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We showed up everywhere together, and were treated like the king and king of the prom. If there were aesthetic disparities between the two of us that was even better because it proved my personality was so strong he couldn’t resist me. Instead, I agonized over the split for about a year and then spent another several years coming to terms with the realization that it was the idea of Jim, not the man himself, that broke me.ĭuring our time together I had a guy so physically attractive it could only mean that I was the same-and, therefore, worthy. Our differing philosophies never would have made for lifelong togetherness. Despite our “monogamous” relationship, he slept with other men because he needed to “experiment” with his newfound homosexuality, and he broke up with me one night on the phone (less than a month after asking to move in together), because he’d meditated and decided we were moving in different spiritual directions. He wasn’t much of an actor, and I was damn serious about the craft.
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We met in a show where I played a geeky florist and he played a muscleman who stripped down to his jockstrap with the sole purpose of making audiences swoon and dole over ticket money. Jim, the man I spent a year with in my 30s, fit the Playbill. It might have been less of a joke than I realized. I used to joke that I had a Barbra Streisand- Funny Girl complex, and I needed a gorgeous Nicky Arnstein-type to confirm my worth. The models in the GQ magazines I hoarded told me being “perfect” meant looking perfect, and after I got older and realized that, no matter how much weight I lost or muscle I gained, I didn’t have those exact features, I decided that getting a man who did was the next best thing. I grew up overweight and unpopular, and, like so many other gay kids, dreaming of a world where the high school jocks would fawn over me. The origin of this trait is one for the therapist’s couch, but the end result is that I’ve also allowed men to take advantage of me, transforming my otherwise confident self into a pile of door-matted mush.įor the record, a lot of extremely sexy men I’ve had relationships with were great guys, and I’ve been in close relationships with men who didn’t initially ignite my hormones. My adoration of Ken wasn’t exactly deep.Įver since my twenties, I’ve sought out male partners more conventionally attractive than I am, for the simple (and complex) reason that they confirm my own aesthetic worth. That he was 16 years younger than I am was icing on the cake. I told friends at a party about him and hoped they were one of his zillion Instagram followers. When a friend looked at his pictures, he said, “He takes my breath away,” and then sulked over his latest fling. If he’d been less-than-stellar-looking, I’d have laughed about all the time I was wasting pursuing him.īut here’s the thing: After I met Ken, I was ready to take on the world by showing him off.
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There’s nothing unusual about dates going sour the ghosting way, but there is something unusual about my reaction: I regretted being upfront with Ken and wished I’d allowed him to be a flake until he (hopefully) rescheduled the date. He responded by blocking my phone and nixing me on Facebook. After he didn’t RSVP to a long-scheduled date that he set up, I called him on it via text. Soon, he’d stop texting mid-sentence while we were making plans, then I’d get an adorable message from him a couple days later, and the pattern would repeat.
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After our first great date, Ken’s messages were full of urgent pleas to meet and compliments galore-until they weren’t. He gave me his number and we met within a week. When he introduced himself on the site, my first thought was that it was a fake profile-his photos looked like they were pulled out of Athletic Stud Monthly, shirtless on a boat, tuxedoed at a party, Fashion Week-ready on a New York avenue. I remember swiping right and thinking, Yeah, right, like I’d ever get that. The moment Ken and I matched on Tinder I was smitten, and surprised.