Stalkin’ with the Blogstalker
I finally got to meet the Everlasting Blogstalker last night. You just know there’s gonna be a plethora of blogging words about this, because after all, we’re talking about two of the most verbose guys on the gay blogging circuit. But I’ll try to omit needless words. Let’s just see if I can do this.
Oh, too late.
At 9:30 I stopped by his apartment, which is a stone’s throw from the center of the universe. I met the incredibly cute Dex and Molly. Much licking occurred — from Dex and Molly. Then we left for dinner — without Dex and Molly, although Molly tried her damnedest to squeeze her head through the doorway before Blogstalker could shut the door.
Dinner was cheap sushi a few blocks away in Hell’s Kitchen. I didn’t know it was possible to find sushi that cheap. For just under eight bucks I managed to stuff myself. We talked and talked, and I have to say, Blogstalker is one of the nicest, sweetest, coolest, most generous guys I’ve met in a while.
After dinner we went to Barrage, a gay bar several blocks from the restaurant. Nice atmosphere — no Chelsea ‘tude, and more clean-cut and less grungy than the East Village. I was wearing my miami-sky-blue-colored Gap ringer tee, and I noticed in shame and embarrassment that two other guys were wearing the exact same shirt in the exact same color. Oh, the horror.
The bar was in Blogstalker’s neighborhood, so it was inevitable that he’d know some of the patrons. At first he was surprised not to recognize anyone, but then more people showed up. I wound up in a circle with Blogstalker and three other guys. One asked me, “So, how do you two know each other?” I paused, fishing for an answer that wouldn’t require a chapter and a half of explanation, and I finally settled on, “Oh, we have some mutual friends.” That seemed to satisfy him. They all dished about the theater while I drank my beer and looked from face to face and smiled and nodded and tried to keep up. I was proud of myself for knowing who Park Overall was. You know, I used to be such a theater hound, but these days I just can’t afford it. It would be fun to get back into it again.
At one point Blogstalker spotted a guy he knew, a guy whom he thought was my type. It was the roommate of a friend of his; he was of moderate height, dark blond hair, slim, a goatee on his chin. He certainly didn’t look too bad. Eventually I decided I was interested, so Blogstalker brought me along to meet him. We talked for a few minutes, and — in what can only be considered a crazy, crazy plot twist — it turned out that not only had he gone to my school, the University of Virginia — which would have been cool enough — but on top of that, we’d been in the same frickin’ graduating class. He’d wound up leaving UVA after two years in order to study hotel management at Virginia Tech, but he fondly remembered his days at UVA. As we continued to talk, Blogstalker somehow snuck away, presumably with a smile on his face and a feeling of Yenta-ish satisfaction in his heart.
The guy and I wound up sitting down and talking. We turned out to know several of the same people, and we waxed rhapsodically about the Rotunda and the Lawn and UVA and Charlottesville. He had beautiful blue eyes and these little tight biceps. At one point Blogstalker came over to say goodbye (he had to get up early in the morning), and after he left, the conversation continued. I don’t know if we’d have had anything to talk about if not for the UVA connection, and as the hour grew late, I wondered if this was going to go anywhere. He did live around the corner, after all.
It was approaching 2:00, and our conversation seemed to be running out of gas. There’d be a long pause, and then one or the other of us would bring up something else UVA-related, and after a couple of minutes there’d be a long pause again. I couldn’t quite figure out what was happening, because we were running out of topics and the bar was beginning to empty and he was occasionally looking at his watch and yawning, yet he wasn’t making any motions to go home. On the other hand, he wasn’t getting any closer to inviting me over, either. It was like he wanted to call it a night, but he wanted me to leave first. He kept looking over at this other guy, standing alone against a wall, but he said it was his roommate. I don’t quite know what was going on.
Eventually he asked how I’d get home to Jersey City, and I told him I’d take the subway to the PATH train. We talked for a little bit about how close the 42nd Street station was to his apartment. Then he said, sort of sleepily, “Well, anyway, you can pretty much catch any train from there if you want.” O-kay! I get your signal, loud and clear. So after a pause, I slowly, casually looked at my watch. “Well, I guess it’s about time for me to head out,” I said. “Okay — it was nice meeting you,” he said, and he gave me a little hug, and I left.
Walking along the streets to the 42nd Street station, in my khaki pants and my blue ringer t-shirt, I thought to myself, yup, the gods haven’t changed their minds. Tin Man, thou shalt not have the pleasure of going home with someone you meet at a bar.