The Last Move

It’s a well-known rule in my code of conduct that I will never make the first move. Not because I’m afraid of rejection; not because I don’t have anything to say; not because I get easily intimidated.

Maybe it has to do with the fact that, believe it or not, I’m a pretty shy guy, especially around a very particular breed of guys, whom I refer to as “beat skippers.”

Yes, I can usually muster up enough bravado to strike up a lively conversation with a bunch of strangers. But with those certain boys that make my heart skip a beat, it’s a completely different story. When it comes to interacting with potential bedmates, I tend to freeze rather than flirt.

Besides, I’m not the type of guy who walks up to you at the club with the sole intention of taking you home. Transparent is the one color that you won’t find in my stylebook. If anything, for me, the giant dance dens of New York are platonic spaces where most of the time is spent bumping into old friends and making new ones, with a few scattered breaks to savor the eye candy, of course. Not to mention that nothing screams desperate like scanning the floor for unsuspecting victims, and nothing whispers great catch like dancing like you just don’t care.

So here I am, at Sugarland in Brooklyn, on a Saturday night, standing by the bar, swirling the ice in my drink with my straw and looking at this guy that just walked by. Dark complexion, scruffy beard, a hard jaw, and my heart just skipped a beat. He seems like a cocky fellow, someone difficult to impress. I know that if I go up to him now, like a missile zooming in straight towards its target, the only thing that will go up in flames will be my ego. So I consider taking a more subtle approach.

He’s talking to some friends by the stage, so I grab a few of mine and suggest we relocate from the bar to the dancefloor, not far from Skipper. I don’t subscribe to the whole fixating-gaze-leads-to-sex mating ritual, mostly because I feel like it’s fucking creepy and would be just as subtle as shooting a wide-eyed Bambi with a rifle and carrying the body back to my lair. I know that place has a reputation for being kind of lax when it comes to getting crazy, but I’m pretty sure that the Sugarland management and staff would not stand for that shit.

“Do you guys want a shot for a dollar? It’s bright, bright purple and comes in a test tube—OH MY GOD, YOU’VE KILLED BAMBI!”

So just think about it: every time you give the stare down treatment to an innocent cutie at the club… it’s like you’re shooting Bambi all over again. Most importantly, the cutie immediately files you in the Dahmer/Dead Disney/Date Rape drawer. A very difficult drawer to get out of, I’d say.

What is this post even about? Oh yeah… so the Ting Tings come on, and I’m dancing in front of Skipper, trying to get him to notice me. We’re so close, I could take a step back and we’d be grinding. Once in a while, I make sure to unceremoniously brush my arm up against his torso. Did he? Didn’t he? Yes, I did. I get pure satisfaction out of causing a commotion and drawing the attention of the crowd, so this doesn’t seem particularly shameless.

What comes next does. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Skipper head upstairs to the outdoor patio to smoke a cigarette. Of course! I have been trying to quit smoking but… fuck it! I follow him by myself this time, and realize that, no I have not quit smoking cigarettes; I’ve just quit buying them.

I linger on the outskirts of Skipper’s conversation for a minute and then randomly bust in to the half circle of friends to ask if anyone’s got an extra cigarette. Their apologetic expressions break the bad news. It’s ok; I wouldn’t give me a cigarette either. Besides, I’m not really out there for a smoke break. I figure that if I’m not going to make the first move, my best bet is to carefully situate myself within Skipper’s frame at various moments throughout the night, and making it seem like I’m not stalking him by playing it all up to be just mere coincidence. Like it’s meant to happen, caught in each other’s radars.

All right… yeah, basically, I’m throwing myself at him.

Out on the Sugarland patio, he looks at me, and I’m not sure if he’s intrigued or disgusted. Either way, I feel unbearably transparent. Then he reaches deep inside his messenger bag, probably trying to dig up the last remains of my dignity? No… a pack of Parliaments!

“Oh, do you have a light too?” I say delighted but interrupting the conversation yet again.

“What? Do you want me to smoke it for you too?” He says with a childish sneer and reaching into his pocket for a lighter. The teasing gives my hopes one last thrust. But right after I finish lighting the cigarette, I notice that their smoke break is over and he’s making his way back inside.

“We’ll be down by the dancefloor,” he says, taking my hand in his when taking back his lighter. I stay out there and finish the entire cigarette, giving him just enough time to take my file out of the stalker drawer.

After I’m finally done, I step back inside still adamant about not breaking the first move rule, but at this point, I’m more than ready to make the second, third, fourth and fifth.

