So: I’m painting the town lavender when I meet an attractive guy at a swanky gay bar on the East Coast. He’s also traveling for work and kind of looks like a surfer in a business suit (how hot is that?); better yet, he’s flirting up a storm: buying me drinks, checking to make sure I don’t disappear during the necessary potty breaks, etc. After about an hour — and at about 1 a.m. — he suggests we “go for a walk,” and I’m thinking this is my lucky night. Lo and behold, our walk “accidentally” concludes at his hotel and he invites me up to his room. After a brief romantic interlude involving light-dimming and breath mints, he tears off my jacket, unbuckles my belt, and yanks down my pants to begin some heavy-duty fondling.
Simultaneously, I tear off his shirt, revealing his brawny man-pects and confirming my general suspicions about his gloriousness. At which point he suddenly stops and says, “I’m sorry; I just can’t do this.”
I was like “Whaaaa? We are doing this!” But Mr. Business Suit explained in a rambling, chaotic monologue that he was bisexual, that he was propelled by random urges, and that he just couldn’t go through with it. Mat, I literally had my pants around my ankles. He assured me that his reluctance had nothing to do with me personally, but that’s difficult to accept when you’re standing there with a woody.
In what had to be the most mortifying moment of my post-pubescent years, I slowly picked up my jeans — my boner, of course, had evaporated during the soliloquy — and attempted to salvage my dignity by pretending like this was some perfectly normal situation: I actually wished him good luck on his business meetings the next day (I still cringe at the recollection).
Obviously, the guy was married or tortured or something, but didn’t I have a right to be angry? He could have stopped the encounter at any point up until the hotel room. Isn’t there some sort of implicit social contract that when someone starts fondling your foreskin the encounter needs to go out with a bang? What’s the proper response?
— Still mortified in SA
Dear Mr. Mortified,
Clearly Mr. Hottie Surfer in a Suit is tortured and probably married, maybe even a dad. I am guessing that you must be some sort of a catch to tempt his ultra-fine confused soul, so you should not be mortified. Count your blessings. Do you really want a conflicted married father of three notch on your bedpost? Trust me, the answer here is no. This is a fine example of stranger danger and more common than you would expect.
If your timeline is accurate, he most likely was still objectifying you as a fantasy object till you removed his clothes. Leave it to a guy to have someone else’s dick in his hand and not realize he is about to have gay sex. Still, he was not obliged to follow through. You might consider asking the next hottie offering free drinks and late-night walks if he’s gay before you drop your drawers. Horny men are like books and their covers.
Should you be angry? Sure, and definitely disappointed, but know that he might have been more humiliated than you. This is an unpleasant reminder of how lucky you and I are to be comfortable with our sexuality and leading lives that are not complicated exceedingly by our libidos.
Your embarrassing and awkward exit was both kind and generous. Many men would have pushed or even groveled in an attempt to consummate the tryst. I don’t think you would have been out of line to calmly express your disappointment and even a slight admonishment for leading you on: “Please try to remember to leave the next guy at the bar.” I think you might also have wished him luck with his dick in addition to his meetings.
But walk tall. You handled it well and salvaged your dignity and, inadvertently, his — whether you feel he deserves it or not. Your consolation prize is knowing that you are a gentleman (possibly a little easy and naïve, but still a gentleman.)
Much love and a little more follow through,
Your Uncle Mat
Dear Hot Tortured Bi Dudes,
Stop pissing off the nice horny gay dudes.
— Uncle Mat