Eating My Feelings (21 page)

I didn’t know if I was more excited that a boy was actually calling me or that my iPhone was finally ready, so after work, I ran to the Apple store to pick up my new best friend.

As soon as I had my iPhone in hand, I went straight back to my apartment and downloaded Grindr, created a profile quickly, and waited for every eligible bachelor on the Upper West Side to find me. While all of this was going down, Ron text-messaged me to remind me about brunch the following morning. I texted Ron back and told him that while I would meet him for brunch the following morning, he needed to communicate with me via Grindr or Internet Scrabble moving forward.

That night I started approximately 435 Grindr exchanges. I didn’t need booze or even cigarettes anymore: Grindr was my new addiction. I was up all night, talking to strangers, planning dates, and virtually meeting every gay man within a five-mile radius of my apartment. I went to bed on a high.

Disheveled, I met up with Ron the next morning.

“Are you drinking again?” Ron asked as he greeted me.

“Of course not, why?” I asked as I sat down at our table.

“You look like shit.”

“Why, thank you Ron, it’s good to see you too,” I replied, “but I’m not the one wearing a tank top with my nipple showing.”

“I’m hot and I’m starving. Let’s have a three-course brunch,” Ron said. Body be right on Ron but girl loved to eat. That was one of my favorite things about being his friend. Every time we went out for a meal, we ate like champions. And not what you would think your typical Asian fare would be (rice, fish, etc.), but real American food like burgers, fries, and sundaes.

“How’s the dating coming along?” Ron asked.

“Well, last week I went on a date with the most boring person I’ve ever met,” I said. “And Grindr is a whole other story. That’s why I look like shit. I was on the goddamn thing all night.”

“It’s addictive at first, but once you learn how to hone your cravings for it, you’ll figure out it’s the best thing that happened to gay men since the advent of water-based lube.”

“What?”

“Never mind,” he said. “It’s too hot to be witty. Did you plan any dates?”

“That’s the thing,” I said. “I was talking to so many people that I honestly don’t remember what I did.”

“Girl, you need to keep your shit in check. But I’m proud of you for putting yourself out there.”

“Thanks,” I replied.

“BTW, body be looking right right now. How’s P90X coming along?”

“It’s going well. I still kind of hate Tony Horton, but I’m feeling better.”

“I hated Tony Horton when I did P90X, but he’s pretty hot. I’d fuck him.”

“Seriously, Ron, who
wouldn’t
you fuck at this point?”

“You!” he said as our food came.

After gorging on a three-course brunch with Ron, I made my way back to the Upper West Side. As I rounded my corner, a very well-toned Asian man in his late twenties stopped me.

“Mark?” he asked. “Is that you?”

Oh my God! A fan!
I thought. Weeks earlier, I had run into a girl on the subway who had been such a huge fan of my book that she insisted I tell her any details of my life that weren’t in it and take a picture with her. My fame had finally reached my own block. I was so excited.

“Yes,” I said.

“Oh my God! Mark, I can’t believe it’s you!” the man said.

I brushed my hair to the side and wiped the sweat from my brow.

“It’s me!” I said with a smile.

“Wow. You’re so much cuter in person,” the man said.

“Oh, I know!” I replied. “That picture on the back of the book does me no justice whatsoever.”

“Uh—”

“Listen, if you live on this street, I would be more than
happy to walk back to your apartment and sign your copy of my book for you.”

“Your book?” the man said.

“Yeah. My book.”

“I’m sorry,” the man replied, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh.” I sighed. “I thought you had read my book or my epic blog.”

“I didn’t know you wrote a book,” the man said. “We spoke on Grindr last night. You told me we could have game night at your apartment this week.”

Seriously?
I thought.
I agreed to a game night? On Grindr? WTF?

“You said you were going to invite your friend Ron over for a night of Celebrity at your place.”

“Ron?” I said. What the hell was I thinking last night in my delirious state of grinding? Did I have delusions of starting a Pan-Asian alliance on the Upper West Side?

“Oh,” I said. I felt like such an asshole. Here I was thinking this guy wanted my autograph when all he wanted to do was have some sort of Gaysian networking event at my apartment. “Yeah,” I said, brushing it off, “maybe next weekend?”

