The Straight Gay Man

I love people. Short, tall, big, small, straight, gay, black, white. If you are a good person, I will like you. If you are a bad person, I will buy you a six pack of Miller High Life. Now, the person I'm interested in dating is judged by very different criteria. I have a minimum height and education requirement, maximum cologne-usage limit, first-date shoe expectation and jean size barometer (his jean size must be bigger than mine). But, there is one thing that he, hands down, without question, absolutely, positively CANNOT be. 

And that thing is gay. 

When I first walked into The Bluebird, a trendy wine bar slash Belgian beer mecca, I was impressed. The lighting was perfect. It was the kind of lighting that made everyone look good. Like movie-star good. Or at least extra-in-a-movie-star good. The slightly unattractive were now sexy ugly. The girl who desperately needed a hairbrush now had Blake Lively bed head. It was a happening place. So, when I saw B, my date, I was already warmed up...and he fit the bill. He was tall, was a college graduate, cologne smelled amazing...did my 10th grade crush wear that? Wait, is that Cool Water? His shoes were impeccable. They were these Italian leather, beautifully crafted, caramel-colored beauties. 

These shoes should have been my first clue. 

In my defense, I was high off the visually stimulating crowd...the endorphin-infused aesthetics of the mahogany bar. And so the fact that this guy was more than likely sporting this season's Gucci men's lace up dress shoes did not quite register. We ordered two Belgians and started to chat. I found out that he grew up in a very religious household in a very religious town. He was home schooled with his siblings from the first day of pre-school to the last day of high school. 

What is that word you're trying to think of right now? Run. That word is "run." 

He spoke about the strict hyper-Christian way he was raised...and then we meandered through the valley of avoidance, into the forest of denial and straight towards the land of homosexuality. And we spent two hours there. 

It turned from a first date into a therapy session. B was clearly struggling to admit who he was. Maybe he didn't even know it. I spoke emphatically about how his parents' views were narrow-minded and small. Things got heated. I desperately wanted to map out how to get him out of this crazy family and break out on his own and be free to be B! 

Then I took a deep breath, got oxygen pumping back to my brain and realized that I have a little habit of taking on projects. Especially when these projects are packaged and rolled up into a tall, intelligent, good-smelling man. I muttered, "Enabler!" under my breathe...to which B perked up. 

"I'm sorry?"

"Oh nothing...just reading the menu. Whadda ya say? Another round?"

B stood up and sashayed up to the bar. And that's when I saw it. I squinted my eyes and moved my head and upper body ever so slightly in B's direction. Yep. Just what I thought I had spotted. Discreetly peeking out of the seam of his left Seven Jeans' pocket was a small red tag with yellow writing. It read: 26. 

Oh. Hell. No.

I haven't been a 26 waist since high school. Scratch that. Middle school. There was no way this could work. I had visions of him picking up a pair of stone washed boot legs from the chair in my room, slipping into them and while swimming in the jean material, exclaiming, "Whoa! These are NOT mine. Yikes."

He had to go. 

I knew deep down B was a straight gay man. And one day, he would grow up to be a gay gay man. But I didn't have to help him get there. I could take a night off from projects and enabling and leave that up to someone else.

B turned his head back over his right shoulder towards our high top table and asked, "What kind of beer do you want?"

I paused, gave myself a knowing nod and responded, "I'll take a Miller High Life." 

The Poisonous Nut

My mom has passed on great life lessons to me over the years: Do unto others as you would have them do unto you; never brush your hair in public; respect your elders (unless they're a-holes); no outfit is complete without lipstick. And she was right. About all of these gems of wisdom. 

So, when she told me I was being irrational by writing off a guy ("S") simply because he went to Ohio State, I took (reluctant and forced) pause.


For those of you who don't know, I hate Ohio State. I realize "hate" is a strong word. And that's exactly why I'm using it. I hate the institution, the football team, the former and current coach. Hell, I hate the state of Ohio. Do you know what their mascot, a "Buckeye," is? It's a poisonous nut. Seriously. When they hired Urban Meyer as their head football coach a few months ago, @ESPN_BigTen tweeted: Is Ohio State ready for a rock-star coach?


