JR seems to think that my difficulty in attracting a mate stems from my pants. Or rather, from the fact that I still have and wear pants that are left over from when I was larger. Now, these garments tend to bunch up around my waist when belted. This is not a look I am particularly proud of, but shit... Pants are expensive.
"Throw away your fat pants," JR chimes on a regular basis, and part of me wants to. Another part of me fears gaining back a bunch of weight and not having enough denim to cover my ass. What's a boy to do? I have started to emulate JR and even bought some of the trendy, tighter jeans that he is so fond of sporting. I also fear looking desperate, which is silly because I am, essentially, desperate. But to dress like my roommate, who is almost ten years younger than me, seems wrong. There are certain things that I am positive I can no longer get away with, like tragically ripped jeans. The kind of pants that have seen many, many floors. When JR wears these, I call them his "slut pants." Because they reveal far more than they conceal and almost dare anyone who gazes upon them, to rip them off JR and make him their bitch. Hey, maybe he'll let me borrow them... Nah, like I said, it might be too desperate.
I can't help but think that there is something more than just my ill-fitting pants that keeps men from approaching me. Maybe I am wrong, but are gay men really that shallow? I guess I know the answer to that one, having once broken up with a guy because his favorite movie starred Diana Ross, and I'm not talking about Lady Sings the Blues or Mahogany. I like to think that I am open to things. If, for instance, my dream guy had to love an icon from days gone by, I would happily accept Pam Grier or Tina Turner. Both of them look great in hot pants. But the fucking WIZ?!?!? C'mon, already!
The last thing I had resembling a relationship was a fuckbuddy for several years. His name was Jon, another in a very long list. Jon was a film editor, a little thick and was rocking a severe combover that I found endearing. But, alas, all strange things cum to an end and we never saw each other again. Except once, at Starbucks where he chose to ignore me. It didn't help that I chased him through the parking lot, screaming: "That's right, asshole! Run away! And next time you bring someone back a souvenir from Amsterdam, make sure it comes with a fucking vaccine! Shithead!"
Maybe I should just go shopping.