Skipper is standing by the door with his friends, looking around. Is he looking for me? I look around. Where did my friends go? Is he going to make a move? Or is he just going to go?

As I walk down the stairs back to the foggy dancefloor, I start to think: What if Skipper has a first move rule too? What if he’s just waiting for that great guy to notice him on the dancefloor and come say hello? What if we’re all like that? Waiting for that touch, that gaze, that cigarette that will break the silence and form a lasting bridge.

It’s last call. I shouldn’t keep focusing on who approaches whom, who is the predator and who is the prey, who is worthy of the attention and who deserves better. There’s something surprisingly empowering about wearing our hearts on our sleeves and hoping for safe landing.

Maybe I should just start walking in his direction. Not think about what I’m going to say. Not worry about coming off transparent, silly, desperate or drunk (or all of the above). Because I can assume all night long, but I’ll never really know his side unless I ask.

Sometimes, we forget that going out should be about having a good time, not about proving you can find a tipsy guy that will let you shove your tongue down his throat—making the first move as meaningless as casting a net and settling for whatever you catch.

But if we genuinely feel the sparks and believe that the scruffy guy to our right is right, right now, then what’s stopping us from going for it, not like a mindless missile but like on a mission? The worse that can happen is old and rusted rejection. But we’re all big boys here. We can deal.

Any given code of conduct is pointless if it’s rigid, final and fixed, without exceptions and footnotes, especially if sticking by the rules leaves us standing alone, in a closing club, frozen yet reluctant to make a move.

Right after last call, if you still can’t come up with the clever words that will impress… then just kiss him. Anything’s better than watching a guy that makes your heart skip a beat walk out at the end of the night, leaving you regurgitating empty “what if’s” and regretting all your subtle, indirect, absurd moves and thinking: “I should’ve said hello.”

Every first move we make might very well be our last.

Spin Me Right Round Like a Record (Part I)

For quite some time now I’ve wanted to learn to DJ. Not like one of those Celebrity Rockstar DJs that just plug in their MacBooks and hit the button on a premade playlist. No! I’m talking about a real DJ who can actually mix and spin and all that magic.

I think I’d be a natural. On more than one occasion, boys whom I’ve invited to come over make a note of what I’m playing beforehand and ask me to send it to them. And I really get a thrill from encouraging my friends (and even complete strangers sometimes) to have a blast. Plus, I’m pretty confident in my ability to make cute boys dance. After all, music makes the people come together, no?

The first time I ever expressed my DJ daydreams to anyone was the night of my 21st birthday party. I had rented the back room at the Lakeview Broadcasting Company and massively invited everyone I’d ever come across at school. I was young and overeager and really wanted to be “cool.” To my surprise, a lot of these acquaintances ended up showing up.

Shortly after midnight and several birthday drinks later, I found myself up against one of the cherry-colored wooden walls in the back with only the soft red lights shining from above. In front of me was a dirty blond boy with piercing gray eyes and in a turquoise t-shirt with a small graphic of a cassette tape. Caught between a guy and a wooden wall, I got hard as a rock.

I’d never seen him before, and when I asked him, he confirmed that he wasn’t there that night for my party. He said it in this kind of smug tone, suggesting, “No, birthday boy, the world does not revolve around you.”

I have a thing for confident-verging-on-cocky guys; it’s a flaw. So I continue talking to this guy. Eventually, we go to the crowded patio to smoke a cigarette. After sliding the heavy, steamed-up glass door, we make our way past the drunken girls holding 40s in brown paper bags, talking loudly to one another and leaning on their boy friends.

We get to the bench by the corner and sit down as close to each other as possible. I light his Parliament first then mine and continue the conversation we spontaneously (and not so soberly) started inside.

“So all these people here are your friends?” he asks.

“Well, not really. Some of them I’ve just met tonight. Friends of friends, I guess. I’m actually not sure how all these people found out about it,” I explain trying to make myself come off self-effacing.

“Maybe you are very well-liked at school,” he suggests.

“Maybe it’s the three-hour open bar.”

“Haha, that’s more like it. So why LBC?”

“Well, I’m not really a big fan of those huge megaclubs. Had about enough of that when I was in Madrid. Besides, I have a huge crush on the DJ here tonight.”

“Yeah, he’s great.”

