I Weep For Straight Women

October 4, 2012

I consider myself very lucky to have found BF when I did. Although I did have one pretty negative relationship experience (see Facebook and Ex Boyfriends), I think I came out ahead. It seems that the older one gets, the harder it is to find a partner. Maybe it’s because the dating pool gets smaller; maybe it’s because as we get older we become more set in our ways, or maybe it’s because as time goes on, the only people left to date are the ones that nobody else wanted.

Whatever the reason, it seems to me that there are a lot of amazing single women and very few single men worth their time. As a gay man, I surround myself with fabulous women (I hang out only with Homo Honeys and a Fruit Fly every now and then to keep things interesting) who, for reasons that seem to escape me and them, can’t seem to find a good guy. Time after time they are forced to run through the dating gauntlet.

I have a friend up north who had been dating a guy for about six months; the appropriate amount of time to introduce him to her parents. She arranged the time, made sure he had a clean shirt and pressed trousers and even programmed her parent’s address into his navigation system to ensure the night would go off without a hitch. Unfortunately, things did not work out according to plan. After sitting in embarrassed silence for an hour with her mother huffing over the uneaten meal she prepared and her father planning her boyfriend’s death for standing her up, she received a text. What did it say? “Can’t make it. Don’t have enough change to pay the toll. Sorry.”

Another friend of mine, a dear sweet girl I met in college was seriously dating a seemingly great guy last year. They were out on their six month anniversary, when he excused himself to the restroom. My friend sat at the table, eagerly waiting for him to return so she could deliver her anniversary present: saying the “L” word for the first time. She was rehearsing what she wanted to say in her head when she heard the ubiquitous ding of an iPhone receiving a text message. A faint blue light illuminated from beneath the boyfriend’s side of the table. She leaned over and noticed that, in his hurried scurry to the men’s room, boyfriend’s iPhone had slipped out of his pocket. She picked it up and placed it on the table. Like any human being would do, she looked at the message (and don’t tell me you wouldn’t have done the same thing). It was from a hooker named Heather (total hooker name, right?) and all it said was “Hurry up. I’m horny.” My friend, being the meek, charming woman that she is, didn’t make a scene, she didn’t cry running out the restaurant or even bat an eyelash. All she did was drop the iphone in her boyfriend’s glass of wine and walk out the restaurant, her head held high.

I have another friend from graduate school who is totally amazing, super cute, wicked smart and stylish to the nines. Because she’s so awesome, she started dating a really great guy a few years ago…or so she thought. About three months into their relationship, she was spending the night at his house. She went into the bathroom to wash her face, brush her teeth and get ready for bed when she heard a knock at the door. The boy assured her it was nothing and she went about her bedtime ritual. About five minutes later she returned to the living room to find the boy and some unkempt hipster bent over the table sniffing cocaine through a rolled up dollar bill.  Totally cliché, right?

This same friend also dated a guy for about nine months who, at first, seemed really great. He owned his own business, had never been arrested and had a head of hair that could rival any Hollywood leading man, past or present. But like all great romances, things weren’t perfect? The chink in his armor was that he had horrible smelling feet. And I’m not just talking about your typical, run of the mill smelly feet; I’m talking about hot wet garbage on a humid day smelly feet. Like Pepe LePew smelly feet. It was too much for my friend to handle and she eventually had to break up with him. We all told her she was crazy and I was convinced that she had made a mistake until a few weeks ago.

She and I were at a street festival in town when she saw the smelly-footed ex sitting at a henna/face painting booth. Not sure what he was doing there, we abandoned our place in the funnel cake line and went over to investigate. Come to find out that about a year ago, the ex sold his business, purchased a small tract of land in the woods and, according to him, was building an “earth ship.” And then he introduced us to his granola-encrusted girlfriend who looked like she hadn’t eaten real food in years and hadn’t showered since the Summer Solstice. He introduced her (I forget her name) and the only accolade he could bestow on her was “She’s a really amazing face painter.”

I bought my friend a funnel cake after that as an apology for scolding her when she broke up with Mr. Smelly Feet. She had actually really dodged a bullet with that one.

Maybe it’s because there are more women in the world than men, but it seems to me that straight girls really get the short end of the dating stick.

My advice to single straight men: Get jobs, keep money for tolls in your car and don’t sniff coke in front of your girlfriends…they’re kinda turn offs.

