Eating My Feelings

by Mark Rosenberg

  My profile on Manhunt is pretty basic, with my tagline being “I don’t give a fuck!” because … I don’t. It tells everyone what I look like and what I am looking for, which is: white guys under forty to hang out with. It also says that I have a “swimmer’s build,” although I haven’t gone swimming in over a decade. Naturally, 90 percent of the people who reach out to me are men in their fifties who are either black, Asian, Latino, or all of the above. I guess gay people can’t read. Anyway, as I fend off creepsters, I do a quick search to find hot guys who look like Abercrombie models to no avail. I usually end up settling for someone who looks like a Sears Catalog model, but a girl can dream, can’t she? After signing on, I immediately got a few interesting e-mails.

  IWANNABLOWU wrote, “Hey, cool guy over fifty, looking for younger to travel with. Will pay expenses.”

  How flattering that someone thought I was a hooker. I truly believe that is the highest honor one can bestow upon another human being so I replied:

  “Thank you so much but I can’t travel anytime soon, and in this economic climate I don’t think you should be offering to pay for people you don’t know to go on vacation with you, but thanks.”

  IWANNABLOWU responded, “That’s cool. Come over now and I will pay you to blow me.”

  Inviting me on vacation made me feel like at least a high-class escort. Now I felt like a common streetwalker so I blocked him. I know writing is not a lucrative career, but I am not quite ready to enter Hookerville. Yet. I got another message.

  Rimfan88: “You look like you have a nice ass.”

  I found this comment extremely interesting, considering the only picture I have on my profile is that of my face. I responded:

  “You know, rimming is a really good way to get hepatitis.”

  I didn’t hear back from Rimfan88, but shortly after I was asked to pee on someone, and some black guy asked me if I wanted to take part in some sort of gang-banging in Harlem. I politely declined both invitations and moved forward. Then, a twenty-year-old asked me if I wanted to take his virginity. I really had to think about this, but again declined the invite because if he was anything like me he would need a Vicodin and some serious consoling afterward and I still had to deep-condition my hair that day. Taking someone’s virginity is a very personal thing and not something I ever plan on doing again. All of this was very time-consuming, so I decided to get a move on and wait for my iPhone to arrive so I could get grinding. Clearly I was getting nowhere trying to find a boyfriend on Manhunt.

  Week Two

  It was time to begin my second rotation with Tony Horton and his crew of well-toned misfits. Since it was Monday, it was time for another go at the chest-and-back DVD.

  After having done the chest-and-back workout once before and realizing that it was simply a series of pull-ups and push-ups for an hour, I mentally prepared myself for what was to come.

  Just pretend you’re in prison for one hour and have nothing better to do because the other inmates will kill you if they find out you watch One Life to Live, I thought. Think of how this will pay off and how hot you will look the next time you go to Fire Island, I repeated to myself. If you finish this workout you can eat an extra bag of Reese’s Pieces for dinner tonight and not feel bad about it.

  Meditating on these things over and over again not only helped me work out harder but also helped me get through the workout in one piece and without having to stop for a cigarette break. P90X was the hardest thing I had ever attempted to do physically, and considering I am that guy who will literally abandon anything if it’s too hard, I needed to tell myself these things in order to continue. I was really invested in this P90X business and wanted to make it work. I kept chanting to myself and before I knew it, the workout was over and I came out of the ordeal feeling pretty good. That is until I remembered there was a fifteen-minute abdominal workout that I had forgotten about the previous week. I then continued to do the abs workout, almost vomiting the whole time but finishing relatively intact.

  After I was done working out, I decided to check my Manhunt account before heading off to work. My iPhone still hadn’t arrived but I was feeling better than ever about myself. I leaned over my computer to check my e-mail and sweat began to roll off of my face and onto the keys of my computer. It was so goddamn hot outside that I was expecting to look out my window and find a giraffe pop its head in. I was officially in darkest Africa.

