By: Chris Andre
When he invited me to go up to his apartment, I was very intrigued despite feeling slightly wary. Him being a pretty-boy 27-year-old and me venturing deep into my 30s, the potent power of youth had me even before we said hello.
I hesitated a bit, tried to buy some time before I could really make up my mind.
Truth was, not only was he kinda my type, this boy also worked out much—I could see his wholesome peck teasing my eyes and my hands. And the bitter truth was, rather stupidly I had released earlier – before I came down to see him that evening. I was nervous.
I was afraid of embarrassing myself, coming across too aggressive (which did happen in some previous cases). So, I did what “There’s Something About Mary” taught me almost two decades ago.
Five minutes later, we’re already waiting for the elevator to his apartment unit. Two minutes later, it’s not just an apartment. It’s a frat boy’s plush dorm, where clothes scattered all around, on the dining table, stylish kitchen and boxy sofa, and dirty plates abound.
That, however, didn’t bother him at all. He grunted about how the paid apartment by his company sometimes reeked some weird smell while waltzing around and picking up the clothes just to have them piled up in his bedroom.
He ushered me to the sofa and asked me what to drink. “I don’t know,” me trying to be courteous. He nonchalantly opened his fridge and mentioned the slew of drinks he had.
Two whisky, three wine and two gin bottles. It was unexpected. “Do you drink all that, or you’re having a housewarming?” I added some funny sarcastic note to it.
“Oh, I drink every night. After work. Or before sleep. You know, it helps me sleep,” blurted the pretty boy. That answer sounded a little too familiar to me.
But before I could jog some memory from the past, he served up two whisky glasses and looked at me quite indecently. We didn’t finish the whisky, safe to say, and I came around help him sleep that night.
The morning after, back at my place, I was recollecting some thoughts about what a friend said to me five years back. It was something about the line between a liquor lover and an alcoholic.
“Liquors are made for social occasions, less about drinking alone. A glass of wine or whisky would be fine to drink up at home. But more and frequent, that might be a sign of alcoholism.”
What bothered me, though, is not the alcoholic part. But I already dated few alcoholics before, and even the one I used to care so much—the one I dated six years ago, where my friend had to rescue me and sober me up from defending my ex’s poor drinking and relationship habit.
So, a question to myself was: Am I (or are we) always dating the same guy? Does such a pattern mean that, despite plenty of fish in the sea, we’re bound to end up with a fish of the same species? (An alcoholic breed in my case …)
Peter, my dear friend, told me how he used to soak up all the horological matchmaking facts that could be used to really tell who we should eat, sleep and f*ck with.
“The best choices for gay Virgos, such as myself, are the water signs, such as Aquarius and Pisces,” he recalled some of his own histories.
“Virgo, by the way, is an earth sign, but it also gets along with Taurus.” As if that’s not enough, Peter urged to consult Chinese horoscopes, too.
That his “fire ox” sign is compatible with rats, monkeys and dogs, yet pigs are a special case: They could drive gay oxen crazy for deceits and sex.
I must admit that sometimes these horoscope readings do reflect what’s happening on the surface. It is as if we could cut corners on our ways to love by learning what matches what.
Yet, Peter warned me that horoscope readings for heterosexuals and homosexuals are rather different. “From my experience, it takes some likeness of the personalities for gay men to stay in a relationship for long, unlike heterosexuals.”
Probably this also rings true in the case of four temperaments often discussed during puberty. Sanguine, melancholic, choleric and phlegmatic: These four different personalities explain why some people are forgetful, moody, dominant or totally laid-back.
But more importantly, studies suggest that a happy, cheerful sanguine person usually marries an emotional but talented melancholic. Meanwhile, the power-driven choleric is known to sort of entrap the submissive phlegmatic.
In my own love life, yes, the inherent melancholic writer in me helplessly falls for perky sanguine, over and over again. I don’t know if there’s any difference between heteros and homos on this one, but I’m not entirely sure if I should totally cling on to this form of notion to predict how my love story ends.
But if there’s anything that this sobriety over my dating pattern has taught me is that, once you know the rules, you can master them to break them.
I could go out watching a movie with a lazy, sleepy phlegmatic instead. Or, I might join a debating class to win over a stubborn choleric. Because, if we know that there’s plenty of fish in the sea but we only dip our fishing rod in the same spot, then why do we need to even date in the first place?
It’s better if we go back to the Craiglist ad: 30-something moody looking for happy-go-lucky boy. PS: good pecks well appreciated.
I sort of believe that we date to not only know what a possible partner is like in person, but also to get a chance for us to adapt to him. No couples could sail smoothly without any compromising.
We date to gradually knead flat all the undesired facts of the man that we may so much love that one day, instead of saying “probably,” we look at the mirror and tell ourselves straight in the eye that “He is the one” (whether he is or isn’t an alcoholic).
But if you aren’t aware of your own dating pattern, chances are you don’t actually realize what attracts you, deep down. Because all that physical beauty, what it does may only pull you away from the true emotional attraction (read: love) that you’ve been searching for.