The Former Traveling Spotlight
The tales of a "30" something gay former stand-up comic living in NYC who is searching for his soul mate or soul...which ever comes first.
Original content© Patrick Doyle 2003-2017 all rights reserved
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Monday, March 05, 2007
Lemonade
As a comedian, I'm always looking at my life for sources of comedy. Sometimes I can take a small thing and elaborate it into a great fictional story, and sometimes I'll use my friends and their experiences as ways of creating comedy from their tragedies. My date of Friday night was the kind of trauma that comedians dream of witnessing. So I can only choose to make lemonade out of the lemons I was served.
I sometimes consider myself "Dating Bipolar" (yeah...I can't wait for the Google hits from this one). I have two levels of dating, those that have no further potential than a sexual relationship (sometimes of only one night), and those that I may actually could develop feelings for. Many, many, many, maybe too many men have progressed into the first type of relationship, but few have been able to unlock the prison walls I've placed around my heart (it's called self preservation). Those men that make the cut become significant to me, and when the relation ship ends, my "getting over it" is difficult.
So I was a little surprised that I was connecting so well with a certain gentleman during my ski trip. Yes, it's been long enough since my last heart break that I'm ready to date again, but I'm still careful. That being said, I spent a day last week skiing a handsome plastic surgery resident (from Barcelona), and since then we've been sending text messages back and forth over the week. His schedule is brutal, but he remembered and texted me a birthday greeting (something I found very sweet). It's been difficult though, as we weren't able to meet and have a proper date because of his work schedule.
Until last Friday. Another resident took his Friday night shift, and he had Saturday off, so he texted me and asked if I'd like to go to dinner. At the moment that he had texted me, I was on my way to happy hour (ok...I'd had one drink...I was already happy), but I more than agreed and hurried home for a quick shower and change of clothes.
Edwardo and I met in Chelsea and walked to the Greenwich Village for a dinner at an Italian restaurant. A short 10 minute wait in the bar, and we were seated at the 2 person table next to the window. Across from me, Edwardo, the Spanish plastic surgeon, to my right was the window, and on my left was another 2 person table.
One of the things about New York City that can be annoying is that restaurant tables are so close together. It's impossible to carry on a dinner conversation without the table next to you hearing all the details. So I knew it would only be a short time before the table next to us would be occupied, and this was exactly what happened.
The table was sat just after we had ordered our wine. I saw out of the corner of my eye two people sit down and heard my name called out. Looking up, I saw the last guy I had seriously dated. The guy who surprised me and took me home from the hospital post-surgery after reading about it here. The guy who my friends refer to as "EPT". Yes...EPT. Not because he's a pregnancy test (although a certain woman in LA might suggest pissing on him), but because he's an Emotional Power Top. Over the last year, he has continued to ram himself in and out of my life, and every time I think he's gone, he reappears to pound at me again. He's a very, very, very, bad man...and it's taken a while to get over him.
Friday, was my chance to feel smug. A chance to say, "I've done better, mother fucker!" And this was why I introduced him to my date.
"Edwardo, meet EPT. EPT...this is Edwardo, from Barcelona." These were my words, but my tone was more like this:
(in a Spanish Accent)EPT, this is Edwardo, from Barcelooooooonaaaa! Can you feel the heat of his Spaniardness? Do you see the fire in his eyes? Can you see the smoldering sexual energy pulsing from his pecs? That fire is directed towards me! You lost your chance, and it is now Edwardo's, from Barcelooooonaa, chance! Tonight...you will hear the screams of our passion!
EPT asked what Edwardo did, which he answered. "Plastic surgeon", and yes...I did see a twinge of jealousy in EPT's eye. Inside I sat there smug, although still lightly traumatized. It was difficult getting over him.
I turned to my soon to be Spanish lover and we continued our getting to know each other conversations and ordered our dinner. And it was during this conversation that Edwardo, the plastic surgeon from Barceloooona (hear that EPT?), informed me that he and his boyfriend are having problems, and this is why he decided to start dating again. But his boyfriend doesn't know this yet. In fact, his boyfriend thought he was working that night.
At the next table EPT coughed out loud. He had heard this tidbit and gave me the freaking "thumbs up" symbol, while he mouthed the words "Nice".
I ordered a glass of wine, as the night was about to turn ugly. I could have made a scene, but I didn't want to give EPT the satisfaction, so I just played it the best I could, and was very thankful that the appetizer arrived.
Mussels fra Diavalo. Now before anyone does the happy dance and comments that I'm eating solid food again, I'm not. In fact, as of today, my doctors are discussing doing another surgery, as I'm having extreme difficulty swallowing food. The problem is that food is often getting stuck going down...and if it doesn't go down...it WILL COME BACK UP. This was the case while eating my mussels fra diavolo. I began drinking water in mass quantities, trying to get my dinner down, but was not having success. Getting the familiar feeling that means, puke time, I excused myself and made way to the bathroom (only once considering puking on the table), leaving Edwardo, the plastic surgeon from Barcelona who's looking to cheat on his boyfriend, to sit alone next to EPT.
I came back to find EPT and Edwardo discussing something. Personally I just didn't care, and I gazed out the window, looking for any reason I could get away from this night from hell. Walking down the street was a man dressed in black pants and a white shirt. Very obviously a waiter from another restaurant. As he neared the window, I saw another man, in jeans and a hooded sweatshirt come up behind this man and hit him in the head with something. The man who was hit fell to the ground and the sweatshirt man reached into his pocket and took the man's wallet.
The victim of this mugging, lay on the ground not moving, and Eddie (fuck this Spanish bullshit), the philandering surgical hack, was out helping this man, while I called 911 to get assistance. Relaying the information to the operator, I explained his condition and an ambulance was dispatched. Now...I wanted to go home, but I couldn't because I had witnessed a freaking crime. And our dinner had arrived! The police interviewed me, took my statement and description of the assailant, and all the while my veal stuffed ravioli got cold (not that I would have been able to swallow the damn thing anyway). I finally was allowed to go back to my table. There I sat, hungry after puking my appetizer back up, emotionally traumatized and embarrassed upon seeing EPT, a material witness to a crime, and now tired as it was past midnight. And as I sat there, taking all this in, I thought..."Damn...have I got blogging material".
No more dating for me.
Patrick - 1:47 PM
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