“Ok, wanna know something I’ve never really told anyone before?” I’m obviously on the “It’s My Birthday, Let Me Talk About Myself” train with no signs of getting off anytime soon. But he looks at me intrigued so I continue, “Recently, I’ve really been wanting to learn to DJ.”

“Really?” he responds.

“Silly, I know. I don’t even know how I would go about doing that!”

“Well, I can teach you,” he blurts out. “I DJ sometimes, for like small parties and stuff. I have all the equipment at my place. You should stop by sometime.” I’m immediately delighted by this revelation, and dude-now-DJ gets a lot cuter just sitting there smoking my Parliament.

“What about tonight?” I throw it out there thinking I’m being suave but then instantly feeling silly for being so forward.

“Tonight’s good,” he says and stomps his cigarette out. I start feeling suave again. Most of my friends have already left, the open bar started way earlier, so I finish my vodka Redbull, say my goodbyes to the stragglers at the bar and walk out with DJ Dreamboat.

[Spin Me Right Round Like a Record (Part II)]

Taxicab Confessions

The music at Berlin nightclub is always louder on Saturdays. The sound mixes well with vodka and Redbull to help the body get a little more buzzed.

In this dark, cavernous place the disco lights are more like spotlights, and as I slowly scan across the dancefloor, body upon body upon another, I spot him—dark features, a light jacket, a clear drink and standing by the ATM. The only thing menacing about this stranger is his 11 o’clock shadow. Otherwise, he looks like a good boy who’d never kiss on the first date.

But the way I catch him looking at me tells me he’d kiss me tonight.

I tell my friends, my partners in crime, that I need to use the restroom, then make my way through the dancefloor, grasping onto strange shoulders, careful not to have any drinks spill on my jeans. I’m not sure what I’m going to say to this guy once I get to him, but I keep on going.

“Hey,” I say certainly not loud enough.

“Hi,” he responds and smiles, waiting for my brilliant second liner.

“Uh… are you a Scorpio?” “What?” “Zodiac sign. Scorpio. My horoscope today said I would meet a Scorpio…”

“I’m a Cancer.”

“Right, my horoscope said I would meet a Scorpio, but that it wouldn’t work out. A very handsome Cancer, on the other hand…”

“Haha, what about the handsome Cancer?”

“He would ask to buy me a drink and we would hit it off right away.”

“Oh really? And do you find that your horoscope is usually right?”

“Most of the time? No. But I believe in free will more than in destiny.”

“Good policy ’cause I’m afraid your horoscope is wrong yet again. I’m a Capricorn…”

“And a liar.”

“What are you drinking?”

After two drinks, we start dancing. He is about an inch taller than me with droopy gray eyes and a lazy smile. He tells me he’s 26, graduated from the University of Michigan and now works at a consulting firm downtown. It’s his first time coming to Berlin, and he has ditched his friends at another bar.

A remix of “Through a Keyhole” by Walter Meego comes on and I start kissing him, moving my lips and tongue to the rhythm of the pulsating beats.

By this time, my partners in crime are nowhere to be found, surely they’ve disbanded by now, and I have no desire to go find them. Guys are always more comfortable asking me to come over if they think I’ve been deserted by my friends.

We leave the club and get into a cab heading towards his apartment in River North. On the way there, we share a Parliament and continue gently making out in the back seat. He stops for a minute. It’s starting to rain, but he rolls down the window anyway to clear the cigarette smoke. He then looks at me and says, “By the way, I’m straight.”

“By the way,” as if it’s just some sidenote to the situation. I look at him and then out the window. No, not out the window, but at the window, at the rain droplets. I can either tell Straight Guy that there’s nothing straight about making out with another man and that he is delusional. That his friends probably know. That he is using me just as as he has used his girlfriends in the past. I can tell the cab driver to stop, kiss Straight Guy good night, get out the cab, find the nearest L stop and go home.

Or I can just sit there in silence and keep looking at the rain droplets accumulating on the window.

The next morning, Straight Guy wakes up early and goes to get bagels from across the street. He comes back and turns on the TV in the living room to CNN. I walk over to him wearing last night’s clothes, lean on him slightly and take a sip of his orange juice.

I didn’t bring up his confession that night before, not when he took off my belt and pushed me on to his bed, not when I ran my hands across his bare shoulder blades, not when he pinned me down and kissed my chin. And I certainly wasn’t going to bring it up now. Or ever.

For one minute I let myself get caught up in the moment: the good boy with the lazy smile making breakfast while watching the morning news. A moment he would never recognize, a moment I’m ready to own.