out. Another guy Bob, was a large, older black man who suggested that he might like to hog tie, gag and insert things into me. This is conversation? At prison maybe but this was Bob’s only chance to make a first impression. What ever happened to romance? This is how it went the whole night. At the end, you receive a list of the guys that like you and want to set up a real date. As you might expect, my list had every number on it. Rather than be flattered (which I was for a second or two), I had a series of severe panic attacks. I excused myself and went into a restroom with one tiny window. I locked the door behind me --- I considered blocking it with the trash can for a moment and had another panic attack. No Xanax. This window was sort of painted shut but I forced it open and squeezed my body out like toothpaste from a tube and dropped ten feet into the dumpster below. I guess I could have used the front door but this seemed necessary somehow. As I lay there in god-knows-what, I concluded that you may not be coming.