I’m From Cincinnati, OH.

by Lee Clayton

State Satellite overhead image from Google Earth 2022

So wow, I meet this guy on Facebook, the bane of gay dating. Actually, he meets me on FB. I have never met this guy before and he somehow finds me and adds me. I check out his pictures and none of them are definitive. In fact, one of them is down right sleazy. Who is this? It’s funny because that very same day I’m checking out porn online (which happens from time to time) and come across some photos that I would swear are him. Now I’m thinking this kinda sleazy porn actor from Facebook is cruising me. Oh my.

I think we chat back and forth a few times, mostly he is just trying to ask me out, which in the end he does. He invites me over to his place in the East Village for some drinks on the roof. Sounds simple enough right, right? Well it’s not.

So the day comes when we are supposed to meet. About a half hour before I am supposed to go over, he text messages me to pick up some beer, Prosecco, something to drink. So I grab some beers outta the fridge and head out. Just then I get another text. This time he is telling me to wait. He has to take a friend outside and say goodbye. Huh? I go back inside and turn on “30 Rock.” Love “30 Rock.” While I am waiting I decide to text him.

“What planet do you live on?”


Hmm. Okay.

So we decide to meet despite my rude question. I reluctantly turn off “30 Rock” and get ready to go all over again. I’m headed over, which is about a five minute walk, and text him that I am on my way. No response. I call and leave message. No response. I text him that I’m here. No response.

At this point I’m frankly just curious who this person is. I want to know who makes such an easy encounter so complicated and difficult. What kind of a person makes a new contact, seeks him out, invites him to an outing then flakes out? Who is he saying goodbye to that he does not want me around for? Who?

It’s gay dating in New York.
It’s dating in New York.
It’s New York.

Fifteen minutes later I’m sitting in front of his apartment waiting. He calls and says he is running late and will be there in five minutes. Wait, I thought we just agreed that I was coming over to meet him and that he was home. I guess he had to run somewhere. Don’t know. By now I am laughing, partly because I am still waiting, and partly because I am that pathetic to wait. This guy is right up there with the best flakes I have ever met. He is what Chris would call a fabulous flake. If New York was a cereal, it would be corn flakes for sure.

I am sitting there on his stairs writing my first piece of memoirs on this and up walks this kid, this gorgeous blonde kid. He walks up and asks what I’m doing. Really? He is wondering why I am sitting on his doorstep? We go inside, up the stairs, into a beautiful evening of city lights and light spring breezes.

It’s a little chilly so he gives me his jacket. We sit and talk and I soon realize that this young man has never asked anyone out before. He is so totally nervous and sweet he almost stutters his responses to my light conversation. We open some beers, lay down on the roof and look at the stars. When was the last time you looked up at the stars with someone? Slowly and with such painful trepidation he takes my hand and holds it with such wonder. I am in total disbelief; he is in total rapture.

We sit for an hour or two and talk. I can tell he wants to kiss, so do I. We don’t. He thanks me for coming over, and I him for inviting me. I give him his jacket back, say goodnight and walk out the door. It’s a delightful walk home for me. I get a text saying: “It’s ok if you’re not into me.”

Months later I get another invite from him. This time he wants to come to my place, which I can tell is not to sit on the patio. He is a hot lay actually. He is almost a top. We have our little romp and roll in the sheets. One thing is different this time. He is no longer bashful or shy. He wants to fuck and no longer bothers holding my hand. I guess that’s how it goes in New York City. He has become what we call a city boy: straight to the point.

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