The Merry Singleton

Rejection is like shit, it just happens. The gay archetype is smooth as butter, chiseled like a fine Renaissance statue and Milan fashion week chic. Even with the quintessential gay clone look, the inevitable fact of life, rejection looms.

I feared rejection like not finding my size at a Lacoste sample sale. Certainly, I am not the gay archetype. After all, I wake up with my stomach smiling back at me. Hello stomach, another date with Ben N’ Jerry’s I see. I’ve been a twink (skinny hairless gay guy) and a cub (hairy, chubby gay guy). Through both states of gayhood, I had lots of rejection.

When I turned twenty-five, my perception started to change. One particular date brought me into a new level of adulthood. On a beautiful winter night, I met Mr. Corporate finance on a gay site. He was handsome, charming and ready to mingle.

We met in Union Square and surprise; he really did look like the ideal corporate finance guy. Like any good first date in the city, we hit a few bars. As we sipped mixed cocktails in the furnace like heat of the Christopher street dives, conversation revolving around travel and current events persisted. He became more attractive with every sip of his Brooklyn lager.

However, something was missing from his end. I was smitten. He seemed distracted. I suggested hanging out in the East Village, he obliged. There we were in another humid dive bar, surrounded by men in flannel, beards and black rim glasses.

I grew some balls and asked him straight up ” are you not interested?” He quickly answered “no.” The rejection felt like a California earthquake running through me. I was shaken up. Then he smiled and offered to buy me a beer. I accepted.

I ran to the bathroom first and cried. There in this bathroom was a cute dark haired guy. “Hi I just got rejected. Will you make out with me?” He grabbed me and made out right there. I walked out of the bathroom, feeling triumphant, but the pangs of rejection ran rampant. The date ended awkwardly.

I went back to my modest apartment feeling blah. The next day, I did what any proper New York boy would do when rejection, feasted on gyros from the Greek place down the street and watched countless hours of NY1. That afternoon, I received a call from Mr. Corporate finance, checking up on me.

After a very dramatic first date, we ended becoming close friends. Although, I wanted more at first, having a buddy is always wonderful.

Rejection is tough business. Valuing oneself and knowing that shit happens softens the blow. At the end of a bad date, one must remember there’s always cable TV, Ben N’ Jerry’s and a gyro to make life sexy again.

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