How Do I Get Myself Into These Things?

I’m moving! I signed a lease on a new apartment this afternoon. This weekend I looked at a great apartment for rent several blocks away from where I’m living now. And out of the several people who saw the apartment, the landlord picked me! Compared to my current place, the rent will be lower (by 250 bucks), the street will be quieter (and the people above me will be a married librarian couple), and the apartment has more charm (the building was built around 1860 and the apartment has pine floors). It even has a washer and dryer. I’ll also be one block away from a nice park. I think I’ll be quite happy with the place. I move on November 1.

I’d thought about Manhattan, but I couldn’t have found an apartment like this — at this rent — in the areas of Manhattan in which I’d want to live. And anyway, I live so close to Manhattan right now, and I never have a problem getting there, and it doesn’t seem to have hindered my social life much in the past year. Also, Jersey City has gradually been turning into Chelsea West in the last couple of years — there are so many gay people here. The gays always move into the neighborhoods that need to be spruced up, you know?

Manhattan will happen eventually. For now, I’m looking forward to moving.

So, here’s how close I live to Manhattan: at 2:08 yesterday afternoon, I was lying in bed. One hour later, I was sitting in the Ambassador Theater after buying a last-minute reduced-price ticket to see “Hedda Gabler” on Broadway. (I enjoyed the play. Kate Burton — Richard Burton’s daughter — has a hell of a stage presence, even if her portrayal of Hedda was a bit too modern.)

After the show, I walked out of the theater and took out my cell phone, calling people to see if anyone was doing anything that night. I have today off for Columbus Day, and I thought maybe other people would, too, and maybe I could find someone to meet up with.

I also called my dad. He asked me if I was looking at the news zippers in Times Square. Why, I asked? Because we bombed Afghanistan this afternoon, he said.

I hadn’t known. And actually, I took the news in stride. I was surprised how unsurprised I was. After all, we’d been expecting this for so long, and it’s certainly not the first time we’ve bombed the Middle East.

I was just a block north of Times Square, so I walked back into the area and read the text of the news as it zipped along the digital display. Hardly anybody else was looking at it. Times Square was surprisingly normal — the sketch artists were sketching faces, the tourists touring, the vendors… uh… vending. The one unusual thing I noticed was a guy wearing a FEMA jacket.

From Times Square I walked south, and around 40th Street, I saw a huge mass of police officers. There must have been about 100 of them , wearing their navy blue uniforms, lined up in several rows. I don’t know if they were on alert or if they were receiving instructions or what, but it was a startling sight.

I forgot about current events for the rest of the day. I walked to the Barnes and Noble on Sixth Avenue and 21st Street, where I realized they’d rearranged everything.

After browsing for an hour, I left. It was already dark out. I was bored, and I still hadn’t heard from anyone, but I wasn’t about to go home. So I walked over to the Lesbian and Gay Community Center to see if anything interesting was going on. There wasn’t. Hardly anyone was there. I browsed through HX and Next and the Village Voice for a while, got bored again, and left.

From there I walked over to Eighth Avenue, where I settled into a couch at the Big Cup (Chelsea’s big gay coffee shop, for those of you who don’t know), pulled out the Sunday New York Times Arts & Leisure section, and alternately read and napped.

When I’d finished read everything in the paper that seemed remotely interesting, it was after 9:00, and I figured it was late enough to head to the bars. I thought about heading over to the East Village, but I wasn’t in much of an East Village mood.

Instead, I went to Barrage on 47th Street, in Hell’s Kitchen. I’d been introduced to Barrage by Charlie back in the spring, and I’d liked it — the guys were as pretty as the guys in Chelsea, but with less attitude. I’d actually been there the night before, with a friend of mine. I guess I was in a Barrage mood this weekend, because I decided to go back.

I got there around 10:00. Before I walked in the door, I pulled out my trusty cell phone and checked my messages at home. There was a message — finally — from Wes. He’d called about 10 minutes earlier, just 48 hours after I’d left that message on his answering machine. Hmph. Took him long enough.

He said something about wanting to talk with me so we could catch up.

My mood changed. I suddenly had no desire to go into Barrage. Instead I wanted to go back to Jersey City and have a conversation with him.

I walked around the block, trying to decide what to do. I called him back, but he was on the phone and I got his machine. I hung up. A few minutes later, I called again. Got the machine again. This time I left a message — I told him that I was in Manhattan, that I had Monday off and was probably going to go to a bar or something, and that maybe we could talk or get together later in the week.

Having walked all the way around the block, I was back at Barrage. I decided to go in.

It was pretty packed. I went to the bar, bought a Corona, took off my coat, and leaned against a wall, sipping my beer and trying not to look too awkward. I was wearing my glasses, and I wondered if I’d thereby attract a different type of person than if I were wearing my contacts.

After a couple of minutes I saw a guy walk by and glance at me. At least I thought he was glancing at me — I wasn’t sure. A few seconds later he walked by again, and once again he seemed to be glancing at me.

A few seconds after that, he appeared once more, leaning against a post, and he was definitely looking in my direction.

