One year ago in this space, I wrote a column called “The Summer of Dating.” It was to be a road map to guide me through the dating process for a 40-something year old man living in the greater New York City area. For that summer, and the remainder of the next 12 months, I tried to follow the ground rules I had set: date often and date different types of men. Try to let infatuation grow into something more meaningful of its own accord instead of making a binary yes/no decision within minutes, as is my habit.
I had a wonderful time meeting different guys and seeing the city through the eyes of other people. I increased my circle of friends and my range of experience. But as for love connections, I was coming up pretty much dry. Sure, I had my share of man-on-man fun, but finding that was never the problem nor the point of the exercise. More than anything, what I received most bountifully was funny anecdotes about some pretty colorful characters. A quick scratch under the surface revealed dysfunctions so odd you couldn’t help but laugh.
There was Wayne, who told me on the third date that he could see himself spending the rest of his life with me, and then wouldn’t return my call after the fourth.
There was Adam, a man so hopelessly insecure that he would burst into tears on the street at the slightest provocation.
There was Anwar, a gleamingly intelligent and impressive man, who was such a poor communicator that the simplest situation turned into a major drama.
And there was Dean. Dean was sexy and smart, a little elusive. He warned me early enough.
“I’m damaged” he told me, and it was endearing to me how transparent he could be. He was smart, interesting man with a problem. No matter the packaging, that seemed to be the connective thread in every romantic association I had ever had.
From that early conversation we were virtually inseparable for three months. We travelled together, slept together, texted and emailed all day long. And I got to see just how damaged he was. If anything, it made me more committed to helping him. That’s how I’ve always established my worth in relationships.
The red flags were so prominent they looked like they had been installed by Christo. He told me he had low sex drive, couldn’t access feelings of intimacy and was not an affectionate person. He took a shopping list of anti-depressants and mood stabilizers. He also displayed some pretty unattractive points of view regarding race, weight, socio-economic status. In short, Dean was something of an asshole, a status he clearly coveted and enjoyed. Somehow, this didn’t send me screaming into the night. Instead I played along and took some dings to my self-respect in the process.
And then the dysfunction and all the craziness that I had seen directed toward other people was suddenly (and predictably) pointed at me. In the article from a year ago, I had observed “If you feed the lions, it’s not the lion’s fault when he eats the food, and potentially, you.”
With Dean, I didn’t just feed the lion, I put myself on the platter. The ending was harsh and frustrating, a little wacky and, yes, humiliating.
But instead of going deeper, I took a step back. There wasn’t a single person I had found thus far in this experiment that I could say was genuinely happy. Dean, in fact, might be the most profoundly unhappy person I’ve ever come across.
Enter Phil. We ‘met’ online and had exchanged pleasant messages. Serendipity interceded. I really was just looking—as cold as it sounds—for a palate cleanser. A nice evening with a nice guy over a couple of beers.
We met at Ty’s on Christopher Street. He was the first thing I saw as I walked into the bar. Smiling broadly, far more handsome in person than in his pictures, I was immediately disarmed.
So we ordered drinks and talked and he was, gulp, normal. Happy, successful, seemingly well adjusted, friendly. His one pet peeve? “Mean people.” Our chemistry was unmistakable and become apparent when I leaned in to spontaneously kiss him 15 minutes after sitting down.
Since then, we’ve continued to move forward without pause or impedance. There’s no drama, no ambiguity, no indifference. He likes me, I like him. It’s terribly normal.
After three years of dating in New York City, I had forgotten what it felt like to meet someone, enjoy their company, be willing to say you enjoy their company and just let inertia take its course. That night, as we talked and laughed and flirted, a spark of recognition filled me.
“This is what it’s supposed to feel like.” Not difficult, not ambivalent. It should be easy when you meet someone. If it’s not, it’s not.
I don’t know what the outcome with Phil will be, particularly as a major complication sits on the near horizon. For occupational reasons, I’m moving back to Orlando. But I know whatever happens between the two of us, it will be what is supposed to be.
And it will be perfectly normal.
