The Emasculation of Rugged Fox

The other night at work, the dark chocolate bartender accused me of being heterosexual.

The entire situation went down as I was polishing wine glasses with a little too much vigour. Pride week had just ended the night before and intrigued, the gorgeous drink dispenser asked me what kind of debaucherous all-night sex fests I had got myself in the middle of.

Resting the wine glass down on the counter before I snapped it in half, I admitted to him the inconvenient truth that, each night of the festivities I had gone to bed with a girl.

“Heterosexual!” he exclaimed, pointing his wine crank at me, violently.

“Ah!” I screamed, taking one step back, girlishly.

"How dare he call me straight!"Horrified I stood frozen behind the bar. For a second I thought I was going to be tarred and feathered, and then for another second I wondered whether I’d actually enjoy it. His eyes piercing mine, his wine crank still pointing at me (violently), I feared my cork was going to be popped unless I defended my gay honour. And so having run out of time I did the one thing I know best - I raised the white polishing rag in my hand up above my head and submitted.

Arriving home later that night at a feverish twelve o’clock, I felt a wave of anger surge over me. Shooting back a 10 ounce glass of red wine to calm myself, I started pacing around the three-square-feet of free space in my apartment also known as my living room.

“How dare he call me straight!” I hissy-ed, “especially after I just spent two c-notes on this pair of jeans to ensure there would be no confusion.”

Continuing to fit, I polished off the rest of the bottle of wine and proceeded directly to my fridge to pop open a night cap. Reaching for a lone bottle of beer, I screamed when I realized what I was about to do. Slapping myself on the hand, I thought, this is no time for masculinity, and grabbed a raspberry vodka cooler instead.

Taking one sip of the fruity beverage, I began to feel emasculated again when I noticed a horrific site hanging on my walls.

Filling the empty space just above my desk were four picture frames. Four picture frames of terror. Aghast, I tugged my eyes from one 5x10 to the next. Each photograph featured a reproduction of me standing beside a gorgeous woman. Taking another sip from my drink, I could barely breathe when it hit me that, to date, the greatest relationships in my life have been with, dare I say it, dare I use another comma, women.

My head so light it could float away, my body so heavy it could fall through the floor, I moved out of the kitchen and into my bedroom and collapsed upon my twelve-hundred-thread-count Ralph Lauren sheets. My vision bursting into a million stars, I rubbed my eyes and saw the thought shoot cross my mind, I am the worst homosexual I know.

Falling to the floor, I got up on my knees and cried out to the heaven’s above, “Oh Meryl Streep! Could it be that I left one closet for another?”

For six years now, I have been trying to get to the bottom of (tee hee) what defines a gay man. If the number one marker is sexual intercourse, then I am afraid I am out.

It is no big secret that as far as same-sex-sex goes, I do not have a lot of it.  (Editor's note: It is no small secret either.) The fact that I will be able to donate blood again soon does not bode well for my gay reputation. Truth is, while the hockey team was busy sleeping with each other in high school, I was trading Spice Girl stickers with my first girlfriend and asking her how 2 did become 1.

Before I depress myself into a state of vagina relapse, I have some good news to report. Ever since I moved out to the West Coast fourteen months ago, I have managed to get to the bottom of at least one thing (tee hee – alright that is enough). After gossiping with my fair share of boys and girls in this province, I have learned that it is not who you sleep with that defines you; it is what the other person says about you the next day to their flaming best friend over coffee that really counts. 

hunting season

Alright, here’s the deal – I have been gone for almost a week now which in blog time is like seventeen years. You might think that my digital absence has been due to the fact that nothing is going on in my life, or I am too busy tracking the postman’s package, but au contraire mes amis, because the Fox has a hot date tomorrow night – and he has been too busy freaking out to do anything else. In order to make up for my lack of uploaded presence in your life, I have decided to put a special on today’s entry: 3 for the price of 1. Meaning this entry is 3 times longer than a usual one. So without further a do, let’s get this train-wreck back on the tracks.

