His name was Dave. Or maybe it was Dale… I can’t really be certain. But I’m pretty sure it was Dave. He was somewhat charming, or at least as charming as I’d imagined a guy from Tennessee could be. We had met during Pride Week in New York which, let me tell you, is not a place to be meeting random guys with any sort of expectation. I don’t normally go for red-heads, but Dave, or Dale, was really just the first guy that had hit on me at the time, so I grabbed him and kissed him, and after that he really just never left. I mean, we had only known one another for a total of four weeks at this point, and I guess it didn’t really bother me that he had stuck around. We had a lot of fun together, so long as I never took him too seriously, which, as I’m sure you can tell, wasn’t too difficult a task for me.
His southern drawl was really the only thing about him that I found alluring because he was as dumb as a bag of bricks, and he made up for his lack of intellect with an impossible ego. Dave- or Dale- had once told me that his penis was the size of a Clydesdale’s, and I had found out the hard way- or rather, the not-so-hard way- that it was a complete deception. He had also told me that black people were the blight of all mankind, which was another truth I had known to be entirely false. People like him were in fact the fallout of humanity.
And people like me.
He was a bulked-out and obvious dick-necked ginger who apparently didn’t like the fact that his carpet matched his drapes. But even after waxing everything off, there still wasn’t a whole lot to be impressed with. Dave/Dale had both pride and testosterone blasting out of his ears, which was an obvious refuge to his blatant insecurities. Those kinds of men generally disgust me in all actuality, which is ridiculously ironic. But I dealt with his obnoxiousness because I thought that, perhaps, in a physical altercation he was a force to be reckoned with. This, I also discovered, was complete crap.