A Night at the Café (Part Two)

With his diminutive frame and close-cropped hair, Greg wasn't the kind of guy I'd find attractive ... but his easygoing demeanor won me over. When he told me that he was a 41-year-old sous chef who was bisexual, I was taken aback by his age; most of the patrons were in their 20s and 30s. He asked me to dance ... and since the disc jockey was spinning music that brought out my inner Fatima Robinson, I took him up on his offer.

The crowd was split between the sexes, and all was going well until Greg tried to lift my shirt. I knocked his hands down and told him that he didn't know me well enough to pull such a stunt. He said he wasn't trying to be fresh, and urged me not to make a scene. At that point, he told me about a gay mating ritual where if two men are interested in each other, they'll lift each other's shirts and press their chests together. I didn't know what to make of this information, but I told him that I was keeping my clothes on. (The only reason I continued socializing with him was because I felt I could hold my own against him if we ended up in a fight.)

After exchanging a few kisses, we left the club to eat at a nearby diner. Greg extended an invitation for me to spend the night with him, but I declined. Going down the path of sex without love is a road best left not traveled, for there's no guarantee of short-term pleasure -- only long-term emptiness. (I also thought he was a lousy kisser.) We parted ways on a cordial note, and I watched him walk down the street before hailing a cab back to the hostel.