Stop in the Name of Love

It had been a long, long time since I’d been out on a date.  Oh sure, there were the occasional meetings with “the Stripper” or “the Tooth Fairy”, a dentist who I’d seen for a few weeks, but this was official; I was on a date.  My friend Shawn had thought long and hard about whom to leave me to when he packed up and left Connecticut in pursuit of a new adventure in the Land of Oz, no not Oz but Fargo, North Dakota.

Shawn and I have grown like seedlings into close friends.  We enjoy each other’s company immensely, share a lot of humor, and I find multitudes of material for my writing when we are together.  He has helped me to understand the good in myself and shared my journey of expression with great support.  Off to Fargo, the winter wonderland, Shawn went and I was left to my own devices.

Apparently I’d made an impression on one of Shawn’s friends while we were gathered at our Sunday evening “watering hole”, 168 York Street Cafe, sharing a good time. On the barstool next to me sat a cliche.  Oh he was handsome enough, probably more so ten years earlier, but made quite a lasting impression in my mind.  His shoes, as he pointedly told me, were crafted from pony and his jacket was awash with decorative embellishment that made most of my clothes pale by comparison.  He wouldn't stop talking, bending my ear until I thought it would fold up into a small package and retreat within itself. My only choice was to simply stop listening.

I noticed Shawn's friend Rob glancing in my direction but he was engaged in conversation with his own friends. Oddly enough I’d been introduced to his friend on more than several occasions but it seemed he never quite remembered who I was.   I simply chalked it up to my extraordinary talent for being invisible in a crowd.  My cell phone rang the next day.

“Guess who’s very interested in you?”

 I couldn’t imagine but was thinking it may have been the pompous guy I’d been speaking to with the beautiful shoes who claimed to have danced with Madonna.

“Don’t tell me, let me guess, Madonna’s friend?”

“Oh honey, no,  it’s Rob.  He was asking a lot of questions about you.”

I was puzzled.  Here was a man I’d met on multiple occasions who didn’t exude even the slightest inkling of interest and now he was asking questions about me.  I was unsure about the situation, not to mention he bore the same first name as my ‘ex’.

“Really? He’s met me like a dozen times and never knows who I am.”

“I know, I told him that.  Something about you made an impression.” Knowing Shawn I could see the signature raising of his hands and shrugging of his shoulders in a “who knew” kind of manner. Again, I was curious about what made me stand out on that particular night.

“Give him my number." We'll see if that call comes down the pike.

Days passed without a call and I decided my impression had not been as powerful as Shawn had led me to believe.  Mental note: My self esteem wasn’t up to making the call myself. It was a poignant moment.  I also knew deep down what my getting to know someone else equated. My relationship with Robert was truly coming to a turning point.

I found myself in Rob, the “new” Rob’s, company one night and he came toward me to say hello.  It was not a chance meeting, Shawn had orchestrated it.  I looked my potential date up and down sizing up what I saw.  He was tall, attractive and very lanky, with closely cropped dark hair and a goatee.  His eyes were particularly expressive. His looks vaguely reminded me of a former love. It frightened me to think of the similarity.

With an air of respect he asked if he could call me for a date.   “Yes, you may.”  We set the time and the place. He was considerate of my preference and made a point to reserve enough time for me to relax after work without having to run out the door.  There was a strong positive in this man’s actions. There too is a strong positive in me. We would discuss that at a later date.

“What to wear?”  I stared into my closet and it seemed to stare back at me.  I didn’t want to appear too sensual, but conservative is not my middle name.  There was only one thing to do.

“Jeans or dress pants?”  I put the question to Shawn.

“Honey, jeans of course, and make them the new ones you bought that make your ass look so good.”  You can always count on Shawn for a lift, even a butt lift.

I packed myself into my jeans and opened my shirt just far enough to show a little "cleavage.”  Hell, I work hard for whatever I may have and my surgeon did too.  I made sure to time it so tardiness, which is my middle name, would not be an issue. There is nothing worse than being ‘first date late’.

He arrived promptly and was impressed with my punctuality. I’ll have to work on that point in the future.  Our conversation began and went smoothly along.  I learned that he and I had much in common.  Oddly, the common denominators were powerful. Our humor, tinged with a perverse quality was in simpatico. Here was a man who was at a point in his life where he understood my thoughts; it was refreshing.

I noted, with subtle awareness, that my date had a little stutter when he spoke.  As I listened to him I was enchanted. I wanted to give him a hug each time it happened but instead he got a smile.  Across from me was someone with a minor imperfection which to me was extraordinarily endearing.

“I was the Jewish kid with the big curly hair, buck teeth and stuttered in school.  I guess you never lose what you grow up with.”  He was comfortable enough to confide in me.

“I think your stutter is cute.” I wasn’t lying. 

  I found this man warm and adorable.  He reminds me of the kid who may have been picked on in school, as was I, but has grown away from that fact and rolls with it.  He reminds me how very aware of I am of my own imperfections and cautious to not let them surface.  But Shawn started me thinking about another point.

“Isn’t it funny that what we see as imperfections in ourselves others find attractive?”

  It’s true, I can’t lie. I am attracted to that little stutter that makes Rob an imperfect man. It makes me curious to think that in striving for perfection we overlook the simplest of points; perfection is in the eye of the beholder. What is unattractive to us may be very attractive to others.

To my horror I stumble when in a group of unfamiliar people.  Maybe to someone, who is looking for a quiet, caring man, my shyness is an attractive quality. I am learning what my strengths and weaknesses are while embracing what is longing in my soul and what bears no interest to me.

Perfection can be one of the greatest factors that make relationships fail. True, all relationships have many factors which may rock their foundation but perfection in particular took a strong toll on my former partner and me. It had to be the perfect house, set in the perfect neighborhood with the most perfect landscape as far as the eye could see.  It had to be decorated with a Gay man's point of view of course. If a single object was out of place he would put it where it belonged only to have me following close at heel and adjusting it ever so slightly. He would look back quizically.  I had to fix it, right? It wasn't comfortable to the eye where it was positioned.

Without question I don’t want to spend my life going to bars.  I don’t want to “do drugs” or “hook up”.  I simply want to share my life and thoughts, the highs and the lows, with someone who cares. Verbally I may not stutter but inwardly I do. It would be a lie to say that most of us don’t in some way.  It doesn’t matter if you stammer, are shy or are whatever you may deem as a flaw, someone will find your imperfection attractive.  So when you become self conscious remember to “st-st-stop in the name of love”. You’ll be delighted to know your imperfection may well be quite enchanting.