He, too, was wearing glasses.

And I did the thing that Charlie had once taught me. I did what I usually have so much trouble doing when I see a cute guy at a bar.

I smiled.

He smiled back.

I swear, I’ve been getting better at making eye contact with cute guys. First there was the guy on Lexington Avenue at 6:30 in the morning, and now this guy. It seems to have become easier, now that I know that it can happen to me.

Anyway, he walked over to me.

Yep, kinda cute. Hmm… maybe this would turn out to be a fun evening.

It turned out that he thought he knew me — he thought I was a former co-worker. I wasn’t.

We both leaned against a wall and started talking. Strangely enough, it turned out that like me, he’d gone to college at the University of Virginia. This wasn’t just strange, but exceedingly strange; the first time I’d come to Barrage, I’d met a UVa grad as well. And this was only my third time at this place.

He told me when he graduated, and I was surprised. It turns out he’s 36 years old. I could have sworn he was in his late 20s. He certainly didn’t look 36.

We wound up moving over to a couch, where we talked some more. And talked. And talked.

He’s intelligent, he’s Jewish, and he’s cute, in a goofy sort of way. We were getting along very well. I was thinking I could maybe see some potential here.

Things progressed. Eventually he told me I was cute. I told him the same. The conversation got more intimate. He lived in the neighborhood, and, in my crafty way, I subtly maneuvered the conversation into the topic of what his apartment looked like.

After describing the place, we got onto the topic I was getting at. He said that he was tempted to invite me over, but that he was finding himself liking me too much to do something like that. I pretty much hinted that I had no problem either way — that whatever happened, I still hoped to see him again.

We’d begun talking at around 10:30. Over the next three hours we progressed from talking side-by-side to talking with our arms around each other. By 2 in the morning, the bar was practically empty, and our lips were locked together.

He was a pretty amazing kisser.

You know what? I’d had so many firsts lately, and this was yet another one. Believe it or not, this was the very first time I’d met someone in a bar and made out with him there.

It was really, really nice.

He still didn’t want to invite me over just yet. That was okay, though.

Still, the conversation somehow moved into territory I wasn’t quite ready to approach. He asked me about my past relationships, so I described them. Naturally, out of politeness (and curiosity), I asked him about his, so he described his.

I think I have a problem with intimacy. Or some other problem. Whatever the problem is, I get scared when someone comes on too seriously too soon.

Anyway, we exchanged phone numbers. By this time, the lights were on in the bar, so it was time to go. We stood outside on the street and hugged, even kissed a little.

It was at this point — outside, underneath a streetlight — that I noticed his temples were starting to go gray.

Okay. I know some of you want to throw things at me now. You’re thinking that I’m way too hung up on age. You’re thinking, jeez, Jeff, you got along so well with this guy, and now you’re concerned just because his temples are starting to go gray?

I don’t know. There are lots of things I have to work through in my life when it comes to relationships.

Thing number one: my parents. See, they affect my relationship choices without my even realizing it. If my parents were dead — if all the elder people in my life were dead, in fact, including my parents, my friends’ parents, my aunt — anyone who could possibly register disapproval — then my pool of available guys would probably be larger. When I consider whether someone can be my boyfriend, I picture myself introducing him to my parents, and I imagine us all having a meal together at the dining room table. Could my 52-year-old parents deal with me dating a 36-year-old guy? Especially one who’s already going gray? Is this really something I have a problem with, or is it something I think other people — including my friends — would have a problem with? I don’t know.

Thing number two: commitment. I don’t want to jump into a relationship. I don’t even totally know if I dislike being single. I don’t have a ton of relationship experience; I don’t really know what I want and what I don’t want. So when someone starts to come on a little too strong, I panic. I feel trapped, constricted, I feel like things are moving too fast.

That’s what was happening last night. And yet I didn’t want to tell him that I like to move slowly; it would have killed the mood. But it shouldn’t even have gotten to that point in the first place, right? I didn’t steer the conversation in the dating direction. He did.

I started out thinking he’d be a cute guy to hook up with. He was probably thinking the same thing at first. But then we wound up really hitting it off, and we both started to see some greater potential. But he was moving a little too quickly for me.

Anyway, we ended the evening deciding that we’d get together sometime this week.

And, lo and behold, this afternoon there was already a message from him waiting on my voice mail.

Aw, man. I don’t know how to deal with these situations. This is just like what happened with Wes, a mere two months ago: the night we met, he started talking about dating potential. And I didn’t want to kill the mood that time, either.

You know what? I’m thinking that there must be something appealing about me. Or at any rate, I’m good at being charming and cute when the chemistry is right. And yet, when the other guy starts to see the potential for something more, I start to panic a little, and I think, I shouldn’t have acted so cute and charming. Now he’s going to think I’m always like this. What’s going to happen when he sees the real me?

At any rate, as usual, I’m thinking too much. I’m worried about hurting his feelings, I’m worried about being too nice and leading him on, I’m worried about being too reserved, I’m worried about blah blah blah blah blah blah blah.

Oh, screw it. I guess I should just enjoy the ride.