My advice to straight women: It’s going to be a long, rocky road, but you’ll find someone out there. You’re all too amazing not to.

My advice to everyone else: Keep on the lookout for quality men for your hetero female friends. Unfortunately, they need all the help they can get.


There are milestones in relationships that every couple talks about. There’s the first time one of you says “I love you”, that first awkward meeting with his/her parents and the first date filled with obligatory questions like “What do you do?”, “What’s your favorite color?” and “What’s your sign?” But those aren’t the things that make relationships interesting. The things that really heat up relationships and define who we are as couples are those special little moments that we don’t ever speak about…but that doesn’t mean we can’t write about them.

For BF and me, there have been several events that signaled to me “Hey, this guy is really awesome and you should scratch out the eyes of any other gay boy who wants a piece of him.” Here are just a few:

The first time we met was in a crowded bar in Atlanta. I was there with my roommate at the time who was friends with BF’s realtor. They introduced us and before I knew it we were talking about Madonna, dissecting the gay boys in Atlanta and how they differed from the boys in our home towns and comparing the consequences that had led up to us living in Atlanta. We found out that we both loved Madonna, especially her “Vogue” years, had a fine appreciated for the corn-fed southern boys in Atlanta and had each moved down south to attend graduate school; me for architecture; him for business school. After a few hours and more Red Bull and vodkas than I’d care to admit I found myself searching for my roommate, wanting to make sure that my designated driver hadn’t abandoned me. We searched the bar with BF eventually pointing and asking “Is that he?” The fact that he properly used the pronoun “he” instead of “him”, like most other people would have said, made me instantly fall in love with him and, because of the amount of alcohol I’d consumed, I planted a big wet kiss on his lips.

Next was the following evening on our first date. The drunken kiss I smacked on his lips the night before hadn’t scared him away, and BF decided to see me the next night. We started the evening at a pool party where we stood on the sidelines, made fun of all the older men in banana hammocks trying their hardest to look twenty-two and got to know each other. Later, we went to a dance club and hung out for a couple of hours. We decided to slip outside and I bought a pack of gum from the vending machine in case BF wanted to make out. Unfortunately, he didn’t. I popped a piece of gum in my mouth anyway, just in case and fiddled with the silver wrapper. I wrapped around BF’s finger and said something totally stupid like “I guess this means we’re married.” Without missing a beat, he turned to me and said “I have to warn you. I only marry for money.” I think that’s when I started to fall in love with him.

I totally fell in love with him on my birthday about six months later. BF threw me a surprise birthday party and invited all my favorite chums from grad school. But it wasn’t until he led me to our bedroom that I was really surprised. I opened the door and there was Homo Honey sitting on my bed. Knowing that I was totally obsessed with her, BF arranged for her to come down for the weekend to be part of my birthday celebration. It was the sweetest present anyone had ever given me and I still get goose bumps when I think about it nine years later. And the icing on top of the cake is that Homo Honey and BF totally fell in love with each other that weekend, too. They are so close, in fact, that they’ve been on vacation without me.  It’ magic when the two people you love the most love each other.

The final and probably most significant unspoken turning point that forged our relationship forever happened a few months after my birthday. I was lying in bed, reading a magazine while BF slept beside me. All of the sudden, he ripped a fart that would have startled Helen Keller. I looked down at him just as he was waking up. The fart was so loud that it actually woke him up. He looked at me and I looked at him and, as if we were twelve years old, we both erupted in a fit of laughter that must have lasted at least two minutes.

BF is probably going to kill me for writing that last paragraph, or maybe give me a Dutch over, but I’m willing to pay the price. It’s a cute story and one that we still laugh about to this day. So, the next time you’re with your friends swapping relationship stories, forget the tired clichés and tell everyone about the time you caught your honey picking their nose or the first time you went number two in front of them. I’m sure it’ll make the conversation a little more interesting.

My advice to BF: Don’t be mad. It’s a cute story and I didn’t use your real name.

My advice to everyone else: Savor those small, seemingly inconsequential moments in your relationships, whether they’re with your parents, you’re loved on or your besties. Those are the things that, over time, that you’ll remember.

