The Gay Bridget Jones

A gay man’s entry into his Jones’ diary

 

Think Bridget Jones was neurotic? Please. You’ve seen her diary. Take a look at mine:

Hours obsessing about meeting Mr. Right: Four. Hours obsessing about Mr. Tonight: Two. Anxiety Level: Breaking through earth’s gravitational pull.

10:05 p.m. All right. That’s it. I refuse to spend another goddam minute in front of this mirror. Look, I know I’m no Greek God, but I’m not half bad. Shiny green eyes, jet black hair. But, ugh, those curls, tight against my head. I’ll never meet anybody worthwhile with curly hair. Worthy people want hair that moves when you turn your head.

I don’t understand why I’m always alone. I’m 6’2”, got a 32-inch waist, abs to die for, and a big cock and yet….whoa, whoa, whoa. How’d that get in there? I don’t have washboard abs, who am I kidding?

Alright, so you can’t grate a block of Parmesan on my stomach. Big deal. But it is flat. And it’s not like if I don’t sort of turn and tuck at the same time you can’t make out my stomach muscles. Which I do every chance I get at pool parties.

Anyway, here’s the bottom line: I’m not “hot.” I know it. I’m, I don’t know, warm.

10:15 p.m. Shit! This is ridiculous. I’m just stalling. I’m late and Gary’s outside honking the horn. I hate the bars. Why do I keep going? I loathe how shallow the gay world is, but here I am primping for it.

Listen to me— like I don’t know why I drag my ass to the bars three nights a week. Alright, four. Okay, five. Because I have one thought banging around my brain all day: “Maybe I’ll meet somebody tonight.”

I’m pathetic. Pathetically late, too. Oh, screw Gary; I’ve waited plenty for him. I’m telling you if I had straight hair I’d get laid more often. I gotta get rid of the curls, straighten my hair and make it move in slow motion.

Of course, Gary thinks I can’t hook a boyfriend because of my “eyebrow.” Refuses to use the plural form of the word. Comes at me with tweezers all the time. Wants to pluck the thin part where they meet. I thought best friends were supposed to accept you exactly the way you are?

Why am I obsessing so much about how I look? Most people would rank me an “8” on a scale of one to ten.

Okay, a “Seven.”

Alright, a “Six.”

No, I’m probably a “7 1/2” because when I take home “5’s” or “6’s” I feel like I’m slumming. You know, the way the “9’s” and “10’s” feel when I get them drunk enough to go home with me.

God, if the gay world is three feet deep I can’t be more than a foot and half.

10:25 p.m. Gary’s at the door. Mad that I made him wait. I calm him with a shot of Absolut Citron. He’s back to his playful mode but his gaze creeps up, like it usually does, to my eyebrow.

“Stop it,” I said.

“Come on, let me pluck it.”

“No.”

“I’m telling you it’s the reason you don’t have a boyfriend.”

2:00 a.m. Gary just pushed me away because I was apparently jamming his cruising mojo. “Can’t you see I’m working here?” he hissed. He’s the best friend you’ll ever have—until 2:00 a.m. After that he’s strictly business.

2:15 a.m. Standing alone. My neuroticism goes into full bloom. *“Don’t hunch like that,”I think to myself. * “Nobody wants a huncher. Stand up straighter. There, better. Watch out for the “pelvic dump!” If you don’t keep your hips level your stomach’ll pooch out. See if anybody goes home with you then. Quit looking so alone. Smile and pretend you see someone. Pretend you have lots of friends and they’re at the bar getting you a drink. Watch that pelvic dump!

3:10 a.m. Looks I’ve gotten from guys I was attracted to: Two. Looks I got from guys I wasn’t attracted to: Eighteen.

3:30 a.m. Disaster. The only two guys I was attracted to went home together. Ended up at home searching for gay porn.

Next Day. Work. 4:45 p.m. Hours squandered thinking about the boyfriend I don’t have: Three. Hours tormented about staying in tonight or going out to meet the boyfriend I don’t have: Four.

5:00 p.m. Gary called. Wanted to know what time he should pick me up to go to the bars. I said, “I’m taking a break from the bars. They’re just not working for me.”

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll pick you up at ten o’clock.”

“Are you deaf?” I asked. “I said I’m taking a break. I can’t possibly be ready before eleven.”

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