The other night, I went to the West Village bar Pieces, my gay home away from home, and the second I walked in, a man started chatting me up and rubbing my back in a rather provocative way. We launched into some festive tonsil hockey, as is often wont to happen, but he immediately began interjecting deeply insecure comments into our impromptu mating game that made things less than arousing.
“Thank you for kissing me,” he kept saying, as if I were doing him a big favor rather than doing it for myself.
We’d kiss some more, and then he’d say, “You’re mocking me, aren’t you? I know this is a big joke at my expense. Oh, well. It was still a nice once-in-a-lifetime experience.” As if I make out with random strangers so I can say “Just kidding” and push them into the sawdust!
But his favorite spiel was: “I’m nothing. I’m just a teacher from the boroughs. I’m no one. I’m not good enough for you. You could have anyone.”
“If only!” I thought, fascinated to have finally found someone who thinks I’m something when in reality I’m…you know, nothing. Maybe I’ll call him.