More on my gay date

Some of you have requested an elaboration on last Sunday night’s date with the man we will call Eloquent 38-year-old (see Entry 11 & Entry 12). I assume you were dissatisfied with the one word report, saying simply: “Gay.” How do I know, you ask? Truth is, I don’t – not for sure. Let’s just call it a hunch – a hunch I easily gathered within the first 15 seconds of meeting this very tall and immaculately groomed man who took my hand, kissed it, and then said “Well hello, madame” and fluttered his eyelashes. I don’t even flutter my eyelashes.

That basically set the stage for the mind-numbing and somewhat confusing conversation that followed. The expressiveness with which he’d written earlier, I found, was more than just inspired composition; it was actually the way he spoke. It was like every word out of his mouth came straight from a novel by one of the Brontë sisters. An excerpt from the night:

(Waitress comes to take our drink order)

Me: “I’ll, uh, just have the house Chianti.”

Eloquent 38-year-old: “Nonsense, my dear! I find house vintages to be universally objectionable and in this fine establishment, the Chiantis, in particular, appear to be rather vexing! Why, I do think you’ll find the 1997 San Clemente Montepulciano quite delightful. Yes! She’ll have the ‘97 San Clemente.”

(Did he just order for me?)

“I’ll have the 2004 Brunel Chateauneuf du Pape. Very well. Oh and do bring a dinner menu, my dear,” he implores the waitress, then turns to me, “Do find yourself hungry this evening?”

Me: “Mmmm, no, I ate earlier.”

E-38: (to the waitress) “Yes, then, two dinner menus it is!” He then throws his head back and releases a bizarrely high-pitched staccatoed cackle that one might imagine would come from the mouth of Cinderella’s stepsister, “Ah ha ha ha ha ha ha!”  

Me: ?

...Now, I'm not saying that to speak in the words of Post-Romantic British gentry shows a propensity for gay-ness, I just found it to be unbearably pretentious. He seemed to be trying painfully hard to be anything but himself -- and in that same vein, he seemed hell-bent on wooing me in all the wrong ways, for anything but the right reasons.

As if the originally anticipated two drinks weren’t going to be tedious enough, he then ordered a hefty entree after again asking me if I would like dinner and again ignoring me when I answered no, promptly tacking an extra 60 minutes onto my two-hour jaunt through 19^th century English literature. I probably could have objected a little more vehemently, but why waste only makeup when you can waste loads of time too!

He was relentlessly esoteric. By no surprise, he talked about himself, mostly -- but it wasn't so much substance as it was philosophy, emotions, observations, revelations, and on and on and on. He touched on the high points of his life, over-emphasized his past relationships with women, and scarcely asked me anything of consequence (e.g. "Do you like orchids?).

After his plate was cleared, he ordered coffee “with a spot of milk,” paying no heed to the social cues imparted by a guest sitting with an empty glass in front of her having declined all offers of another drink for the past half hour. I’d like to think it was the third yawn in rapid succession that finally clued him in, but more than likely it was the manager locking the entry doors --- because when the manager has to let you out, you know you’ve overstayed your welcome.

He walked me to my car, hugged me bye – twice – and made me promise to go out with him again. “Cross your heart? Hope to die?” he asked. I’m sure there’s some funny pun in here somewhere, but at this point in recounting this exhausting story, I don’t even have the energy to go there.

So is Eloquent 38-year-old gay? Who knows. But at best, he’s just a vaguely effeminate, overly dramatic, slightly ostentatious, sharply dressed guy who’s a little more interested in getting married than in who it’s to. Yes, these are stereotypes, and it’s totally possible that he’s 100% hetero – but even if he is, the fact still remains that I’m not attracted to dudes who take longer to fix their hair than I do, speak in Victorian prose, and use words like “dahh-ling” after laughing at a pitch that’s at least two octaves higher than a poodle’s bark.

He later texted me: "Your gentleman caller wonders if he might soon enjoy the pleasure of your company again?"

Next.