Pretty much anyone who meets him will tell you that bf is the closest thing to perfect that you can find on this planet. He’s like Mary Poppins gay brother. They’ll tell you how smart he is, which is true; how funny he is, which is true, unless he’s making one of his ill-timed mom jokes; how calm he is, which is always the case (he even argues in a calm, cool tone); and what a phenomenal cook he is, which is also true. But what they won’t tell you, and what I secretly suspect, is that he’s a super hero.

It’s the only, albeit farfetched, explanation that I can decipher to explain how incredibly amazing he is. To prove my theory I searched the internet and found the four criteria to categorize someone as a superhero.

One, they must come from another world or place. Having grown up in Utah would certainly qualify him for that. If you’re not aware of the strange practices of Utahans and, more specifically, the majority of people who populate the state, read my post on Mormons. I mean, the people don’t drink alcohol. If that’s not other-worldly, I don’t know what is.

Two, they posses super human abilities. Anyone that works, on average, seventy hours a week, manages to cook five-star meals at the drop of a hat, while maintaining a household’s finances (see “Couples and Their Finances” for more information) and planning and executing flawless vacations all with a smile on his face and not even breaking a sweat is a super human in my book. Not to mention, he makes a wicked mean martini.

Three, they wear an identifiable costume or uniform. Every few months we got out and buy bf some new work and casual clothes. And, until we go shopping again, he wears his new attire so much that I can correspond an outfit to what he’s doing that day. A certain pant/shirt combo means we’re going to dinner, another means he’s going to work, and so on. Although not a costume in the traditional sense, I’d say his activity-tailored wardrobe makes him identifiable, and thus, befitting of the category.

And finally, all superheroes must have a weaknwss. Superman has kryptonite. Spiderman’s weakness is his overwhelming sense of responsibility. And bf’s weakness…laugh clappers. That’s right, laugh clappers.

We were out to dinner last week thanks to Fagats. (for a description of Fagats, read “Restaurants and Photography“). We were celebrating the fact that, as usual, bf landed a major client at work which meant millions of dollars for his company and more accolades for him. As if he needs anymore. Whenever we’re out with his co-workers, one of them inevitably pulls me aside and makes me swear that bf will never quit. They say he’s invaluable. Another sign of being a superhero: people rely on him. But back to our meal and his weakness. The restaurant was an old favorite of ours where we know the servers by name and never have to wait for a table.

We were halfway through the main course, well into our second martini and locked in a friendly debate about who was the worse American, Sarah Palin or Dick Cheney, when we heard it. From two tables away, some guy let out a guttural laugh followed by a long, slow clap. BF dropped his fork, stopped our conversation and shot daggers toward the laugh clapper.

“Laugh clapper?” I asked, knowing the tirade that was about to be released, for I had heard it many times. “Why do people do that? Do they think we can’t understand their enjoyment of something when they laugh?” he rattled off. “Maybe he thinks it’s really funny.” I chimed in, trying not to fuel the fire. “If it’s that funny, everyone would be laughing.” he barked back at me. At this point I realized that my superhero bf had been stripped of all his powers and his usually calm demeanor was gone. I chugged the rest of my martini and listened to his dissertation as to how laugh clapping was going to be the one thing to plunge humanity back into the dark ages.

I sat there trying to understand the underlying, superhero reason bf hated laugh clappers. Maybe the laugh clapping combo was some sort of call to arms by his nemesis. But that’s not it. If it were, he’d disappear every time he heard it, fight crime, then return just before I started to get suspicious.

Then I realized it must be one of those weird superhero things like Superman not being able to see through lead or how Dr. Xavier can’t control his own mind into thinking he can walk. I returned my focus to bf and his banter, but to my surprise it had stopped. He simply closed his eyes, took a deep breath and continued with his meal. Then, as soon as it began, the laugh clapper stopped, never resuming it again, even though he laughed several more times throughout our meal.

It was then that I realized that, on top of all his other talents and super human abilities, bf could control people with his mind. I fell asleep that night next to him, thankful that, of all the things he could make me do with his mind, he limited it making me clean out the cat boxed every morning and dealing with our flat-footed neighbor upstairs.

My advice to laugh clappers: The next time you’re out at a restaurant and someone says something really funny, think twice before following your laugh with a slow clap. You never know if Fagats has guided me and by superhero bf to the table next to you.

My advice to everyone else: Have a problem? Need a superhero? Give me a call. My superhero bf is officially for hire.