Dating Below Eye Level . . .

Another gem from this weekend's outing to SPLASH BAR.

All three people who read this blog have met me and therefore know that, height-wise, I clock in at a statuesque 5 foot 6 inches.

Being a middle-of-the-road handsome, Gay-Nugget such as myself creates an interesting dynamic when it comes to meeting-and-dating guys those of you LUMBERING above 5'8'' might not be fully aware of. Let me take this opportunity to, ahem, deepen your horizons.

Midway through the night at SPLASH, I am standing on the side of the dance floor alone waiting for my friend to finish his cigarette outside when a guy, who must have been 5'2'' at the most, stands beside me and, in line with completely acceptable, orthodox pick-up protocol asks. . .

"What's your name?"

I turn and smile. The mini-nugget is Latino, of indeterminate age thanks to a characteristic boyishness probably enhanced by the giddying effects of party drugs, 'legitimately cute' by most any reasonable faggot's standards and, if that reasonable faggot is into short dudes, probably "adorable."

"Tony Eats Puppies," I say kind of flattered but inexplicably disinterested. "What's yours?"

"Mini-Nugget!" He says enthusiastically.

I shake his hand and ask him if he is having fun or enjoying the music or some acceptable, civil shit like that. He responds with more, unreciprocated enthusiasm and finally, emboldened by only god knows what says:

"You're a really cute guy!"

I give him a squinty eyed, suspicious look as if to say: "What's all this about, my Lilliputian Lothario?"

He responds to my arched eyebrow as if at once both vexed and solicited: "Do you have a boyfriend?"

"No," I say my eyes still focused on his forehead like a laser beam of pure, concentrated dubiousness.

And then the Oompa Lump says, "Can I be your boyfriend?"

It suddenly occurs to me that Mr. Mini-Nugget is one of those "Short Guys" (of which I am one, this isn't about judgment) who at some crucial point in cognitive development, on some critical psychoanalytic strata of consciousness decided that the secret to living as a "short guy" was to act as if one were "tall" which is to say bold, direct, goal oriented and indomitable.

And I don't hate on this type of thinking. Short guys shouldn't internalize "Height Love" or think themselves less deserving of love or less worthy of ambition than anyone else (at least not on account of their height). And, truth be told, I have fallen for its charms more than once.

But this kind of personality has its trade-offs and draw backs; the enthusiasm and aggression comes at the cost of a sensitivity to the subtler dimensions of certain social situations, and sometimes results in the monomaniacal delusion of the over-achiever that as long as they "do everything right" they can have everything they think they deserve. This kills my boner like no other.

I am silent for a moment, perhaps giving him the impression that I am seriously considering his question-slash-advance - so he asks again, "Can I be your boyfriend?"

I just smile and shake my head 'no.'

"Why?" He croons sweetly.

"I dunno," I shrug. "Kitchen Shelves? Book shelves?" And then, as if I've finally gotten to the crux of the matter, I hold another shrug and say: "SHELVING!"

For the first time Mini-Nugget, looks befuddled and confused.

* * * * *

I don't know whether I feel kind of triumphant because I have finally extinguished Mini-Nugget's cheerleader-like enthusiasm or like a dick because I added the injury of my characteristically oblique clap-trap to the nominal insult of a rejected advance.

"I don't get it," He says. "What does that mean?"

"Because I hope one day to live with my boyfriend in a big, beautiful house with lots of high shelves."

"Yeah, so?" He says.

"Mini-Nugget, if we lived in a big house together, who could reach the high shelves? How would we get all the books and bowls above 5 feet 10 inches from the floor?"

Having got my admittedly bad joke, Mini-Nugget smiles graciously. "We just won't fill the top shelves."

"That's wasted space. Wasted money. And I own a lot of books."

"And I own a lot of bowls." He says. "I guess it really wouldn't work."

"You see!"

"I see!"

We dance together for a little while until my friend comes back from outside. At that point, we separate. I don't see Mini-Nugget until much later in the night . . . .

SPLASH BAR Continues to SHOCK AND APPALL Jaded New York Homosexuals of Ordinary Reason and Taste.

Last night, for reasons too incriminating to publish, I found myself at the bar/dance-club, SPLASH. As it turned out, Stephan Grondin was the DJ presiding over the main dance floor so the music was decidedly more hype than I had any reason to expect, and the crowd more familiar.

But SPLASH was still SPLASH. And, as such, would venture to shock and embarrass me with alarming new mutations of "Hot Gay Mess."

Having lived in New York City for seven years, I would think I have been more or less habituated to "Hot Gay Mess" antics -

I braved the poop on the dance floor at Black Party 2006.
I saw a Hot Gay Mess do a back flip on the dance floor at Alegria and land on a girl half his size.
I was at a roof top party when that other Hot Gay Mess shattered a beer bottle against a wall resulting in flesh wounds for multiple homosexual bystanders after someone called his boyfriend fat.
I've been to David Barton Gym during "rush hour" - a veritable forest of hot gay mess I wouldn't diminish by venturing to describe any single tree. (Vogue-ing in front of the weight rack, really, Faggots?)

That's a lot of 'Hot Gay Mess.' Before last night, I thought myself near shock proof. I was wrong. Last night, endeavoring to wash my hands after having tinkled in SPLASH's bizarro "erotic" urinal trough, I was rendered silent and still with Hot Gay TERROR.

The only double sink was already in use; a tall, thin, dark skinned, faggot wearing a red sleeveless shirt he could only have bought at "BANG BANG" circa 1998 with gerry curled bangs and a long, wet pony tail of black hair was bending his neck to the side so as to ever so daintily dip his pony tail under the running faucet and, with his bony, well manicured fingers, run the water through his hair back down into the sink. Yes, ya'll: FAGGOT WAS WASHING HIS HAIR IN THE SINK AT A CLUB.

Not being one to interrupt Pocahontas washing her hair in the river, I waited till the Indian princess was done before I washed my hands. Though it should go without saying, even after having had two showers since, I couldn't quite get to feeling clean. Inconsolable with post-traumatic-hot mess disorder, I looked to facebook for support and consolation. I only kind of got it.