Single & Fabulous? | How moving to New York restored my faith in men

His hands twitched on the table, and I could see the fear in his eyes. We’d initially bonded over our anxiety, but I hadn’t factored that it would wage a war with my dating column and hinder our romantic progression. Because that’s the part that Sex And The City didn’t show you, where guys are petrified of having their personal lives played out for public entertainment.

Probably a hundred people asked what I was doing in New York and every time I told them the same thing; I was here for inspiration, to network, and see more of the world. All of which were true, but as cliché as it sounds, I wanted to fall in love. Of course I did, because why else would I be writing a dating column and trolling round New York like Carrie cunting Bradshaw if I wanted less than that? But let’s call it a multi-purpose trip for the sake of my dignity.

It was a few weeks ago I met The Doctor on the rooftop of The Standard, Sunday at sunset. I noticed him, wearing this cool denim jacket with a leather collar; the perfect excuse to strike up a conversation. I asked what he did, and expected him to say a dancer, or an “actor”, so was surprised (and impressed) when he said doctor. I thought buff doctors were just a Grey’s Anatomy myth.

I’d hoped he worked in cardiology ‘cause I was having heart palpitations – but an oncologist was a pretty good consolation. A killer smile, and yet he could cure cancer; now that’s a deadly combination. Besides, if he could cure cancer, perhaps he could rescue my terminal love life.

But it was something about his energy and his aura that I couldn’t quite put my finger on, (but knew I wanted to). I’d become so accustomed to dates  – and disappointments – that I rarely got nervous anymore; and yet here I was, having finally arranged to hang out a couple weeks later, sweating like I’d never done it before.

The first thing he did was pull a seat out for me in front of the AC, and then took his own seat on the floor, so I didn’t have to move. His manners gave me an instant boner. This is what bad boys have yet to learn: a gentleman is far sexier than a drug dealer who slaps his dick round your chops, then fly-kicks you into a yellow taxi.

His original plans were to rent a toll-booth where you sit intimately and get to know each other for an hour, with your own personal bar tender. Even by New York standards, his initiative for a unique and thoughtful first date won by far.

Even though that’s not what we ended up doing, it didn’t matter. He took me to a restaurant where we sipped Rosélitas on the patio. Rosélitas are a mixture of rosé wine and margaritas (also known as: a guaranteed way to fuck you up). And as we chatted I felt what Carrie would call the ‘zsa-zsa-zsu’. For anyone that doesn’t speak over-analytical twat, that’s butterflies.

I liked the scar on his nose that he got when he was bit by a dog as a kid, and loved even more that he chose not to change it. I liked the way he rambled when talking. And I was even endeared by his concerns about being reduced to the ‘subject’ of a column.

As I saw the uncertainty in his eyes, those pretty brown eyes, I suddenly realised that if my career is sabotaging something real, then perhaps it’s not what I wanted anymore. I was living my dream job, but what good was that if it defeated its purpose? I tried not to write about him, but how could I not? He was the only guy worth mentioning since I’d been here. He’d already ticked so many boxes, but there was no pretense, or façade – and I respect men that are just real.

In the days that followed, I obsessed, a lot. Even though we had kissed, it was hard to read because we were under the influence.

He’d mentioned that he was going through a break-up, so perhaps the timing wasn’t right. Perhaps it was the daunting thought of being here, in this article, and reading about himself. Or perhaps he didn’t feel as much of a spark as I did. But not knowing how he felt, I allowed whatever we had dissolve into a cloudy mix of love interest and friend-zone. Granted, not the cocktail I’d usually order.

Maybe I was scared to really pursue things in case I fucked them up, or got my ego bruised, or dented my pride. But I also didn’t want to force something on somebody that wasn’t ready.

Although how he felt was impossible to decipher, what I did know – was that I’d met a genuinely sweet guy; the kind you don’t meet often on the gay scene. Or anywhere. And there’s always space for people like that in my life, in whichever form, even friends.

Sometimes you feel a connection that just doesn’t develop the way you want, but that’s life. I think too often we shun great guys just because we’re not going to fuck them. But there’s more to life than a storyline, and there’s more to men than dick. So even if it never led to anything more, I didn’t feel rejected… I felt relieved. Relieved to know that there were diamonds in this rough, rough world of dating.

Anthony Gilét is a London (and currently New York)-based writer, blogger and YouTuber – follow him on Twitter and Instagram. To read more from the Single & Fabulous? series click here.