  I logged on to Manhunt and saw a very attractive guy named Ben had e-mailed me back. We had a few exchanges over the past few weeks and he asked me if I wanted to grab a bite. Something about the way Ben responded to my e-mails bothered me but I concluded that I needed to take Ron’s advice and at least try to date. He couldn’t have been that bad and I had no plans that weekend, so I agreed to meet Ben that Friday.

  To look as good as possible for my date, I followed the P90X routine to the letter. For the next four days, I did the shoulders-and-arms workout, the legs-and-back workout, the kickboxing workout, and the dreaded plyometrics workout. And maybe because that one-legged bastard was secretly judging me the whole time, I worked out harder than I ever had before. I was starting to feel great and smoke more cigarettes than I thought was humanly possible. Something about Tony Horton and his chain gang of workout buddies made me want to pound cigs after I was through working out. I figured since I had basically just gone through hell, each cigarette that followed a workout was considered a “victory cigarette.”

  That Friday I met up with Ben. He had a shaved head, was about my height, and had a lovely set of pearly whites on him. I love a guy with a big, bright Colgate smile.

  “I’m so happy we’re meeting,” Ben said as the waiter poured water into our glasses. “We’ve been chatting for so long, I guess it’s about time, huh?”

  We sat and ordered our meals and continued talking. All I wanted to do was go downtown on a burger and fries, but I ordered a salad instead. I had eaten nothing but granola bars, bananas, and cigarettes all week and couldn’t ruin my diet now. Besides, I hate eating in front of dates. I always think people are still judging me while I eat. I will always be a fat kid at heart, no matter how skinny I become.

  “So, what is it you do again?” I asked Ben.

  “I’m unemployed right now, but I’m an actor,” he said. “I already know what you do. You’re an alcoholic, right?”

  “Uh, yeah, but that’s not my profession,” I said. Fucking Google ruins every first date for me.

  “Right. I mean, you write about alcoholism?”

  “Among other things.”

  “That’s cool.”

  “So, what are you doing with your spare time since you’re not currently working?” I asked.

  “Not much.”

  “Come again?”

  “Nothing,” Ben said again. “I go to yoga, hang out with friends. That about completes my day.”

  “Seriously?” I asked.

  “Yeah. I don’t do anything.”

  “So do you audition or …?” I trailed off. How do you do nothing all day every day in New York?

  I didn’t know that was possible, there’s almost too much to do in this city.

  “Well, I have a job booked for December, so until then, I am pretty much just hanging out.”

  We sat there and did not chat very much during dinner. As we were eating all I could do was wish that I had ordered that burger instead of the salad I was eating. I was so fucking hungry. Not only that, Ben was so boring, I really didn’t care if he thought I was a fat-ass for eating what I wanted. What a waste of a “first-date salad.” As we ate, Ben just stared at me.

  “You know what?” he said.

  “What’s that?” I was grasping at straws. Anything Ben said had to be more interesting than staring in silence.

  “I sang the basketball song from Promises, Promises for my last audition,” Ben said.

  Perhaps staring at each other in silence was more interesting than what Ben had to say. I tried to pepper the conversation with
my predictions on who I thought was going to win So You Think You Can Dance and we reveled in our mutual love of the movie Boogie Nights. I wondered what Ron was up to. He was probably off at some fabulous party filled with Asians that I wasn’t cool enough to attend. I wondered what Tony Horton was up to. He was probably off in the Hollywood Hills doing bench presses and taking his pent-up rage from all of the steroids he did in the eighties out on some helpless girl with no self-esteem. Hell, I was wondering what the fucking Dalai Lama was up to at that point, and while we’re at it Lorenzo Lamas as well. Ben was so boring that I literally sat there and planned out my meals for the next week, which included granola bars, bananas, cigarettes, and now eggs as well. I deduced that it was best if I at least threw one protein in there.

  As we finished our meals, the waiter approached.

  “Would either of you like—”

  I cut him off. “JUST THE CHECK!” I yelled.

  “Oh,” Ben said. “Are you sure you don’t want—”

  I cut him off, “No, I have to get going.”

  I was going to fall asleep if I had to listen to any more of Ben’s inane ramblings.

