The Guysexual is your average guy-next-door who loves his beer and hates pigeons, talking about out-of-the-closet experiences of the third kind. He might not know the right spoon to eat his crème brulee with, or what colour shirt goes with a leather jacket, but he does know that there never really is only the One. There’s a Two, a Three and a Four, and probably more. It will work out with some of them, and sometimes it will not.
Ever the unreliable narrator, The Guysexual talks about his escapades in dating and otherwise, proving that there really is no difference between gay and straight when it comes to love, sex and relationships, or who fits the bill when you know that things are so bad that you probably might never ever see each other again.
He is the floor manager at a high-end fashion label. He deals with society WAGs, expats and A-listers over slices of toast (whole wheat) and scrambled eggs, everyone is always 15 minutes away -- so waiting is second nature. But the job has its perks too -- party invitations, supermodel friends and the occasional bottle of single malt whisky. The parties and the models can get exhausting, but the single malt never does, he grins.
He looks like a bloated version of a Bollywood heartthrob, which is his only redeeming quality. He looks thinner in his pictures. It's early 2011; everybody looks thinner in their pictures in 2011. He's short, but not too short. He's fat, but not too fat. I am here, but I am not too here. He's fun, but not too... No, wait. He's not fun at all. Do you know what I mean?
'Do you watch Downton Abbey?' he asks me suddenly, and I notice the slightest hint of excitement in his voice. Well, at least he likes to adhere to one gay stereotype. I shake my head, and his smile droops a little. Saying that you don't watch Downton Abbey is like saying that you don't shop at the ZARA sale. I avoid telling him that I binge watched through six seasons of Gossip Girl, and download songs from Glee.
He studied at a textile school in Canada and lived there for five years, but ultimately left behind a dozen acquaintances, a start-up job and a live-in girlfriend to move back home. I nod away, without batting an eyelid. I could ask him why he came back. I could ask him what happened to the girlfriend. I could ask him whether he's sure about his sexuality. 'Where are we off to?' I ask him instead.
He's going to shuffle between the business and the auditions, as I shuffle between deciding whether I like him or not. The former shouldn't be too difficult - gay men are quite adept at handling double lives, and this one seems like a professional. The latter will take more time. Or another cappuccino.
Fifteen minutes later, our first round of drinks are down and we are best friends. He talks fondly of a rich aunt involved in a famous property dispute, and mentions lessons at the golf course post lunch at the club, as I sip my rum in wide-eyed wonder.
He's wearing something you would see on a model at a fashion show. Suspenders and a broach over a crisp button-down navy blue shirt. Paired well with refined wing cap brogues, a shade of dark chestnut, with tan shoelaces- wait, is he wearing a bow tie? Yes. He's wearing a bow tie. What do gay men do best? They accessorize. But it's not caricaturish, like how it is in the movies or Armistead Maupin novels.
He recently got out of a relationship (that's a red flag.) and though it's only been two months, the ex-boyfriend and him talk from time to time (that's another red flag.). It's okay though, he says, as I frown in surprise - he's only asked me to sleep with him once ever since. (And another one.)
We smile at each other, while our feet are engaged in a deep conversation under the table. I look at him closely as he bites into his slice of pizza. He's everything I could want. He's an architect, he's an old friend, he likes his beer, and most importantly, he likes me. Is he steps away from being the human rendition of Taylor Swift's highly dubious 'You Belong With Me'?
It's a quarter past five, and two weeks of speed-texting and one muffled phone call later, here we are. His eyes are piercing grey, his cheekbones high and hollow, like the insides of a psychopath's heart. He's not unattractive to look at, him with his close cropped hair and his arched eyebrows, and on a good day, I can sulk in the dark recesses of my mind and write a haiku about him.
I meet him for a coffee at a second-world swanky café in the suburbs. He arrives, all nervous and a thousand apologies. I shake them off like I shake him off as soon as I meet him - stubbing my cigarette and my smile.