I was out with my friends at our favorite bar. Some boring techno song was playing and the aforementioned friends and I were shuffling along to it aimlessly, so I was relieved when you and your friends pulled my friend and I into your circle to dance.
You weren’t the type of guy I go for, but that didn’t matter because I automatically assumed that you and your friends were gay. I don’t know why. Maybe it was your overly-gelled hair, your tight T-shirt, or your flamboyant dancing style which, in retrospect, point more towards your being kind of Jersey Shore rather than gay.
We danced as a group for a bit before splitting off. You and I started dancing and we began to move closer together as the music played. “How hilarious,” I thought to myself. “Look how ironic we’re being, a girl and a gay guy dancing provocatively together.”
I felt cool, being the girl the gay guys wanted to dance with. Any girl can go to a club and get a straight guy to start dancing with her, but gay guys are in major demand. I mused on how fun it was to dance with a guy without feeling as though I was leading him on, and then I thought of how you probably always had to dance with girls if you went to straight bars, because you wouldn’t know which guys were gay and you’d probably risk getting beat up, or at the very least offending some drunk guy.
We made small talk and you seemed to appreciate the cheesy Top 40 song that was playing. I decided we could probably be good friends.
It was then that I built up a whole friendship for us in my head. I imagined us going out scouting for boys together and then rating them using a system only we would understand. I decided you’d probably have an overly religious mother who wouldn’t approve of your sexuality and I’d defend you to her and then we’d all weep and you and your mother would reconcile. I daydreamed about the speech I’d make at your wedding (I’d be your “best man”) which would be to Lance Bass, whom I had the biggest crush on as an eight-year-old and now had no shot with since he had come out. (Not that some random Canadian girl had much of a chance with him to begin with, or that I’d really want to date an aging, washed up pop star, but I digress.)
As this beautiful, fictional friendship was flashing before my eyes, I realized that your face was getting really close to mine and that your lips were puckered. Smiling, I turned and gave you my cheek. I hoped my friends were watching my cool new best friend (the fictional you I’d built up in my head was extremely cool) kissing me on the cheek, like a Parisian or something.
“Your cheek? Really?” you asked, disappointed. As I was processing what was going on, you leaned in again, and I gave you my other cheek. “Come on,” you said, pulling me close and leaning in once more.
It was then that I realized that you were not gay. Not even a little bit. I stuttered some excuse about requesting a song and hurried off to the bathroom.
Horrified, I thought back over what had just transpired. Turns out our witty banter had been flirtation. Our ironic sexy dancing? Not so ironic. The fact that you asked for my number? Probably not because you wanted to schedule a fun friend brunch date. My normally shy self had managed to pick up a guy, if only because I had no idea I was doing it.
It’s not your fault you aren’t gay, I guess. I realize not all gay guys are cool, and even fewer are candidates for Lance Bass’s love. As I mentioned, you’re not my type (I like my guys with less hair gel) but we probably could have been friends. However, turns out you were not only straight, but kind of a douche. Apparently, you’re the kind of guy who thinks that attempting to booty call the girl who declined to kiss you is a good idea.
I miss fictional, gay you. In my imagination he and I are sipping iced drinks at a sidewalk café somewhere.