I responded with this: I guess if "rock star" is a euphemism for "felonious," then yes.


But, perhaps I was being too harsh on S. The reality is: If I were a hiring manager, I would scan S's resume, be impressed by his professional accolades and personal interests only to come to the end of the first page where "college attended" was located; whereupon I would immediately feed S's resume directly into my shredder. This is behavior Webster would define as "discriminatory." And is one of the many reasons I can never be in HR. 


I once saw an ESPN commercial about a Michigan/Ohio State couple; and my friend's cousin's ex-boyfriend's step aunt went to Michigan and married a dude from that school in Ohio. So, that must mean that these couples must exist. Right?


I was determined to find out. 


S and I met for drinks at the Long Room, a cool, hole-in-the-wall bar that has an amazing beer selection. The interior was much cooler than its exterior. (Which turned out to be the exact opposite reality of my date, S.) 


We exchanged some introductory niceties and began to mull over the menu. It was huge. It went on forever. I honed in on the Michigan beer section and bit my tongue just before I was about to let out a taunting Ohio State jab. No, I thought to myself. You don't even have your beer yet. Just try to be mature. 


When our beers arrived, S and I held our pints of frosty brew up and clinked glasses, "To maturity!" (Side note: Before our date we agreed to act like bigger people than we actually were and avoid discussions around our schools.) 

So, we talked. I learned that he does analytical research or something or another for Careerbuilder.com and he does Improv on the side. You know, he’s one of those people who says, “If I could do anything, I would be a performer.” [Insert four-second beer chug.] I knew this was going to be a challenge…because I AM a performer…I just don’t get paid for it. He has one sibling (married w/ a kid); parents have been married for 30-something years...and they ALL live in Ohio. (When he told me this, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror behind the bar and it looked as if I had taken a bite out of lemon. I’m pretty sure he noticed.)

I tried my hardest to avoid talking about/bashing Ohio State, but instead wound up bashing Ohio as a State. (The doctor still hasn't called with the results from my Sports Tourettes test, but it's not looking good. And as far as the medical community knows, there is no known cure.)

We pushed through to our second beer and even did a “you pick my next beer and I’ll pick yours” game, to which he declined my first two selections for him. So, that went well. I spent a good deal of time defending Bell’s Brewery and my Mexican restaurant choices in Chicago…he’s not a fan of El Tapatio. I was pretty much done at that point.

But then came the clincher. The real icing on the cake. 

He never went to Ohio State. 

He went to Miami of Ohio.

Don't get me wrong, I have no real problem with Miami of Ohio (besides the fact that it's located in Ohio and has the word "Ohio" in it). Heck, Nick Lachey went there and he married an amazing woman.

However, studies show that the ONLY thing worse than an Ohio State grad is an Ohio State fan who did NOT got to Ohio State. I had reached my threshold of Sports-Tourettes-challenged maturity. We closed our tab. 

When we walked outside, S offered me a ride home. Wow, I thought. This guy is more of a masochist that I am. [Insert one full minute of back and forth –“I can take a cab” “Are you sure? I can drive you.” “Are you sure? I can take a cab.”] Anyone watching this conversation would have passed out from boredom. I finally gave in. When we walked up to his car and it was a Toyota Camry, my Automotive Facts Tourettes kicked in.

“Hey…S? Did you get the recall yet? How are the breaks on this bad boy?” 

Needless to say, when he dropped me off, there was no mention of a second date.

The next day, I sent a text which I’m sure was the final nail in the coffin: “Had a great time last night. Thanks for the beers and (acceleration-controlled) ride home.”

I haven’t heard from him. And I never will.

In closing, I don't think S realized at the time – nor do I think he even fully realizes today – but regardless of alma mater, he is the true definition of a buckeye...in every sense of the word.