There’s a fine line between metrosexuals and homosexuals but it’s really not clear through the interchange of emails or between instant chat texts. You really have to meet someone face to face to find out their true colors – and exactly how many fabulous colors their personality is a propos.

“B” seemed like a regular guy at first except for the fact that he mentioned that he completely loathes sports and admitted to having a secret soft spot for the Jerry Springer Show because “you never know what kind of kooky people will be on it.”

Right there I should have raised a warning rainbow flag – what straight male uses the word “kooky” in reference to what is clearly “redneck” and “white trash” folks appearing on a depraved talk show? I could almost hear him giggle at the utterance of “kooky” behind his computer screen. On an aside, to be fair, the word “kooky” might only subjectively rub me the wrong way and sound flamboyant to my ears in its reminding me of the pet name my gay friend Joe uses for something that comes out of his ass but I regress from the topic at hand.

Admittedly, it was “B’s” fondness for Jerry Springer that drew me to him. I completely understood his fascination with the hicks I love watching on the show too. I love the freaks and lowlifes that strut the stage as if there’s nothing wrong with incest or being a KKK leader. I love how you’re guaranteed to see someone expose themselves in a fit of passion and excitement, as if they can’t help but be so revved up on national TV.

Based on our mutual reverence for a crass daytime talk show TV parading the scum of society, I figured we’d have a lot to talk about in person so I put on the pants in our non-existent relationship, adopted a pair of balls and gathered up the courage to ask “B” out.

He suggested a wine bar in Chelsea. Wine was fine with me so I agreed. Days later, I went to meet him at his “favorite” bar. When I walked in, it was hard to figure out who “B” was because I was the only girl in there. And it didn’t help that no man looked my way so I couldn’t really make eye contact with anyone I even thought might possibly be “B”.

“Great,” I thought to myself. “This isn’t uncomfortable in the least bit.” Scanning the room, the only single guy I could see was seated on a stool at the bar which made me think this was who I came to meet. I made a beeline toward him, and then standing beside him, tilted my head to get a better frontal look and realized this was not “B”. To my horror, the guy spoke loud enough to embarrass me, “Excuse me? Do I know you?”

Just then, in the knick of time, I heard someone sing my name behind me. “Hello, helloooo!” A voice said, approaching. Then I see a man skipping. Waving his arm in the air, it was painfully clear, he was gay and I was in a gay bar with a gay man who had drawn me into the depths of his closeted cellar. “Well throw me a friggin’ corkscrew,” I thought to myself with disdain.

“B!” I leaped up and greeted him in return trying to parlay as sincere a smile as I could. “It’s…. You!” I stumbled for words which was proving more difficult as my eyes scanned his outfit. His attire, Ryan Seacrest would revere. His shirt was far tighter and his designer jeans much skinnier than mine. His skin glowed of self-tanner and I could swear I smelled exotic flowers in my midst. The ultimate clincher and deal breaker was a pinky ring glistening in the light that pretty much solidified I was brought here to be this guy’s beard.

While he chattered away about Liberace knows what, I rationalized to myself how I’ve been in plenty of scenarios  I didn’t want to be in and have always come out on top – okay, poor wording in this case but anyway. So I ordered a Pinot Noir, following “B’s” highly endorsed lead. We clinked glasses and toasted to the discomfort of JDate and the whole protocol behind meeting someone online and then face-to-face. Then “B” began motor-mouthing with stories about his recent trip to Europe. This continued into a tirade on how, in his opinion, guys in America dress like vagrants whereas Italians have flair.

This invoked a deep internal debate for me. Could “B” just be emanating Euro-flair with attire I only perceived as gay? Or was he really and truly gay but not yet out of the closet?

I decided, I have no fucking clue. I’ve never had such a hard time telling or not telling if someone was gay. This forced me to concur that there’s no clear cut between what Americans call “metrosexual” these days and what is conceivably, strictly homosexual. Given that conclusion, the only thing I could think of doing to clarify “B’s” sexual orientation was to flat out ask him one question.

“How did things end with your ex-girlfriend?” I probed.

He seemed to have slight trouble swallowing his wine as if I was coming straight out of left field. After clearing his throat, he replied with a question, “Which ex-girlfriend?”

“Your most recent one, I guess,” I continued, firm, waiting for an answer.

“She cheated on me,” he shrugged and looked deep in his wine glass.

“How long were you two together?” I further inquired.

“Two months,” he bit his lower lip and looked away, as if he wasn’t interested in having this conversation but too bad because I was.

“I’m sorry,” I sympathized. “Where did you meet her?”

“On JDate,” he responded.

I was really curious now. This was getting interesting. “So how many dates did you go on before you established you two were an item?”

“What do you mean? We were like, dating for two months in total,” he said, defensive. “I mean, I wasn’t dating anyone else at the time. And she just like one day told me she doesn’t want to see me anymore because she met someone else.” He paused. And then continued, “To be honest, it’s for the best. We’re total opposites. Turns out, she lied on her profile and saying likes art and foreign films but I think she just did it to look smart.”

Uh huh.

It was becoming clear to me now. This guy was a serial beard-hunter. Truthfully, I felt bad for him. I wanted to hug him and tell him it’s okay to be gay. Instead, I did what any good beard would do. I changed topics.

“So what do you think of yesterday’s Jerry Springer Show? The transsexual couple who adopted a baby from Vietnam?” I asked.

“Oh. My. God!!!” he accentuated each syllable and squeaked. “So wrong. But then again, so amazing! Like, look at the world we live in!”

We ordered another glass and continued to talk in hushed voices about the déclassé subject matter.

As I got progressively tipsier, I couldn’t help but spew, “Hey B. What’s with the pinky ring?”

He chuckled and covered his mouth like a schoolgirl. “I know. You think it’s gay, right?”

“You don’t say,” I joked, sarcastic.

We both laughed. “B” put his head on my shoulder as if we we’ve been friends forever. And I was totally cool with that. I dug him as a person. Because of that, I didn’t want to bug him anymore about his sexuality. Whatever he was, was fine with me.

A month later, after we’d hung out as just friends a few times, without any conversation about romantic possibilities ever arising between us, “B” came out of the closet. I was the first person he told. He expected me to be a little more shocked and when I wasn’t, he wondered why not.

I tapped my pinky finger on his knee, playfully and smiled. At that, we both laughed.

“Really?” he asked. “Is that what gave it away?”

“That’s not the only thing…”

There was a moment of comfortable, all-knowing silence between us as we sipped our lattes in Central Park that afternoon.

But secretly, I couldn’t help but resent him for being gay. If only he were straight, we’d be a perfect couple. But isn’t that the old common adage? The best ones are always gay? I wonder who said it first and why did they jinx the rest of us with that statement?

Photo credit: Fifth Ave, Gay Pride Parade New York.