You Can't Make This Stuff Up!

I have a serious crush on the actor that plays Dr. Troy on Nip/Tuck. Julian McMahon is sexy, tall and has an australian accent. So, naturally, when I was crusing profiles online, and saw someone who resembeled Mr. McMahon, I contacted him.

Much to my surprise, this tall, sexy man contacted me back. After a couple of rounds of e-mails, he asked for my number. A number popped up shortly thereafter that I didn't recognize, so I let it go to voicemail. After dialing my voicemail passcode, I heard something I couldn't believe: this tall, sexy man who reminded me of my crush had...an accent! I instantly had butterflies.

I waitited a respectable amount of time to return his call (40 seconds is respectable, right?) and we instantly hit it off. He was funny-sarcastic funny-my favorite kind, well spoken and easy to talk to. Our schedules legitimately kept a first date at bay for two weeks, but after a couple of days, we fell into a routine of calls and texts.

Our first date was a weeknight in April. We met up and hopped in his convertible for a drive. Normally, a coffee house is much more my first date speed, but I went in full force on this one. We drove to the beach, talking, joking and laughing the whole way. But, there was a voice in my head that said that this man was not my prince charming. Maybe it was the fact that the collar of his hot pink polo was turned up... I support a man's right to wear pink, but this was, well, too pink.

In the interest of thinking outside the box and keeping an open mind, I pushed the voice away and really did enjoy the evening. Once we got to the beach, we had a really lovely time. Ok, his walk was swagger-less and he carried an, um, "man bag" kind of thing that was Louis Vuitton. Obviously a man of taste, right? Maybe a little too much taste.

So, we parted ways and I proceeded to e-mail my friends a detailed account of my evening. I mentioned the beach, the drive, the accent, but left out the words hot, pink, man and bag. I knew what this man was made of, but failed to type my suspicions to my friends.

Later that day, the most infamous text in my personal texting hisory reached my inbox. It was from Mr. Manbag. It went a little something like this "I meant to tell you that I'm bisexual". Pardon? My heart stopped for a second, despite the fact that I knew something was a little too rainbow colored for me all along. The text I sent back requested clarification. Why I bothered, I don't know. Don't get me wrong: I am all for the wavers of the rainbow flag. In fact, one of my dearest friends in the world is a gay man. But, when I picture my wedding someday, it does not involve the groom looking more fabulous in a wedding dress than me.

My clarification from Mr. Manbag was actually a rude and sexually explicit retort. I was angry, embarassed and well, DONE. I was angry at myself for ignoring my gut, embarassed because I pursued this and done with this person because, well, wouldn't you be at this point?

More than a year later, as I write these words, I think about the fact that I am so grateful I went on that date. It's a great, funny story to tell and maybe somewhere down the line, I will bump into Mr. Manbag and pass along my gay friend's number.