Dirk stares the offline message from Caleb he received while sleeping:

“IM me when you get a chance, man. Today is my first day off after 17 in a row. I’m enjoying a few days of R&R back home and would love to get together.”

Would love to get together.

Dirk ponders the meaning of the words. Would love to get together and grab a bite to eat and catch up up on what’s happening in our lives? Or would love to get together and shove my cock down your throat, using my hand on the back of your head to set the rhythym? It’s hard to know from the brevity of the message. And from the writer’s incredibly spotty track record in regards to actually “getting together.” On the times he has mentioned doing so, the spots Caleb has suggested have seemed rather lacking to Dirk: the household detergent aisle at the local Super K at midnight; a truck stop off the interstate; the parking lot of a now defunct factory; behind a grain elevator. And while it is obvious that only a person with no pride would agree to any of those suggestions, Dirk has — on more than one occasion. Each time, Caleb has backed out at the last minute.

And, despite the previous disappointments, Dirk sends a response.

“Hey, Caleb! I’ll be out doing some last minute Christmas shopping tomorrow morning if you’d be interested in meeting up for some breakfast. Give me a call or shoot me an e-mail and let me know.”

He presses send. And immediately regrets it.

The message sounded desperate, clingy, too chummy — something. He’s not sure what, but it sounded wrong. Maybe it was the exclamation mark. It’s so hard to know if the casual off-handedness he hoped for was accurately conveyed in the IM. He’s sure it’s not.

Dirk hates looking like the desperate older man. Actually, Dirk just hates looking desperate.

Dirk wishes he had never responded at all. Then he wishes he were thinner, younger, smarter, taller, more muscular, better looking — in that order.

An hour later, he receives a reply from Caleb.

“Sweetie, I’m already back home. I just got back a little while ago. I’ll give you a heads up the next time I am coming to town.”

Dirk reads the brief message over and over, unsure what he hopes to glean from it.

On the one hand, Dirk feels like a fool for even entertaining the notion a man like Caleb would ever be desperate enough to meet him. On the other hand, the use of “Sweetie” is even worse — it makes him feel like the butt of a joke, as does most any term of endearment.

He stares at the message for several minutes, not sure what he is feeling. And then, it hits him.

He’s disappointed.

Disappointed in a way more profound than he would have thought possible. Despite his best efforts to deny it, Dirk was looking forward to finally meeting the man he’s gotten to know over the last year via IMs, e-mails, and phone conversations. The man who has dedicated his life to healing others. The man who volunteers to help the terminally ill. The man who loves the same silly things Dirk does.

Dirk looks at the keyboard and types a message, then deletes it. Then types another. And deletes it as well.

What’s the point? What is there to say?

Right now, nothing.

But not because he’s angry at Caleb — because he’s angry at himself.

It seems as though my car has hiccuped and died, kids. Gone to that big lemon lot in the sky. Which sucks ass in a MAJOR way. Because I think I had a date Friday night.

With Caleb.

At long last.

“Think you had a date?” you are probably asking your monitor right now. “Is this fag for real? He doesn’t know?”

Actually, no, I don’t. Not for sure. It seems as though it has been strongly implied, but we are both too shy to come right out and refer to it as such. He, because he has been burned badly by his ex. Me, because I have been burned badly by my ex(es). And because he had to ask me what “Jessie’s Girl” was when I referenced it in a conversation.

Oy. I am feeling so Mary Kay Latourneau right now.

After a couple of weeks of incredibly beautiful weather (including some magnificent thunderstorms), Mother Nature has decided to piss in our collective mid-western cornflakes by serving up a helping of 30 degree weather and drizzle in the overnight hours. From 72 to 31 is quite a jump in the span of 12 hours, but it’s nothing new in these parts. What is interesting is that the drop in the temperatures seems to coincide with the rather chilly reception I have gotten from both Michael and Caleb over the last 24 hours.I called Michael yesterday morning to touch bases and see where his upcoming job promotion stood. My phone calls and e-mails over the past week had gone unanswered but I had chalked that up to a full schedule and the upcoming professional changes. I think I might have read that wrong. His answers were perfunctory, leaving me to carry the brunt of trying to generate any sort of conversation whatsoever. After about fifteen minutes of enduring my inane babbling, Michael stated that he was in the process of doing a load of laundry and needed to go so that he could transfer his clothes the two feet from the washer to the dryer. And with that, he hung up. No bye, take care, kiss my ass. Nothing.

