Every time a gay man is reintroduced into singleton, he is forced to face a wall...

of repressed abandonment issues from past relationships and to decide between spinsterhood and the perpetual hunting-and-gathering scene. The choices: he sits at home and does the eating-a-whole-tub-of-Häagen-Dazs-and-crying- while-watching-the-entire-Sex-and-the-City-franchise gig (sans movie, of course…at least, not until next year), or he takes this opportunity to become more of the “love-‘em-and-leave-‘em” type. Thankfully, this is definitely a slippery-slope fallacy (despite the lack of slipperiness elsewhere), because in most cases, both scenarios happen anyway, in that consecutive order – even if it is not in so many words. But, what happens when he skips that mourning phase, only to be greeted with a prospect that is so fantastic that he might actually end up in mourning after a possible fling? Or even, dare we say it, a relationship? The mind reels….

Yes, I am officially bajiggity, which is not entirely uncalled for considering the whirlwind of a weekend I had just spent with Transformer (his nickname is a result of a unique branding). Considering the lack of long-lasting dates over the past year, when Transformer and I end up going on three different dates within a 24-hour period, ‘whirlwind’ is quite a modest descriptor indeed. To add sparkle to an already blinged out rapstar, the dates were far from contrived and overflowing with flirtatious, nonsensical and witty exchanges and pop-culture references that could rival even the Gilmore Girls.


Yes, such a man actually does exist beyond the wholly unrealistic expectations of the gay mind. Is it too good to be true? (Maybe, depending upon how the situation is perceived.) After a year of either ratty or lousy (or both) dates reeking with desperation, finding myself actually having fun on the first date, I am utterly delighted, as well as scared. The level of comfort reached within the first hour of the first date is astounding, such that I find myself divulging my goals, accomplishments and failures. To add insult to injury, I even went so far as cracking open The Ex-Files for a quick glimpse. This would all be incredibly regretful, except Transformer was reciprocating each revelation. Both parties were already delving into topics that usually stay unmentioned until we're at least knee-deep in the game. So it should come to no surprise that a second date was due, and conveniently, it occurred the very next day.

Rules were being broken left, right and centre: 1) do not open the Ex-file on the first date; 2) do not text your date right after the date, even if it is the best date you have had in a year, and he is texting you back; 3) do not become that loathsome, cliché happy-couple roaming around the grocery store, and that's just on the second date. Need we be reminded that it was a whirlwind of a weekend? The third date was in the evening, and Transformer had a chance to be analyzed under the careful eyes of the Beautiful Fag-Hag (and Associates). With nothing more than my introducing him to them, Transformer was shining and receiving validations from my friends, all on his own. The evening, thereafter, was riddled with grinding and kissing, despite the fact that Mary-and-Mo were definitely in a Heterosexual Hive buzzing with nosey bees. But it did not matter, as far as we were concerned, we had our own bubble, even when we stepped outside for some canoodling under the sheer-fabric tents. Within a matter of 24 hours, we had gone from semi-strangers exchanging witty remarks to, dare I say it, a cute gay couple.

So, the question is, why am I acting this way. Have I been so JADED lately that this recent run-in with a great guy has caused me to just chug along at light-speed? And, it is important to note that all of these questions have arisen, even without having slept with Transformer yet. History can show how attached I get after sleeping with a guy I like. If this is my behaviour sans sex, one wonders the subsequent set of events, because let's face it, all the tasteful dry-humping on the dance floor got us halfway there anyway. Am I unknowingly placing all my eggs in one basket, yet again?