I went out for coffee last week with a close friend who I haven’t seen in almost a year. His name is Jack and he has the most beautiful blue eyes you have ever seen. They are like a prairie sky on a clear summer day; you can drive into them for miles without ever having to stop. Making the natural progression from coffee to discount bellini’s, we got to talking about relationships and he asked me whether or not I was looking for one. Twisting my face into the shape of a question mark, my reply back to him fell somewhere in between yes and no.

Returning home later that night, I poured myself a nightcap, and sat down to check my boxes. I went through each one of them: my email, my other email, my facebook, my voice mail, my text messages and my other other email. To my complete and utter dismay, they were all empty. You have no new messages… bitch.

It then occurred to me that my box has been empty for a long time now, and unless I start to step it up a notch, there is no hope it will be filled.

And so out of partial boredom and slight intoxication, I strapped on my raccoon skin cap, loaded my rifle, and kicked off my hunt for a man. Registering a profile on Manhunt, it only took ten minutes before I was deep in the digital forest of men just as fabulous as I. Like a cunning fox, I made sure to fly under the radar. Slowly scrolling up and down the 25 pages of out and in men, I came across cuddly-bears, barely-legal bambis, and terrifying cougars. But before I go any further, let me take a step back.

For those of you who are not familiar with Manhunt, it is one of the most popular male-dating sites on the internet (and one of I have stayed away from for a long time). It kicked off initially as a hook-up site intended for men to find ‘the right man right now.’ But as it became more socially acceptable for coffee-shops to move inside chat-rooms, more and more men who were looking for something more starting gracing the website with their presence. And so flash-forward to me signing up and this is what you get.

Step One: Enter your name, age, weight, height, body shape, hair colour. DONE

Step Two: Enter a profile to describe yourself.

I love drinking red wine, singing in the rain and listening to Diana Krall. I am a writer who has a kind heart and an excellent way with words. I am slightly neurotic, but not in the Woody Allen fashion. I love to read, write and exercise. I am on the market for a healthy relationship or some really great friends. I will not put out on the first date, but if properly wined and dined then maybe the second. (True story)

Step Three: Answer the following questions:

Cut or uncut: Depends on which angle you are looking from.

Position:  Lie down and roll over.

Place: Somewhere romantic with candles and a nice house Chianti.

Availability: Scheduled Fall 2009 Launch.

Step Four: What are you into?

Here is where things got tricky. I had to select from a list of options and at first I thought no sweat, until I realized what I had to choose from. Searching for favourites like “watching the sunset,” “talking in bed all morning,” and “going out for walks,” I was notably miffed when I discovered all of my choices were missing from the list. Instead it appeared I that I had to choose from other recreational activities that included “watersports,” “fisting,” and “married men.” When all was said and done, I had managed to check off one box, “kissing.”

Step Four: Upload Photos

Naturally I chose the hottest one of me from the last six months, which graces this blog every time you load it.

Step Five: Start Hunting.

Finally finished, I proudly scrolled down to find my shining face sandwiched in between profile pictures of an above-average penis and a man’s pale cheeks. Feeling I had accomplished enough for one night, I logged off and did not return until later the next day.

"I'm late, I'm late, I'm late, for a very important date."Signing in the next time, I was thrilled to see that my box had been filled with messages from thirteen different men. (This box thing will never get old.) One of them was beyond hot and from his profile description it appeared I fulfilled some of his pre-requisites. Replying to his message, we ended up talking the rest of the night and now we are meeting for beer tomorrow night!

With that said I must cut this short because I only have 30 hours left to properly freak out. I must spend the next ten hours staring in the mirror at the new zit I just received (which couldn't have had worse timing if it tried) and then stay up all night fretting over a bottle of boxed red wine. I also have to shave, exfoliate, Nair, detoxify and see if I can scramble enough money together for a manicure. Wish me luck!

RRF (Responsible Rugged Fox) Report:

For my younger (and older) readers, if you happen to find yourself with fabulous plans for a blind-date, always choose a busy place to meet the person and let someone know where you are going. Don’t drink anything with an alcohol percentage over 13%, have fun and be safe.