When I was in LA….

Who's afraid of a little sausage?

-”Hi, my name is Michael Schneider*.” (*Not his real name, and if he ever reads this, he’ll be glad I used a pseudonym.)
-”Why hello… Michael Schneider (Jingleheimerschmidt)??”
- “You can call me Mike.”
- “Okay. Mike…. Mike?”
- “Yeah?”
-”Do I KNOW you????”

He stumbles for words. Apparently, as I sat at my office desk of my current-temporary-job-from-hell, I had dropped off some papers at the lab he worked at and wanted to ask me out.

I went back in my mind…. do I remember him? I remember walking through the animal testing facilities listening to poor dogs and cats barking and making a mental note to quit as soon as possible. I remember some pee in the middle of the hallway and stepping around it. But as for handsome men that took my breath away? Nope, I don’t remember him.

In any case, I figure, “Hell, it takes a lot of guts to call a girl out of the blue. I’ll go out with him.” We arranged for a casual date at Louise’s Trattoria.

-”Hi, I’m Michael.” ‘Michael’ shifts in his Sperry topsider shoes, his eyes darting to look up at my from his downcast gaze. I struggle to see him. Oh wait, he’s down there. A LOT shorter than me. And…. asian?

He sees the look of complete confusion on my face and prattles quickly about the history of Korean adoptees and that he was raised in Minnesota and had 3 brothers and sisters and how the Korean adoptee population even had their own newspapers and social networks. He’s been in LA now for almost 6 months.

Cool. I can live with that. Not what I expected but hey, he’s friendly and he smells clean. 2 points. And, his smile is awfully cute. Make that 4 points!

We order food. We struggle to find some common ground. Boy, aren’t we glad we both like italian food? Yeah, whew! We both eat meat.

He asks me casually, “So where are you from?”
-”I’m born and raised in and around San Francisco.”
He winces.
-”What?” I ask confused again.
-”San Francisco,” he shudders.
-”I know there’s a big Southern CA and Northern CA rivalry…” I soothe.
-”No,” he sours, “There’s just a lot of…” he lowers his voice to a faint whisper,”…gays.”
-”What’s wrong with gay people?” I ask, bristling.
-”Oh that’s right, you work in theatre so you probably know a lot of…” hushed voice again, “….. gays.”
-”Why are you afraid to say ‘GAY’? ARE YOU AFRAID OF GAY PEOPLE?”
He looks startled. Now he looks confused. “Wait a minute… I’m sorry.” He searches for the word. Then he looks me pleadingly in the eye, “I’m sorry, are YOU (hushed voice) GAY????”

I’m in shock. “Wait! Now, I’M a lesbian because I’m not afraid to say the word ‘gay’ in public? I don’t think I need to answer that question.”

He rambles awkwardly, “Cuz if you are, I’m really sorry. I didn’t know. I just thought you were pretty and nice to me and I thought…. but wait, are you gay? Oh, you said you wouldn’t answer that. Then you ARE? Or are you just saying that? Wait, what DID you say? I’m sorry. I feel stupid.”

The next 15-20 minutes are summed up as such:

“No, you can’t be gay or you would have told me when I asked you to go out on a date.”

“No, but are you gay? Cuz I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“You’re NOT gay, you told me about an old boyfriend over the phone.”

“Did you say that thing about the boyfriend to throw me off?”

“Wait, tell me. I feel really stupid here.”

I just sit there shaking my head in dismay and slurping spaghetti. I wonder if I should mime fellatio on the italian sausage on my plate to give him a hint of my sexual orientation.

As he drives me home, he peppers me with more apologies and how much he actually wants to visit San Francisco. Someday. But not the gay area.

He ends with a… “So, can I call you again?”
-”No, no. I don’t think so.”

LESSON FOR MEN TRYING TO GET LAID: Do NOT accuse a woman of being a lesbian while on your first date. Get laid first. Ask questions later.

Happy Hunting this weekend everyone!