  Ben and I said our good-byes and I went home and ate a king-size Kit Kat bar. I was sweating my balls off from the walk home from the subway and had worked up quite the appetite.

  Week Three

  I bulldozed into my third week of the P90X workout. By day fifteen, I was finally beginning to feel better about working out. It took some getting used to, but I was getting the hang of it. That Monday I did the chest-and-back exercises with the greatest of ease. Tuesday I did the shoulders-and-arms workout effortlessly, and on Wednesday I rocked out the legs-and-back workout. Thursday came and went with an amazing kickboxing workout and on Friday I had all but mastered the plyometrics DVD. Tony and I had gone from archenemies to best friends in less than three weeks. I was feeling great about my latest workout endeavor and looking better than ever.

  Saturday afternoon I got a call from an unknown 212 number and picked up.

  “Mr. Rosenberg?” the voice on the other end of the phone said.

  Fuck! I thought, another bill collector.

  “Perhaps. Who is this?”

  “This is Kyle from the Apple store at Lincoln Center. I just wanted to let you know that your iPhone is here and ready for you to pick up today.”

  “OH THANK GOD!” I yelled. Thinking that Kyle probably thought I was a crazy moron (and he wasn’t far off), I replied, “I’m sorry Kyle, I just thought you were a bill collector so I got worried.” I chuckled but got no response. Those Apple employees are like trained robots: They don’t have feelings; they just reprogram your computers and send you on your way. They’re like a one-night stand. They give it to you good once and then you never hear from them again. “All righty, I will be by later to pick up my phone.”

  I didn’t know if I was more excited that a boy was actually calling me or that my iPhone was finally ready, so after work, I ran to the Apple store to pick up my new best friend.

  As soon as I had my iPhone in hand, I went straight back to my apartment and downloaded Grindr, created a profile quickly, and waited for every eligible bachelor on the Upper West Side to find me. While all of this was going down, Ron text-messaged me to remind me about brunch the following morning. I texted Ron back and told him that while I would meet him for brunch the following morning, he needed to communicate with me via Grindr or Internet Scrabble moving forward.

  That night I started approximately 435 Grindr exchanges. I didn’t need booze or even cigarettes anymore: Grindr was my new addiction. I was up all night, talking to strangers, planning dates, and virtually meeting every gay man within a five-mile radius of my apartment. I went to bed on a high.

  Disheveled, I met up with Ron the next morning.

  “Are you drinking again?” Ron asked as he greeted me.

  “Of course not, why?” I asked as I sat down at our table.

  “You look like shit.”

  “Why, thank you Ron, it’s good to see you too,” I replied, “but I’m not the one wearing a tank top with my nipple showing.”

  “I’m hot and I’m starving. Let’s have a three-course brunch,” Ron said. Body be right on Ron but girl loved to eat. That was one of my favorite things about being his friend. Every time we went out for a meal, we ate like champions. And not what you would think your typical Asian fare would be (rice, fish, etc.), but real American food like burgers, fries, and sundaes.

  “How’s the dating coming along?” Ron asked.

  “Well, last week I went on a date with the most boring person I’ve ever met,” I said. “And Grindr is a whole other story. That’s why I look like shit. I was on the goddamn thing all night.”

  “It’s addictive at first, but once you learn how to hone your cravings for it, you’ll figure out it’s the best thing that happened to gay men since the advent of water-based lube.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind,” he said. “It’s too hot to be witty. Did you plan any dates?”

  “That’s the thing,” I said. “I was talking to so many people that I honestly don’t remember what I did.”

  “Girl, you need to keep your shit in check. But I’m proud of you for putting yourself out there.”

  “Thanks,” I replied.

  “BTW, body be looking right right now. How’s P90X coming along?”

  “It’s going well. I still kind of hate Tony Horton, but I’m feeling better.”

  “I hated Tony Horton when I did P90X, but he’s pretty hot. I’d fuck him.”

  “Seriously, Ron, who wouldn’t you fuck at this point?”

  “You!” he said as our food came.

  After gorging on a three-course brunch with Ron, I made my way back to the Upper West Side. As I rounded my corner, a very well-toned Asian man in his late twenties stopped me.

