His name is Billy.
I'm not giving him a pseudonym because A) I have absolutely no idea what's going on between us and B) if we ever started dating, we would be Billy-Bob, and, in the words of Jerri Blank, "Poor Southerners are HILARIOUS!" I think the possible jokes are reason enough to date me, but he doesn't see it like that. Not yet, at least.
He took me to the local gay club last night. He took me back to my place about an hour later. Turns out, there wasn't dancing last night. It was lube wrestling.
And we came just in time for the lesbians.
I threw up in my mouth a couple of times, I'll admit.
After I got back to my room (alone, mind you) I decided to go back in the closet until I was seventy, because gay people are icky and I hate you all. Then he called and talked me out of it, but I'm still not heading out to the clubs anytime soon.