Caleb was a bit more perplexing. Following a three hour phone conversation we had shared on Saturday night regarding the dynamics of a successful relationship and what we were both looking for, Caleb said good night. Not twenty minutes later, he called me back and we talked for nearly another forty-five minutes, during which time it seemed as though we were both on the verge of formally asking the other out on a official date at several points. Of course, the spectres of our disasterous prior relationships reared their ugly heads and we both skulked off to our safe, solitary corners. Sunday afternoon, he called again and we talked for nearly and hour. Everything seemed fine. Then last night, I called him and it was like he had no idea who I was. The few responses he gave had to be pulled from him (and since my first query was “can you talk right now?” so I’m sure it wasn’t an issue of not being able to speak freely). I may be a lot of things but I am not someone who foists himself on others when he’s not welcome, so after about five minutes of “yes,” “no,” and “good” sprinkled in between incredibly awkward silences, I told him I needed to get going and he responded with “yeah, okay…talk to you again some time.”

Now, before you lambast me with vicious invectives, label me a deceptive two-timer, and demand I begin sewing scarlet “A”s to all my best t-shirts, let me clear up two points. First of all, Michael knows I talk to Caleb. In fact, he has encouraged me to foster the relationship and see where it may go because as he points out, if we are going to make a go of it together there should be no question in my mind that he is the one I want. Second, Caleb knows about Michael and has said that he believes that he is the better man for me and is going to prove it. If one asks about the other, I answer their question in a forthright manner but do not offer up extraneous information to make the other jealous.

Which begs the question, “What would Felicity do if the two men she was torn between treated her like that?” And of course the answer is sleep with Simon Rex from her art class. Or sleep with her professor’s son and adopt a homeless dog which she ultimately has to put down by the end of the episode. Or sleep with the handsome doctor at the clinic where she is serving time for breaking into the campus pool after hours and swimming drunk. Or go to a frat party, get drunk, play strip ping-pong, go home with a frat boy, and have pics of the two of them in bed sent out in a mass e-mail to the student body.

Huh. You know looking back, that Felicity was kind of a dumb bitch –and slutty to boot. Maybe she wasn’t a good role model for college girls and gay men after all.

I think I’ll just set Michael and Caleb up on a date and save myself for John Stamos.

“Hi. I’m Caleb. 29, male.”

That was the opening line of Caleb, a slightly chubby, adorably nerdy (and now) 30 year-old Jewish doctor that I met online last June. Since I was seeing Michael and I feel very uncomfortable even talking to younger men, I was brusque and tried to blow him off. But Caleb was persistent for some reason and I was soon won over by his easy charm and sweet sense of humor. Since that initial conversation, I could count on one hand the number of days we’ve gone without talking for at least an hour or two. We’ve seen each other on cam and talked on the phone, yet have never met.

We’ve talked for hours at a time about our likes, dislikes, beliefs, values, you name it. We share the same tastes in films, television, and food. We can discuss anything and we make each other laugh. And when I think about him, I get a goofy feeling in my chest. Of course at my age, that may be angina.

He’s asked me out to dinner a couple of times and I’ve agreed to meet him but something has come up at the last minute both times (once with his job, the other with mine). And with each foiled meeting, he seems more persistent in wanting to talk to me. Leaving messages and e-mails to say he is thinking about me and looking forward to the day we actually meet face to face. From there, he says, we will either find one of the best friends either of us has ever had or maybe the partner we’ve both been looking for. Sometimes I think he may be right about both.

And then I think what if Caleb and I really do hit it off. And then I think about Michael. And about the age difference between Michael and myself, between Caleb and myself. And about how you never really know if you are making the right decision. And I think about how much it hurts when someone tells you it is over…or that it is never going to happen at all.

And that’s when I realize how hard it is to be an adult.