ACT II

Have you ever seen High School High? Remember the part when Jon Lovitz’s character puts on “Rhinestone Cowboy” and everyone just stops and looks at him like he’s crazy? That’s what it was like when we walked in. People stopped their conversation little by little and some people just stared. Others exchanged words. One of the hosts, a ragfag I’d recognized hanging around work, walked up to the two of us and said “Umm…the African-American Singles Hurrydate is at Park Grill on East Paces Ferry.”

“We’re here for the Hurrydate sponsored by Gay.com,” I said.

You should have seen the look on his face. It was a mix of utter embarassment and dumbfounded surprise. He scurried off to the other hosts.

“Karsh, why are we the only Black people here?”

“Well, it’s still only ten min….oh wait, never mind. Hmm…I guess we are the only Black people here. Hey look, that guy’s Asian…no wait. He’s White. I think.”

Doo-Wop does his best to fake a smile. I suddenly get this sick feeling in the pit of my stomach and excuse myself to the bathroom for a bit. Doo-Wop grabbed my arm and said “Don’t leave me out here with them.”

“Oh please…just come to the bathroom with me then.”

When we came back, the hosts were handing out our numbers and explaining the rules of the Hurrydate. I was #7, Doo-Wop was #20. There were about fifty or sixty people in total. They split us up into two groups, and while one group sat, the other would go around table to table to meet the others. They gave us tally cards and pencils to mark off our potential daters. One of the hosts blew this ingratiatingly annoying whistle to start things off. Let the Dating Musical Chairs begin!

My first guy was #18, a pretty handsome looking, mid-30s White guy with piercing blue eyes and dark hair.

“Hi, my name’s Karsh.”

“I’m #18. So what brings you here?”

“Well, the same thing that brought all these other guys here – I’m tired of the club and bar scene and I want to meet nice guys for dating and possible long-term relationships.”

“Well do you think you’ll find that here?”

“I’m optimistic.”

“Well I just came tonight because I was bored. I might meet someone here, but I’m not into ethnics.”

“Excuse me?”

“You know, Blacks, foreigners…people like that. I just like guys like me.”

“Well that shouldn’t stop us from getting to know each other in this short period of time.”

“Sorry, I’m just not interested in you.”

So that was a bust. He just stared at other people for a minute and a half while I picked imaginary dirt from under my fingernails. Hmph.

The whistle blows. Next date.

#2 was a bit closer to my age and hand really nicely styled blonde hair.

“Hi, my name’s Karsh.”

“#2.” He sticks his hand out for me to shake it, but then quickly yanks it back and smooths it over his hair. Jackass.

“OK…so how are you enjoying it tonight?”

“Cool.”

“Are you in school here?”

“Nope.”

“Work?”

“Yep.”

“Doing?”

“Shit.”

OK, this is going nowhere fast.

“Dude,” he says. “You know where I can score some X or some weed?”

“No.”

Whistle blows. Thank God.

Next is #64, a clean-cut late twentysomething business manager from Oklahoma. As you can see, I made some progress. We laughed about Atlanta for a short while before he asked me my hobbies.

“Well, I like to read, write, hang out with friends, cook, draw…”

“Really? You like to cook?”

“Yeah.”

“Like soul food? You know, when I was younger, there was this Black woman that lived near us that made the best cornbread.”

“Well I’m a vegetarian, so I don’t eat or cook meat.”

“Oh, are you on a diet?”

“No.”

“Is it for health reasons?”

“Yeah, kinda sorta. I don’t want to beleaguer you with a diatribe on the dangers of milk and red meat.”

“I see. So you’re trying to lose weight?”

“Again, no.”

“Oh. Well, maybe you should.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s just a suggestion, honey.”

Whistle blows. And blows and blows and blows and blows and blows. Several three minute dates. All of them horrible in some way. Many just out and out said they weren’t interested in Black guys. One guy stayed on his cell phone for the whole three minutes, then hung up right as he moved on to the next person. From my view, it didn’t seem Doo-Wop was faring much better than I was. But I wanted to be a trooper. I wanted to stick it out until the end and then I could walk out with a sense of knowledge about this sort of thing.

Then came the cock talk. I got about four or five dates straight where people wanted to know if the myth was true. When I wouldn’t tell them, one guy said “Well you probably just have a small cock anyway. Most Black guys aren’t ashamed when I ask them.”

The worst was over. The 1st phase of Hurrydate was over and we were back in our original two groups to mingle amongst themselves. Doo-Wop stormed up to me, five feet four inches of fury, grabbed my arm and said “We need to talk.”

TO BE CONTINUED