We dancer boys were watching from the balcony when the house opened last night for Who's That Girl? The crowd that comes to the show is pretty hot and trendy -- in fact, we were laughing at how pervasive the new gay clone uniform has become: dirty-washed jeans, funky shoes and those striped dress shirts that grip (untucked, of course) at the waist and hug under the pecs just so. The audience was quickly becoming a teeming mass of A-gay cliché, when suddenly in HE walked.
I could tell the guy was amazing, even from the balcony: He had dark hair, dark tan, well-muscled shoulders and arms, the confident stride of a successful, self-assured man who's well beyond the age of bullshit, and a tight blue T-shirt that hugged everything on him just right. We watched every head turn as he walked through the crowd and joined his friends, most of whom (thankfully) were also not dressed to assert their individuality by being just like everybody else.
I went downstairs and walked through the crowd myself -- you know, to make sure things were going well with everyone -- but every time I walked by him, he was deep in conversation and never looked up. I did notice, though, that I kind of know one of his friends through the Internet.
So we do the show and it's fabulous and everyone cheers and screams after our number and I'm standing by the front door afterward talking to friends as everyone is filing out ... and suddenly there he is. And our eyes lock. And we grin like drunken fools. I notice he has a KILLER smile. Then we look away shyly. Then we rinse and repeat ... for what seemed like half an hour.
So I go in for the kill. But it takes a few moments to get to him because the crowd is pretty thick. And by the time I get near enough, his friends are all there with him. They're obviously talking about me 'cause they keep looking my way and smiling. But I'm trapped in that eternal conundrum: Do you walk up and hit on a guy in front of his friends or do you wait for them to leave so you can do your bidness in private? They never leave (and he never leaves them to make himself more available, for that matter). But they all continue looking my way and smiling, and I actually see him blush.
And suddenly, they're heading out the door, looking back at me and smiling all the way. And like the big feathered chicken I am, I don't follow. (But in hindsight, I'm glad I didn't; it would have looked awfully desperate.)
Now I can't stop thinking about him. And after obsessing about What Might Have Been during my 6-mile run this morning, I even broke down and sent an awkward email to his friend whom I kind of know asking him to forward my name and number. I'm not getting my hopes up, though.
Besides, I'm still contractually obligated to remain single until I'm featured in Chicago magazine as one of the city's top 20 singles in July. So it just wouldn't have worked.
But maybe this is my kick in the pants to stop being so damn wishy-washy around guys I like. So the next muscular, handsome, confident, independently dressed gay man with a killer smile who flashes his pearly whites at me had better watch out -- from now on I'm gonna take even longer to chicken out.