Would you remember where you were when you first saw his face? Was it on your couch, surfing online and bored during commercials (haha that reference is for the old people like me who remember watching commercials)? Did you study his features across a bar with artisanal cocktails on a weeknight, your friend daring you to go talk to him? Or did you excitedly see him on the dating app in the “New People Near You” section, you eagerly swiping right while pooping? Yes, probably that one. “Fresssshhh meaaattt” you hissed through your teeth, saliva dripping from your mandibles as you unlocked your private album and flushed.

Whatever the case, you rev up your Premium Flirt Game and it’s on. Weirdly, this one doesn’t live across the country or even up in Seattle…he’s local? What is dating someone local even like? You have visions of someone showing up to your work, flowers in hand. Your coworkers, friends ask where he lives and when you tell them Portland they drop their glasses onto the ground, shattering them, stunned into silence. If they aren’t holding glasses, they pick one up and then drop it. The vision continues, now it’s the set of Seinfeld and he lives so close that he comes to your apartment daily, Kramer-like, swooping through your front door of your apartment unannounced but then the fantasy morphs uncomfortably into the repeating mental .gif of Jerry and Cosmo Kramer kissing deeply, furtively groping, Kramer chokes Jerry gently but urgently which one would even be the top oh Jesus make it stop.

Anyhoo.

From his photos, he looks handsome enough to be a catfish, to be someone impersonating an Extremely Handsome Gay Man. You resist the temptation to ask for him to take a picture holding a current newspaper and besides where does someone even find newspapers. The day before the first date, you groom your facial hair to a ridiculous, unnecessary degree. Unsurprisingly, you have a dream that night of your facial hair growing like weeds, growing out of your face uncontrollably, your eyebrows and beard and mustache exploding out in rich brown spiral curls which is ludicrous and unrealistic since you clearly have salt and pepper hair.

The two of you finally meet up. There’s a skill you’ve developed over the years of knowing almost instantly if you want to smooch a first date the moment you see him. Lo and behold, Carson is not only the person he claims to be, but he is even better looking than his selfies belie. You want to smooch the heck out of him.

It’s a good first date as far as dates go. You know that tedious feeling when you ask about his family, where he grew up, what order he’s in with his siblings; these are questions that don’t feel rote this time. He talks about what he needs to work on, too, mentions he’s been considering therapy to be a better partner to someone in the future. You play video games at a barcade, then have fancy pizza. You realize that you’re copying a previous date so you break the mold and go on a long walk after this. It’s the longest time you’ve ever had to hold in a fart. This one, you think, is worth holding in all the farts for. Presently, you find yourselves walking towards your apartment on the east side. When you invite him in, he says yes.

It’s that feeling, the next day, where you’ve had a killer date but don’t want to say it lest you jinx the whole deal. Coworkers notice your glow but you tell them you’re just flushed from your bike ride to work. You get home and throw your backpack on the couch, greet Ned. That’s when you notice it on the back of your office chair: his shirt. You think about picking it up and smelling him. You realize how creepy this image is and resist the urge. You think about wearing it. This is also creepy, and besides, it is too small for you, because your type is Tiny, Bearded, and Professional.

You ask more questions about his living situation, and he mentions casually that he lives with his ex. You will later remember this as Red Flag Number 1.

He comes over for the second date, you have dinner plans. You open the door and the two of you grapple with each other, you kiss deeply and it’s unclear who leads who to the bedroom. You take a chance: Missed you, you mutter. Me too, he whispers back, and then, You are so gorgeous naked. You whisper back, I like you a lot. You should go to therapy.

In the distance, a wall crumbles slightly, the bricks come down a little bit, your guard drops a little more. See, I’m not gorgeous naked. My naked body looks like it has cargo pockets all over it. Sometimes when flirting I’ll mention my favorite feature on a guy is his legs, and when I ask his, I hope it’s a feature I’m not embarrassed about. It usually is. I see posts on social media about feeling “skinny fat” and I nod vigorously, taking another bite of my pizza. I know. I’m my own worst enemy. I know this, deep down, that these feelings aren’t based in reality. But also, man oh man, people are terrible at complimenting each other in bed or taking compliments. Why is this? Is there some huge risk of the other person thinking we have feelings too soon if we compliment their body? Like. You’re chosen to (presumably) rub and lick and penetrate pieces of your bodies together; can we safely assume that it’s a safe space to be nice to each other without implied romantic consequence? We have to do better.

After he leaves after the second date, you notice he’s left the shirt again. This time, you pick it up, close your eyes and hold it to your face, breathe his scent in deeply.

There is something sweet that happens when two people find each other who like each other a lot. The other guys you talk to fade away, the apps become background noise or a way to pass the time nonsexually. It can feel lonely and isolating being single. You’ve done this work trying to feel okay being alone, but deep down you know you’re better in a relationship: you’re more confident, more giving, more you. You’ve compared being single to crossing the Sahara, to crossing a world sized ocean, but when you finally get to the other side, when you meet someone who seems just as excited about meeting you too, it instantly feels worth it. Your heart is elastic, and you remember what you felt a few years ago for someone. What if you made yourself into someone who accepted that lightning could strike the same heart twice?

Carson comes over for the the third date. You meet him at the door and he avoids the kiss, gives you a chaste hug instead. It’s not a spike in your heart you feel, it’s the slight, gentle deflation of a balloon. You know how this happens, you are an expert at being left behind.

The two of you sit on your couch. He says he is sorry, but you knew it was casual (you did). He says he and his ex are going to try to make it work out, they will go to therapy together (alright). He says that you are handsome and interesting and he wants to stay platonic friends with you (okay).

He leaves, and you are okay. Your heart is fuller for knowing him, for having another human in your life you can call a friend. Dating isn’t all bad. It’s weird and wonderful and humans are bonkers and strange and beautiful and complicated creatures. You’ll keep doing this until you don’t have to anymore, and you’ll remember this time as the time you practiced to be with the guy you end up with.

You notice the shirt. He’s left it again. This time you don’t pick it up: it is, after all, just a blue shirt.

You finally, after all these days, let out your fart.

Like this post? What is wrong with you. Seriously. Anyway, read about how I sometimes feel not queer enough, or get ready for episode 3 of my webseries This Ends Badly by watching episode 2! Let’s be horrible people together.