“Sounds great,” the man said as I began to walk away. “Oh, Mark?”

“Yes?” I said, turning around to face him again.

“You’re way too skinny. You should eat something.”

I turned around and floated home. I was elated. That was the first time another gay man had told me I was skinny. P90X and my iPhone were paying for themselves.

Just when I had come to love and trust Tony Horton, he switched things up on me. I knew it had to be too good to be true. I was finally getting the hang of the routine when suddenly everything was different.

Apparently, during week four of P90X, we are to take a break from lifting weights and focus on cardio and core workouts. The first workout during week four is a yoga workout. Having already decided that Tony and I were never going to be able to do yoga in the same room together, I thought it best if I went for a leisurely run outside. We were breezing into July, and it just seemed to be getting hotter, but I figured if I ran outside in the heat I would burn a few extra calories and not feel so bad about skipping over the yoga DVD.

In high school I ran track but was kicked off the track team when I got caught smoking cigarettes. Ten years later, I found myself running around Central Park in sub-Saharan temperatures for my own enjoyment. As I was making my way back home, I glanced in the rearview mirror of a car parked on my street and couldn’t believe what I saw in the reflection. I was finally the athletic young man that my father had always hoped for. I was in the best shape I had ever been in, and although I was going to smoke a half a pack of cigarettes when I got home, I was a whole new me.

When I got home, I lit up a victory cigarette and checked Grindr. I was trying to take it easy because the previous week I had gotten so wrapped up in grinding that I had literally lost sleep over it. After a brief twenty-four-hour break, I was thrilled when I received a note from Isaac, an Israeli hottie who wanted
a third for a three-way with his boyfriend. I had never been in a three-way before, although I had attempted one earlier in the year that didn’t work out because they didn’t want to ménage with a smoker. I had found that smoking had become a recent problem with daters. No one likes cigarettes anymore. For a country that was founded upon the production of tobacco, I find it a huge slap in the face to our Founding Fathers that no one appreciates smoking anymore. Whenever I would go out with nonsmokers I was constantly looked down upon for my patriotic habit. I would tell said friends that if I was not able to smoke while out with them that there was a good chance I would be forced to fall off the wagon at any moment. I needed to smoke, if for nothing else than the sake of my sobriety. Nevertheless, I found that the best way to tackle this problem was to lie and say I didn’t smoke, shower before meeting my prospective date, then chain-smoke afterward.

Isaac asked me to come over to have a three-way with him and his boyfriend, Elijah, after work and I accepted. I was twenty-seven and possibly the only gay person I knew who had never been involved in a ménage à trois, and since they lived close, I could put as little effort into it as possible. I put Britney Spears on my iPhone and listened to “3” the whole way there, in order to pump up for the big event. She has an appropriate song for everything, doesn’t she?

I went to the Israeli’s apartment and checked in for my three-way on Foursquare. I was greeted by Isaac, who introduced himself and Elijah.

“Sit,” Isaac said.

“So how are things in Israel these days?” I asked like an idiot. I would like to point out that in adulthood, there is nothing I love more than hot Israelis. I love them almost as much as
I used to love sucking the grease out of chicken nuggets before they made them all white meat.

“Uh, we don’t know. We’ve lived here for like five years … but probably not good, come to think of it,” Elijah said, with absolutely no trace of an accent.

“Awesome, I am Jewish,” I said.

“Aksfhksdufhsdjfgm,” Isaac said in Hebrew.

“Ha-ha-ha, I have no idea what the fuck you just said,” I said. “I am Jewish in name only, really. The only thing I can say in Hebrew is, ‘We don’t have tickets for
Jersey Boys.’
” I laughed as if it was the funniest thing I had ever said, but both gay Jews looked confused. “It’s a long story …”

“Shall we?” Isaac asked as he gestured toward the bedroom.

These Israelis really needed to work on their hospitality. I wasn’t even offered coffee or cake—we were apparently just going right for it.

The three of us went into the bedroom. Isaac was really hot and Elijah was pretty hot and they both spoke English, so things were looking up. We all made out. Isaac was really into me so he was paying more attention to yours truly, but Elijah didn’t seem that into it.

