Hump Day

On Wednesday Night I take the 7 train to Queens. Most Manhattanites I know refrain from traveling to the other “New York,” but I am a good friend. Erika, who lives with her husband in Sunnyside, and I take turns lest one of us feel used. Tonight, Wednesday, she has planned a dinner of Baked Ziti and a fix up with Chris, a single, straight, and employed piano player. Please with all that is good and decent in this universe let him be straight.

I am a Never Been Kissed perennial fag hag. Sure, I’ve been kissed. My sister touches her cheeks to mine after a two count hug; mom and Dad give me pecks of parental love. My platonic gay husband bear hugs me and drives his lips to my forehead. My best friend envelopes me, kissing both sides of my face and finishing with a platonic smooch on the kisser. Random Bar Guys 1-5 buy me a drink at eleven and by one am we are sucking face, his mouth tasting like beer and cigarettes, his tongue probing like a snake desperate for life. I respond with my own Cuervo induced starvation. Later, I deny him knowing that laying together would bring self hatred by morning.

Yes, I’ve been kissed. I’ve never had a kiss fueled by love and mutual passion. I’m 37, I want a soulmate. However, the path to coupling, for me, is beset with strife.


My venture into Internet dating demanded many hours translating my being into text and produced three pre-dates. The pre-date occurs when both parties have enough of the emailing and decide that a face to face is in order. I take them to my coffee shop where we vacillate between silent tension and feigned interest. And there are polite men, instead of slobbering on me, they ask for a kiss at the subway. Did you guys lose the memo I sent? “No kissing on the Pre-date” No first dates followed; I’ll cuddle my dog before making a relationship out of mediocre chemistry. Do I have to go to a church and risk spontaneous combustion to find a man willing to talk a while?

So I get to my friend’s place and meet Chris, the piano player. He’s polite, smart and taller only by an inch or so. I like his torso: it’s square and stolid. We drink wine and eat pasta and talk camping and he makes mention that we are dressed alike-black shirt and blue jeans. He likes hiking and camping. Jackpot! The mental checklist- good vocabulary, likes sci fi, spiritual not religious- has not been deployed. Are we just talking and not trying? Get the smelling salts stat! He pours more wine. Put the wine down and ask for a diet coke, but Erika doesn’t have diet coke. He agrees with me about something, we laugh. Three hours later we are strolling down 46th street.

“Hey, I think we passed Greenpoint avenue.” I say.

“I’m going to walk you to the subway,” he says.

He asked for my digits at the subway and hugged me, easy and sweet. I knew, however, that he would not call-the magic was missing. I kiss his cheek, climb the steps where I wait for the seven train to return me to my island of singledom.