Hey Anthony,
“I spent hours bragging about our conversation to my friend and husband last night. I can’t explain how invigorated, validated and inspired I felt after speaking with you. Thanks again for making time and following through.”
HMMM.
It was the strangest email I’ve ever received:
Invigorated. Validated. Inspired. I did all that? I was just being myself.
And he bragged about me to his husband?
Thoroughly confused, I immediately texted my girlfriend.
“Who is this guy again?”
Seventy two hours earlier, she reached out with an urgent request:
“I need you to meet this guy. I told him all about your [sex mastery] and he got really excited. He does the same thing you do (HIV, black gay male research, etc.) Can I give him your number? He’s only in town for a few days.”
“Is he cute? You know I don’t do blind dates!”
The next day I waited on the corner of 8th Ave. in Hell’s Kitchen. A lanky black man waved from across the street. I could see his smile before I could see his face.
I was pleasantly surprised. He was cuter than I imagined (that never happens). The smile was even better up close. We picked a spot for happy hour. He wanted to chat about his PhD program and get some advice (I was further along in my program).
Five hours later I was sufficiently drunk and smitten AF. He was kind, easy to talk to…there was an innocence I found really attractive. He was age appropriate and had his finances together (SHUT UP).
We talked about our hopes, our dreams…our people’s liberation. The connection was undeniable. It didn’t feel physical, but it definitely spanned beyond plutonic.
The next day the email arrived. I didn’t know how to feel.
It might have been the tequila, but confusion quickly turned into frustration. I blamed my girlfriend, lol.
“What exactly did you say to him? Was it a date? It felt like a date. What am I supposed to do with him? We were there for five hours.”
His school wasn’t far and his husband was in NYC so he said he would hit me up when he was back in town.
Thus became the best summer I’ve had in a while. I would take him to all my spots and we’d talk for hours. There was rarely awkward silence. The laughter came in droves.
The reveal came months later on “date” number three. We went through two pitchers of red sangria at Sofrito. Outside under the moonlight (and the George Washington Bridge in the background), we didn’t have a care in the world. I walked him back to his car when he broke down.
“I’ve had such a great night. I really don’t want to go home.”
As he began to cry, the unspoken was finally on the table. He was in a loveless marriage and extremely miserable. There was some self-esteem issues, internalized colorism and even though he suspected the husband was cheating on him, he couldn’t find the courage to end it.
[PAUSE]
This happens more often than I would like to admit: I meet a guy…my default is to infuse intimacy into all my relationships. Next thing I know, secrets are revealed…or we’ve had unique/exclusive experiences/conversations that should be reserved for the romantic partner/the one with the title. Next thing I know, I catch feelings on a foundation that never was. There’s no handbook for the emotional boyfriend.
Reluctantly, I sent him home. My days of playing the other woman are over.
But I love playing the fool.
This would go on for another year. He would come to me when he needed verbal masturbating. I would reiterate how beautiful and brilliant he was (he is)….and encouraged him to leave if he felt the situation wasn’t going to get any better.
Our demise was as incredible as our origin story. One fateful night he beckoned me out of the blue.
“What you doing tonight? I want to see you.”
I was at Jamaican wifey’s house at a very important game night. Against my better judgement, I decided to leave abruptly and meet him. He booked a room downtown (he no longer stayed with the husband on his trips to NYC). We walked from his hotel to the East Village. In rare form, he had a Carrie Bradshaw vibe going; cute leather jacket and the Timbs on. He was a man on a mission and I was his co-pilot.
We started at a mixed bar and got plastered. A walk down Third Ave. lead us to fortune teller. He stared at the window, desperate for answers.
She confirmed the marriage wasn’t going to get any better. But she predicted he would meet a new man in a few months that would help him heal. “Guess that isn’t me?” I thought.
At this point he’s spiraling. More (drunk) walking and processing and we coincidentally end up under the famous sign.
“Is that the Cock?”
“Yes…well technically. This is their new location. They recently moved.”
Having never experienced the infamous Cock before (and acting out at this point), we reluctantly go inside. Outside the dark room, he contemplated life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.
“Do you want to go inside?” I asked.
He couldn’t muster the courage.
We eventually ended back at the hotel. I laid in bed with him that night…our only physical touch throughout the relationship. I held him tight as he stifled his tears and tequila. Months of ghosting and inconsistent fuckboy behavior ensued…until I never saw him again.
Right on time, I saw on social media that he got a new boyfriend. Nice chocolate man…older. Good looking dude. It looks healthy.
I tell this story with unanswered questions and unprocessed emotions. I was intrigued by the Issa/Lawrence/Condola storyline at the end of Insecure Season 4. I know what it’s like to built a man up and have someone else enjoy the results. It doesn’t feel good.
(To be continued…)