Almost, people! Almost!
So I’m sitting at the take-out bar in Tacofino chowing down on a big-ass chorizo burrito and inadvertently eavesdropping on the convo next to me.
I’m alone, so what else am I gonna do? Listen to the incessant thoughts roaming around in my mind? That’s been boring so far:
Maybe I should go back and take the make-up class [at the swordplay school] …
But the instructor had that big, ripe pimple in the crack of his nose. I’d be distracted by the it whole class.
Like what if it exploded while I was in mid-thrust? I might accidentally impale myself.
Besides, I’m halfway through this monster-sized meat snack. It’s not good to exercise on a full stomach, they say.
Plus, if that pustule did pop, I might puke on my longsword. Ewww.
Chew chew chew.
One of the two 20-something—30-something?—girls—women?—sitting next to me is talking about something, something else I can’t quite hear and then says, “When I came out of the closet …”
I don’t hear the rest of the sentence because I’m in mid-chew, but curious, I stop chewing and lean a little closer.
I love this stuff: authenticity, sexual orientation, courage!
Not only that, but I’d recently followed up with the producer of a radio show from a segment I did last year, asking her for feedback on my performance. (Radio performance, just to be clear.) I knew it wasn’t my best interview because I faux-pas’ed by not doing my homework on the segment hosts before showing up.
The hostess is a lesbian, and I made some comment about her finding the right guy or something totally different but equally as inappropriate to a lady of lesbian persuasion.
The producer mentioned that I would benefit—for her radio station, at least—from knowing more about the LGBT community.
I love the alphabet community!
It’s been suggested that if I don’t enjoy spelling out all the letters that I refer to the LGBTQI+ community as “the rainbow community.” I concede that this suggested phrase contains the fewest amount of syllables. Plus, rainbows are pretty.
Anyway, back to the Taco-femme scene …
Knowing that I’m supposed to learn more about the rainbow community my God-leaves-rainbow-signs radar is up.
Now, I’m thinking …
I should go talk to her.
But what if she thinks I’m gay? Not happy-gay but gay-gay. Carpet-munching gay.
So what?
So I don’t want her to think I’m hitting on her.
Why not?
Because, silly, that’s like being a cocktease! Or a pussytease. Whatever, it’s false and misleading. Plus, what if she rejects me!
You could tell her the truth.
Thought pause.
That would be gay.
Haha.
Now I’ve overthought the whole process, and I’m getting seriously cold feet. I totally know what it feels like to be a dude! Minus the having a penis bit.
I finish my burrito, get up, take a deep breath … and leave the establishment.
Outside, while I’m walking away with a contorted facial expression (much like many of the residents in Gastown), the other me is harassing me:
Pussy. Chicken.
Shut up. And haha.
What would your clients think? What would you tell your clients?
Oh, for fuck’s sake. Okay.
I shake my head, walk back to the restaurant, go back in, and walk over to the two women.
Um, excuse me, sorry to interrupt—
I feel like I should remove my black ball cap with “Motor City Baby” logo—not dykey at all here.
—I couldn’t help but hear—oh, I was sitting beside you a minute ago and then I left—um, I feel like an idiot, but anyway, I couldn’t help but overhear parts of your conversation …
I’m looking from one to the other and wringing my hands with nervous energy. What a dork.
… I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, um, but anyway, so actually I’m a dating coach, and I did this radio show blah blah blah (stumble fumble feeble female verbal drivel ejaculate), and anyway, I’d like to hear your story …
Dorky Fucking Dorkerson at your service.
But she’s a sweet, kind and, I admit, pretty lesbian and already taking my iPhone from me to enter her contact info.
She says, Sure, let’s get together.
See, fellas, how easy it is to approach women and ask them out?
Shortly later, I’m walking down the street feeling on top of the world when I suddenly wonder if I made it clear that I am happy-gay but not rainbow-flag-waving-gay-gay.
I text her.
Hey, this is Anna. The eavesdropping dating coach. I should probably mention that I’m straight.
Radio silence. *sideways glance*
A couple days later, she replies that she knew that! And she’s just been busy.
We make plans to get together. I suggest either coffee at 5:30pm on the non-date day at a place that closes at 6:00pm—allowing her a quick and easy escape—or a glass of wine somewhere else that’s open much later.
She chooses the former.
Oh, and by. the. way … all of this date strategy says something and means something. I know the questions, and I know how to interpret the answers, and that’s why I’m a dating coach, y’all. Um, aside from a minor shyness relapse when asking for the date-non-date. *Meh*
We go for coffee at 5:30pm. The place locks its doors at 6:00pm but doesn’t kick us out. We’re still engrossed in our convo. We leave at 7:00pm.
And that’s how it’s done.
And yes, she’s awesome sauce amazing. Wish I were gay-gay. I’m not, but at least I’ve got a très cool new friend.
And no, I can no more change my sexual orientation than you can, man. I still prefer an all-beef burrito to chicken taco.
Bon appetit!
What have I (re)learned?
- It’s a tough gig out there for guys to ask girls out. Give them a break, ladies, whether or not you’re batting for the other team.
- It’s an even tougher gig out there for girls to ask girls out. Especially if they’re not “butch” obvious.
- Straight chicks have it easy: drop the hanky or just take it straight to him. Done.
Homework:
Lesbian Matchmaking. Just sayin’ …
p.s. What does a lesbian bring to a second date? A U-Haul. (Joke by my pretty companion.)
p.p.s. This is the second time I’ve gone on a date-non-date with a lesbian, but the first time I wasn’t aware ahead of time that I was out with a lesbian because she wasn’t “out” yet. You can read about it in my memoir, Me: A Rewrite, which is now available in a print version here!
