“You look familiar—have we met before?”
“No, I don’t think so.” I lied.
Well, I suppose technically I didn’t lie. We hadn’t met, in real life at least. We had “flirted” once on a popular online “dating” site, two words I use lightly in this case, seeing as how I’m a good boy and have never even heard of websites dedicated to casual sex, let alone have a profile on a few of those sites.
I recognized him from his picture online, but he didn’t me. It’s a wonder what a haircut, a five-o’clock shadow and glasses can do to disguise yourself.
It was last semester when we talked, a late Saturday night/early Sunday morning. I had gotten sick of my friends and feigned a headache, and decided to log in to one of those aforementioned ‘sites’ to relieve some stress and get my mind off of things. After only a few seconds of being logged in, he expressed an interest and I replied quickly, drawn to his short hair, strong jaw, and abundance of shirtless pics which showed an athletic, tanned body, with a decent amount of light chest hair.
He could host our ‘encounter’ and lived only a few minutes away. He asked if I had any more revealing photos, and I sent him a picture of me in my underwear, taken by my roommate from last year, about to throw a pillow at him. I should probably mention that it was 3 AM and we were all drunk and having a ‘gay’ old time. It’s not a great picture of me, but it makes my ass look amazing. I emailed it to him, and he replied with a curt “Sorry—I only like thin guys.”
I’m kind of bent over in the picture, so it looks like I have more of a belly than I do—it’s not really a belly, but it’s no six-pack either. I like to say that I don’t have love handles, but I might have infatuation handrests, but most people don’t think that’s as clever as I do once there’s vodka in me. There’s slight definition, especially in the right light and if I stand up straight, but in this picture, it’s all just sort of hanging out there, au natural. Most people could realize that my body posture would make anyone look flabby, but he called me fat!
That was the first night that I’ve ever got drunk alone. OK, so I was already a few sheets to the wind when I first logged in, and basically it was just a nightcap, but still.
I wish I could say that he looked chubbier in real life, or that he had acne-pockmarks on his cheeks, or that he had experimented with some odd facial hair arrangement, but if anything, he looked better. Tanner. More elegant. Even though he was wearing a t-shirt, shorts, and sandals, there was something old-fashioned about his demeanor, like a 50s leading man.
“So what’s up?” I explain my situation, how I’m just at the library to steal wireless, since I’m too poor to have it at home. He gives me a little laugh, more polite than anything, and says that he’s just taking a break from an Econ assignment.
The line moves forward a bit more and I look up and decide upon my drink. I’m at the library with the coffeeshop in the basement, otherwise known as the ‘hookup’ library. A few years earlier, Playboy magazine had mentioned this specific library as one of the best places to meet members of the opposite sex in the country.
“Oh, are you an Econ major?” It’s pretty much the standard getting-to-know-you question, and even though I hate it, I’m not very good at small talk. I’m even worse when I’m trying to decide what to do: tease him and then drop him, like he did to me, or take him home for a bitter ‘nyah’ fuck, or get his number, or what. My arms are folded, which I know is improper body language for when you like a guy, and I make a conscious decision to move my hands into my back pockets, and then return them when I decide that it will help cover up whatever belly he thinks I have.
He’s got his hands in his front pockets, which ride a little low. When he turns to check the clock, he exposes a few inches of tan flesh as his tshirt gaps. Goddamn that’s nice.
I step up and order my white mocha (yeah, I’m gay) while he steps to the other register and orders a plain coffee. His drink comes up first, and he fiddles with adding sugar. I get my drink, and go to grab a lid. I walk up and stand probably a bit too close to him. Our shirts definitely touch, and I can sense him tense up and look around. He shifts his weight away from me.
“So where are you sitting?” I inquire, and his eyes slightly widen.
“Well, I’m sorta sitting with someone actually.” I’m not entirely sure what that means, but the way he says it, its without-a-doubt loaded with some connotations. Whether its friends or a boyfriend or girlfriend or someone else he’s flirted with on an earlier cup of coffee, I can’t tell. His knees slightly buckle, and I notice that he’s much more inward looking now, instead of the confident, upright guy he was five minutes earlier when he was introducing himself. I’m guessing he’s closeted, even though he has a face pic up on that aforementioned site. He seems vulnerable now, and it’s adorable.
“Oh, ok.” I search his eyes, and he’s undeniably on guard and not sure what to do. “Well, it was nice to meet you,” I say, reaching out and touching the outside of his bicep, mostly to see how he’d react to being touched, but still wanting to play a little coy and masculine. His eyes open and his mouth agape. His hands start to shake a bit, and I can hear the coffee being swished about in the paper cup.
“I-I’ll look for you when we’re done. M-maybe we could... h-hang out later sometime.” His voice cracks a bit on that first I. It’s fantastic.
“Sure. Go head. I’ll probably be on the third floor near the windows, but I don’t know how long I’ll be here.”
“Cool.”
“See ya in a bit then.” I smile, take a few steps back, and turn towards the stairs. I look back as I open the door to the stairway and he’s still standing in front of the sugar packets, staring very intently at his coffee as he stirs in the cream and sugar packet. He looks briefly up in my direction and then returns to his coffee.
I waited for almost 90 minutes and he never came to find me.