  “Mark?” he asked. “Is that you?”

  Oh my God! A fan! I thought. Weeks earlier, I had run into a girl on the subway who had been such a huge fan of my book that she insisted I tell her any details of my life that weren’t in it and take a picture with her. My fame had finally reached my own block. I was so excited.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Oh my God! Mark, I can’t believe it’s you!” the man said.

  I brushed my hair to the side and wiped the sweat from my brow.

  “It’s me!” I said with a smile.

  “Wow. You’re so much cuter in person,” the man said.

  “Oh, I know!” I replied. “That picture on the back of the book does me no justice whatsoever.”

  “Uh—”

  “Listen, if you live on this street, I would be more than happy to walk back to your apartment and sign your copy of my book for you.”

  “Your book?” the man said.

  “Yeah. My book.”

  “I’m sorry,” the man replied, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh.” I sighed. “I thought you had read my book or my epic blog.”

  “I didn’t know you wrote a book,” the man said. “We spoke on Grindr last night. You told me we could have game night at your apartment this week.”

  Seriously? I thought. I agreed to a game night? On Grindr? WTF?

  “You said you were going to invite your friend Ron over for a night of Celebrity at your place.”

  “Ron?” I said. What the hell was I thinking last night in my delirious state of grinding? Did I have delusions of starting a Pan-Asian alliance on the Upper West Side?

  “Oh,” I said. I felt like such an asshole. Here I was thinking this guy wanted my autograph when all he wanted to do was have some sort of Gaysian networking event at my apartment. “Yeah,” I said, brushing it off, “maybe next weekend?”

  “Sounds great,” the man said as I began to walk away. “Oh, Mark?”

  “Yes?” I said, turning around to face him again.

  “You’re way too skinny. You should eat something.”

 
I turned around and floated home. I was elated. That was the first time another gay man had told me I was skinny. P90X and my iPhone were paying for themselves.

  Week Four

  Just when I had come to love and trust Tony Horton, he switched things up on me. I knew it had to be too good to be true. I was finally getting the hang of the routine when suddenly everything was different.

  Apparently, during week four of P90X, we are to take a break from lifting weights and focus on cardio and core workouts. The first workout during week four is a yoga workout. Having already decided that Tony and I were never going to be able to do yoga in the same room together, I thought it best if I went for a leisurely run outside. We were breezing into July, and it just seemed to be getting hotter, but I figured if I ran outside in the heat I would burn a few extra calories and not feel so bad about skipping over the yoga DVD.

  In high school I ran track but was kicked off the track team when I got caught smoking cigarettes. Ten years later, I found myself running around Central Park in sub-Saharan temperatures for my own enjoyment. As I was making my way back home, I glanced in the rearview mirror of a car parked on my street and couldn’t believe what I saw in the reflection. I was finally the athletic young man that my father had always hoped for. I was in the best shape I had ever been in, and although I was going to smoke a half a pack of cigarettes when I got home, I was a whole new me.

  When I got home, I lit up a victory cigarette and checked Grindr. I was trying to take it easy because the previous week I had gotten so wrapped up in grinding that I had literally lost sleep over it. After a brief twenty-four-hour break, I was thrilled when I received a note from Isaac, an Israeli hottie who wanted a third for a three-way with his boyfriend. I had never been in a three-way before, although I had attempted one earlier in the year that didn’t work out because they didn’t want to ménage with a smoker. I had found that smoking had become a recent problem with daters. No one likes cigarettes anymore. For a country that was founded upon the production of tobacco, I find it a huge slap in the face to our Founding Fathers that no one appreciates smoking anymore. Whenever I would go out with nonsmokers I was constantly looked down upon for my patriotic habit. I would tell said friends that if I was not able to smoke while out with them that there was a good chance I would be forced to fall off the wagon at any moment. I needed to smoke, if for nothing else than the sake of my sobriety. Nevertheless, I found that the best way to tackle this problem was to lie and say I didn’t smoke, shower before meeting my prospective date, then chain-smoke afterward.