KiNdAfaBuLous
![Even though I’m a dime piece (I say this will full, unbridled, “take notice” arrogance), I’m not the sort of man who gets hit on all the time by other gay men. I don’t say this in an insecure or low self-esteemy type manner-I have friends who get hit on all the time, but that’s just not usually me. And I’m fine with that-I know I’m special, and I don’t need other gay men to validate that.
With that said, I must also note that when I do actually get hit on (out and about in West Hollywood)-it’s usually seasonal, grandiose and monstrously awkward. It’s an observation rooted in the truthful reality of my strange dating life. When it rains-it pours, and when it’s dry-my dating earth is scorched and barren-meaning I don’t get hit on for months. Since I live in Los Angeles, California; I’m used to the more dry, arid nature of my dating life. In a city (like West Hollywood) full of models and wannabes, I happily exist without garnering much attention from the same sex.
When I do get attention from the same sex, I’m always caught off guard, which in turn makes the whole interaction slightly awkward. I suppose I should be more classically “cool’ or nonchalant about it, but I’m always like, “Oh damn, homeboy loves me.” And then I hear Lil’ Wayne lyrics going off in my head like, “I tried to pay attention, but attention paid me.” And then I try my best not to be crazy or overly talkative, but I get nervous because I’m not used to that type of attention (or maybe I am?).
Last Friday, as I was standing at the bar-ordering myself a wind-down beer (that’s the drink you have after a few cocktails since you’re trying to wind-down and de-amp), and an attractive man came up next to me and started staring at me. Feeling his stare burning into the side of my face, I turned to him and casually, inquisitively stared back at him (see above stare for a visual).
He then introduced himself, and he told me that he knew me through [redacted], and asked me how I’d been, etc. And then he did something strange: this man took a step back, looked at me up and down (like the way you’d stare at a mannequin wearing cool clothes), and then he told me that I looked “gooooooooooooooooooood.”
Tag-teaming his initial compliment with, “have you been working out?” I just laughed and said “yes.” However, it should be distinctly noted that I had no idea who this man was, and I was quite positive that we had never met before in our lives. Nonetheless, he was convinced we knew each other through a mutual friend, and he was being so nice and adoring to me-I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I wasn’t who he thought I was. Even Chace was like, “damn, he’s cute-you should talk to him.”
So that’s what I did: I talked to this man, who mistook me for an entirely different person, for about 20 minutes. Taking things a step further, I even joined him outside to meet his friends. Throughout the entire interaction, I felt slightly guilty about going along with a case of mistaken identity for compliments. I’m sure that someone can add a chapter into the “how to be a sociopath” guide for dummies or something. Still-he was sweet to me, and I didn’t want to shatter the illusion of recognition by letting him know that I wasn’t who he thought I was! So I ate those compliments up like I was a death row inmate eating up my last good piece of steak. Still feeling full today in fact.](http://27.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lydngm9Y671qzxaxso1_500.png)
Even though I’m a dime piece (I say this will full, unbridled, “take notice” arrogance), I’m not the sort of man who gets hit on all the time by other gay men. I don’t say this in an insecure or low self-esteemy type manner-I have friends who get hit on all the time, but that’s just not usually me. And I’m fine with that-I know I’m special, and I don’t need other gay men to validate that.
With that said, I must also note that when I do actually get hit on (out and about in West Hollywood)-it’s usually seasonal, grandiose and monstrously awkward. It’s an observation rooted in the truthful reality of my strange dating life. When it rains-it pours, and when it’s dry-my dating earth is scorched and barren-meaning I don’t get hit on for months. Since I live in Los Angeles, California; I’m used to the more dry, arid nature of my dating life. In a city (like West Hollywood) full of models and wannabes, I happily exist without garnering much attention from the same sex.
When I do get attention from the same sex, I’m always caught off guard, which in turn makes the whole interaction slightly awkward. I suppose I should be more classically “cool’ or nonchalant about it, but I’m always like, “Oh damn, homeboy loves me.” And then I hear Lil’ Wayne lyrics going off in my head like, “I tried to pay attention, but attention paid me.” And then I try my best not to be crazy or overly talkative, but I get nervous because I’m not used to that type of attention (or maybe I am?).
Last Friday, as I was standing at the bar-ordering myself a wind-down beer (that’s the drink you have after a few cocktails since you’re trying to wind-down and de-amp), and an attractive man came up next to me and started staring at me. Feeling his stare burning into the side of my face, I turned to him and casually, inquisitively stared back at him (see above stare for a visual).
He then introduced himself, and he told me that he knew me through [redacted], and asked me how I’d been, etc. And then he did something strange: this man took a step back, looked at me up and down (like the way you’d stare at a mannequin wearing cool clothes), and then he told me that I looked “gooooooooooooooooooood.”
Tag-teaming his initial compliment with, “have you been working out?” I just laughed and said “yes.” However, it should be distinctly noted that I had no idea who this man was, and I was quite positive that we had never met before in our lives. Nonetheless, he was convinced we knew each other through a mutual friend, and he was being so nice and adoring to me-I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I wasn’t who he thought I was. Even Chace was like, “damn, he’s cute-you should talk to him.”
So that’s what I did: I talked to this man, who mistook me for an entirely different person, for about 20 minutes. Taking things a step further, I even joined him outside to meet his friends. Throughout the entire interaction, I felt slightly guilty about going along with a case of mistaken identity for compliments. I’m sure that someone can add a chapter into the “how to be a sociopath” guide for dummies or something. Still-he was sweet to me, and I didn’t want to shatter the illusion of recognition by letting him know that I wasn’t who he thought I was! So I ate those compliments up like I was a death row inmate eating up my last good piece of steak. Still feeling full today in fact.
