dirty hangover

shh, dear readers, don't talk too loudly. even though i have to work this morning, i went last night to astoria's (rapidly becoming more famous) beer garden with cory (my first-ever camp boyfriend who randomly lives in astoria), his boyfriend, and his friend michael. afterward we went to albatross, a gay bar that literally could be any dive bar in baltimore. and for this reason it feels like home. and now, since i'm a lil' hungover to be writing a blog, here's this week's dirty laundry.

Adonis

“Yeah,” my roommate Hilary said to me, freshly in from a run, “but your definition of fat is way different that most peoples’ definition of fat. You think someone’s fat if they don’t have a visible six-pack. But guess what, Robert. You might just have to get over that. I mean, what if you meet a really nice guy?"

"Um, obviously,” I told her, "I'd give him a chance. But you date straight guys, and for straight guys it’s totally different. Straight guys are supposed to have beer bellies or back hair. It’s expected.” Instead of justifying this clearly weak argument, Hilary merely rolled her eyes and turned around to walk out of the room, peeling off her sweaty running shirt as she went. This discussion was over: Hilary, one; Robert, zero.

My conversation with Hilary had taken a wildly different turn than one I’d had with Adam, a friend (and ex-boyfriend), earlier that day. He’d been dating a guy for a few weeks and had informed me, nonchalantly, that he’d put him on a diet.

“Excuse me?” I said, hardly believing what he’d just told me.

“Yes,” Adam said, laughing, “he’s on the Abs Diet. Because I told him he should be. I don’t want to sound like an a**hole here, but he’s the, um, least in-shape person I’ve ever dated.”

“Well,” I said, “just let him know that your ex-boyfriend is coming to visit next month. Tell him that I work out five times a week, that I’m extremely hot and judgmental, and that I insist that everyone I hang out with be shirtless at all times. We’ll call it ‘Shirts-Off Weekend.’ That’ll motivate him.” They broke up two weeks later.

All kidding aside, my conversation with Adam made me think: how superficial is it OK to be when you’re dating someone? So much—at least at the beginning of a relationship—is based on chemistry and physical attraction, it seems like it should be a top priority. Along with personality, a sense of humor, and having a good job, of course.

And if so, why is it bad to admit that you’re not attracted to someone because they, for instance, could use a few weeks on the Abs Diet? I think that anyone, if they’re being honest, no matter how good their intentions, would tell you that they have a specific type they’re attracted to. When it comes down to it, we’re all a little superficial when we meet someone at first, all a little surface-oriented.

My problem, though, is that I live in New York City, a place unlike anywhere else when it comes to dating. In New York, there’s always something better just around the corner, always someone with a better body, a hotter face, a more sparkling personality. The sheer number of gay guys here makes it nearly impossible to settle for something less than you think you deserve.

But if I never give a guy a chance because of stupid, superficial things--a hairy neck or bad shoes--if I’m so convinced that there’s an Adonis just around the corner somewhere, how will I ever actually get to know someone for who they are? It’s a terrifying thought to me, that I might waste my 20’s chasing some ideal man when there were all these great guys along the way, guys who I never got to know well enough to appreciate their imperfections.

The best relationships I’ve had, the ones that have ended in lifelong friendships, weren’t based solely on physical attraction. They were with men who were flawed, but whose flaws, whose quirks, somehow fit them perfectly, made them who they are. It’s humanizing, I think, to recognize someone’s faults, and to admit your own. Which is why, in this city, we all strive to be as perfect as possible, and get so used to looking only on the surface. Because once you see me for who I am, in a hospital bed or first thing in the morning, you know me much more deeply, and that makes most people uncomfortable.

So I’ll try for this: to see a person beyond his ass or his chest or his face or his hair. To see someone for who he is—human, just like me, with a mother and a coming-out story and a medley of insecurities. And maybe then he’ll see me the same way.