“Akasjfhlasd?” Isaac asked Elijah in Hebrew.

Damn it! Why had I not gone to Hebrew school like a good little Jew? My ex-stepmother’s machinations when I was a child were now coming back to bite me in the ass. If I didn’t hook up with the hot Jews, this could be something else I could blame Stacey for.

“Akfdjhasdkfgjh,” Isaac said in return.

“Is everything okay?” I asked.

“Yes,” Isaac said as he continued kissing me.

“I am just not that into this,” Elijah said.

“Then you can watch,” I said. “It’s fucking hot outside and I came all this way.” I really hadn’t come that far, but was feeling lazy and horny, so I had to make it as much about me as possible.

Isaac was really into me and was the hotter one, so when he kept kissing me and Elijah patiently watched, I thought,
Okay, so maybe I am not going to have a three-way, but I could potentially get some from a hot Israeli
.

“You have to go,” Elijah finally said.

“What?” I asked.

“We cannot do this.”

“Seriously?” I said. “But I am supposed to be the special guest star. You know, the one who comes in to spice up your relationship.”

“Excuse me?” Elijah asked.

“I am the special guest star. Like Heather Locklear on
Melrose Place
,” I said.

They both looked confused.

After trying to explain what
Melrose Place
was, they both decided that a three-way was a bad idea after all.

I walked out of their apartment and immediately began looking for some sort of watering hole. I was dehydrated from my trip to Israel but decided to walk back to my apartment because I hadn’t smoked a cigarette in a full hour and would most certainly need to chain-smoke on my way home. I was a little pissed that even with my new P90X body and the fact that I had pretended to be a nonsmoker, I still couldn’t get laid.

I checked my Grindr one last time that day and had two messages. One was from Ron, telling me I was an asshole for not calling him back the other night, and the other was from a very cute boy named Blake. I was way too hot and aggravated
to respond to either so I put my iPod in and listened to “From the Bottom of My Broken Heart” on repeat. God bless you, Britney Spears.

I refrained from working out for the rest of the week or grinding. Neither were bringing me any joy and I was beginning to feel sick from being hot all the time. That Sunday, I met Ron for our usual brunch.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Ron said as I sat at the table.

“Nothing. Why?” I asked.

“You look like hell,” Ron said.

“If you keep greeting me like that, I’m not meeting you for brunch anymore. Do you just hang out with me to feel better about yourself?” I asked.

Ron laughed. “Of course not. When I say you look like shit I mean you look like you haven’t slept, eaten, or worked out all week.”

“Uh, well that’s better, I guess … I’ve eaten, that’s for sure. I just haven’t been feeling well.”

“Have you been working out?”

“No, my arm has been hurting lately.”

“If it’s tingling you’re probably having a heart attack from all the goddamn cigarettes you’ve been smoking all summer long,” Ron said.

“Jesus, Ron! Don’t you have anything to take the edge off of life?”

“Sex,” Ron deadpanned.

“Right,” I said as I put my face in my menu.

“Listen, Mark,” Ron said as he took a sip from his iced coffee, “I know you’re not feeling well now, but things will get better.”

“Will they, Ron?” I asked. “Will they? Because right now I hate my life—I hate my job. I hate dating and I hate Tony Horton. How the fuck do you suppose things are going to get better?”

I was making a small scene. Everyone in the restaurant was now looking in our general direction.

“You need to relax,” Ron said. “Take the rest of the day off and tomorrow, get back on the P90X and grinding. Try to make an effort. I know you’re not feeling well, but that’s no excuse to stop doing everything.”

“You’re right,” I said. “I do feel like P90X is working, it’s just a pain in the ass. As far as the dating goes—”

Ron interrupted me. “Listen, Mark, as far as the dating goes nothing. I fucked an Egyptian at my gym, a hot-ass Italian waiter who lived in Hell’s Kitchen, and some white guy named Dante last week.”

“Wow, Ron,” I said, “you have your own little Epcot Center thing going on, don’t you?”

“Shut up!” he said. “You’re too hot to not be having sex or dating, so please do something about it!”

“Sure, I’ll do something about it as long as we get dessert after brunch.”