Flakes and Flecks

Dating has always been a trouble spot for me. Here's another classic date gone awry from a while back.

I met this handsome fella through an online dating site—let's call him Derek. We chatted for a while, emailed a bit, texted and sexted—the usual gay courting ritual. Until the time finally came to meet in person. The night we were going to meet downtown, my dog gets explosive, bloody, gut-wrenching diarrhea. It's everywhere. It's horrible. It looks like Dexter has been all over my house killing killers. I'm not leaving my dog alone and coming back to more of this. I'm cancelling.

I cancel.

Derek responds with "R U A Flake?"

FLAKE. A dreaded word in the gay world. It means you're a game-player. Not serious about dating. Word gets out (we are a people who gossip) and you get blacklisted.

I call him to explain. He doesn't pick up. I don't leave a voicemail because—who leaves voicemails?

I now have to text a full explanation without sounding gross. I tip toe around the scenery and just say my dog is ill and I need to stay in tonight so I can walk him often and get him on a sensitive stomach diet of chicken and rice. Derek doesn't like dogs and doesn't understand what's happening and thinks I'm making this whole thing up. But, to his credit, he says "K. Fine. Tmrw?"

"Tomorrow." I reply.

It's tomorrow.

I wake up ill. Like horribly, disgustingly ill. I've been up most of the night walking the dog every few hours. When I finally arise for good, my nose is dripping, my eyes are puffy, my throat feels like I've been gargling with razor blades, I can hardly breathe and instead of speaking I'm only able to croak and squeak bits of words. I have to cancel.

"FLAKE" goes through my head. I'm sweating. What do I do? It's not like he'd want to see me like this as a first impression. I could get him sick. I can't eat anything. Maybe soup. But I'm so tired. I could collapse and drown in my soup. Right in front of him. But I wouldn't be a flake. Flake wouldn't be on my tombstone. I would die with honor. In soup.

All day, instead of getting rest, I'm continuing to walk my somewhat-sick dog and worrying about what to do. Do I cancel? Do I go? Do I say anything?

Shit.

It's time to get ready. I get ready. I look revolting. Paler than even normal. Eye bags. Red eyes. Dripping, red nose. I don't have a deeper, sexier, husky "sick voice" but instead a shrill, squeaking whine. Everything is wrong. I just want to crawl into bed. I hate Derek for putting me in this position. I hate that because half of all gays genuinely ARE flakes, I have to go on a death-bed date. I feel completely forced into this date. I'm being date raped. And now I'm so resentful of Derek that I want to cancel for a different reason. But no, I suck it up. Let's get this spite date over with.

I stuff every pocket I possess full of tissues, and leave the house.

I arrive 5 minutes late at the restaurant and he is already seated.

He looks great. I look heinous. He looks well rested, well dressed and chipper. I look like I just crawled out from under a toll bridge.

He stands up and gives me a hug. My nose drips on the collar of his pressed shirt. I cough in his ear.

Good start, champ.

Derek is sweet. Throughout dinner he actually feigns interest in me despite my appearance. He asks thoughtful and interesting questions. And, because my throat is so sore and I'm trying to avoid talking, I give terse, abrupt answers. More phlegm than response, really. I try turning the questions around on him. Keep him talking. Keep me quiet.

He answers with ease and finesse. He's actually interesting. He's a financial advisor but it's not his life. He's creative and crafty. He's also a woodworker and a handyman. How sexy is that?

I excuse myself to the bathroom. I can't take another second of sniffling through my nose, trying to keep the river of snot behind a flimsy dam. I need to blow my swollen red schnoz in private. The sounds aren't gonna be pretty and even I know the table is inappropriate.

I let loose in the men's room. I'm more disgusting than the guy who is clearly lactose intolerant in the back stall. He makes a quick exit when my nose begins to roar—king of the bathroom. I'm glad the fearful peasants have fled. For now I am out of tissues and resort to toilet paper from the stalls. It shreds and tears as I make a dog's dinner of it. But, for a brief moment, I can breathe through a narrow hole in one nostril. Ahhhh. That feels good.

I wash my hands thoroughly. I don't dare look in the mirror. I already know it's fifteen miles of bad road looking back. I don't need even less of an appetite.

I return to the table. Dinner has arrived. I ordered the smallest thing I could. Hopefully eating like a bird and looking pale makes me look thin and mysterious. I go to dig in and I notice Derek giving me a weird look across the table.

"What?" I croak. "Do I have a bat in the cave?" I dab what I assume is a runaway booger with my napkin. I'm past embarrassment at this point.

"No, it's not that." He sort of stammers.

"Well what is it?"

"You uh...I didn't know..." He sort of whispers.

"you didn't know what?!" I ask far more high-pitched and shrilly than intended. My voice cracking like a pubescent teen.

"That you were into that stuff." He says very conspiratorially.

I sort of sit there with my mouth agape. What's happening?

"Can I try?" He asks real quiet.

"Try what?" I try to match his tone...thinking maybe he's building up to some sort of inside joke.

"I'm into it." He whispers. "It's cool. You don't have to worry."

"I'm nothing but worried at the moment." I say flatly. "I don't know what's going on."

"Oh come on, share with me." He says.

"I...Is there..." I stammer "Do you want some of my soup?" I pass it over to him.

He pushes it back and shakes his head. He points to his nose and sniffs.

"Ohhhh." I say. "Sorry, but I'm out of tissues."

"No man. Your coke." He says with a sly smile.

"This is iced tea." I say, pointing to my drink.

Now he's getting mad. And I'm oblivious to the painfully obvious. I'm also very tired, and very dumb.

He takes his straw out of his drink, sticks it to his nose, and sniffs through it, looking at me. He's just done an imaginary line of cocaine.

I reach up to rub my nose and see little flecks and flakes of toilet paper falling away.

Jesus Christ.

"Oh. It's not what you think!" I say louder than I think—my ears as clogged as my nose. I start to ramble. "I'm sick and I'm on Dayquil and Nyquil and I ran out of tissues and the paper was sticky and I have the sniffles and the red nose from wiping and blowing and it hurts and it's not drugs. I wouldn't even know what to do with drugs. I mean I have smoked pot before but who hasn't? I can't breathe anyways even if I had some to sniff or to share. If I did, you could have all of it, I promise!"

He's stunned. I've gone from pale to as red as my nose. Several tables are blatantly listening and watching this unfold.

He leaves a handful of cash on the table and leaves without another word.

I want to shout something clever, like "Now who's the flake, asshole?!" but I have a coughing fit instead.

I take the mostly uneaten meal home and sleep for almost 12 hours. I'm surprised to have a text from Derek when I wake up.

"URA F*k'n idiot dude."

I want to be nasty back. I want to place all the blame on him for making me feel like it was date or die. But the only one that made me feel that way was me. I caved to peer pressure from someone I had never even met. I am an idiot.

So instead all I respond with is "URITE."