Profiling ...

I was profiled!

First, let me just tell you a little about myself.  Sure, I like guys.  I mean give me a Chris Meloni or Jason Statham and what's not to like.  I like men who are men.  I really do have a wide range where it comes to "type", but men who can grow a beard in less than a week and don't shave their chest, legs and arms (to cut back on wind resistance) are at the top of my list.  There are too many physical features to mention that make up my perfect type of guy, but the type I'm not attracted to in the least are overly feminine guys or guys who smell as if they rolled around on the sampler tray at the Macy*s fragrance counter.

For as long as I can remember, I've kinda had a thing for older guys and guys that are taller than me (yeah, I know, Ric...not hard to find...blah, blah, blah).  But, being in my mid-forties now, the younger generation has it's appeals as well.

Another turn-off for me are labels.  Now, I'm not talking about 'tops', 'bottoms', 'bears', 'cubs', 'otters', 'twinks' and things like that.  I'm talking about Armani, Versaci, D&G, CK, Gucci and any other overpriced label you can sew into the back of a shirt.  I put my jeans on one leg at a time just like everyone else and my ass wouldn't know the difference between a $50 pair of jeans and a $200 pair (both literally and figuratively).

Levis have been around for more than 150 years and hold up better than an expensive AX pair (which would probably be replaced less than a year later when the following season's style comes out).  I don't have the money to throw away on designer labels, but even if I did what would be the point outside of trying to impress someone else?  I'm not out to impress anyone.  As Popeye once said, I am what I am (note how I didn't reference Gloria Gaynor).

Gay icons (Madonna, Diana, Judy, Barbara, Ga-Ga) don't do it for me either.  I'm not going to feel ostracized because I cannot sing the lyrics to The Trolley Song (yes, I had to google it).

I eat what I want, when I want.  The exercise I do is done to keep my heart going, not to be able to remove my shirt the first sunny day when the temperature hits 70.  I go to bars to drink beer, meet friends and occupy a stool for some conversation, not stand silently in a corner posing like I'm advertising high above Times Square.  It takes me exactly fourteen minutes to shave, shower, dry and dress in the morning and I rarely take a last look in the mirror before heading out the door.  Again, not out to impress. 

I like action movies, not chick flicks (except Steel Magnolias, but it's because of the sarcasm spewed throughout the film).  Although I've enjoyed the ones I've seen, I'm not one to head up to New York to see the latest Tony Award winning play or musical.  I can count on one hand the number of musicals I've seen...4:  Titanic, Miss Saigon, Les Miserables and Cabaret.  That doesn't include the 2 or 3 I've seen in a movie version.

So, with all that being said, a few months ago I was having drinks with a group of friends at Uncles.  I stepped outside to have a cigarette.

It was a Sunday evening and, coming from work, I was dressed halfway decent in a pair of jeans (Levis), boots, a buttoned shirt and sport coat.  While resting against a post, legs casually crossed and a Marlboro in my hand, I spot a man across the street looking over in my direction.  Not comfortable being stared at, I changed position and stepped slightly in the alley, around the corner to the entrance to the bar.  I thought this move would show the man that a) I wasn't interested and b) I didn't want trouble.

As I stole a glance in his direction again, I noticed this time he was crossing the street.  I took a drag of my cigarette and turned back onto the street infront of the picture window looking into the bar.  I wasn't going to back down, but at least this way, if he started with me, I can just bang on the glass for help.

The man was somewhere in his 20's, skinny with a couple days growth on his chin, his walk was brisk and determined.  He wore a light jacket, unbuttoned but held closed with a long bony hand.  I watched as he made his way in my direction, glancing briefly to the west for oncoming cars.  I took another long drag of my cigarette, trying to look cool, but feeling my heart begin to beat harder.

When most people on the street make a deliberate detour like this guy, it's usually to ask you for a cigarette. I tried to look away in disinterest, but the guy stopped directly infront of me.

"Do you want to buy a movie?"

I looked at him quizzically, not prepared for that type of question.  But before I could decline, he opened his jacket to reveal 3 DVD boxes he pulled out from an inside pocket.

Was it Diehard 1, 2 and 3?... No.

Was it a bootleg version of the latest Harry Potter?... No.

Was it some old Bruce Lee movie?... No.

It was not one, not two, but three copies of Rent.  I looked at him and shook my head politely and then quickly dropped my cigarette into the recepticle and headed back inside Uncles.

As I'm heading back to my barstool, I'm thinking to myself why me?  Aside from smoking a cigarette outside of a gay bar, why would he think I would leap at the chance to own a street copy of a 5 year old musical?  And if he thought I would want to buy a copy so much as to do a transaction on the sidewalk, why wouldn't I already own a copy?

I sat down on my barstool, took a long swig of beer and looked at my friend, Michael.

"You know what?"  I asked.  "I think I was just profiled."

He didn't get it at first until I told him the story.  He then burst out laughing and made me relay the story to Ric and Louis.  Now, I didn't think this was a stomach clenching funny kind of a story, but it quickly made it's way around the bar and, within a couple of days, the running joke was my watching musicals like porn.

But that wasn't where the story ended either.  God, I wish it did, but that night became stranger yet when, about an hour or so later, I went out for another cigarette.

I said that the DVD story made it around the bar, but more like friend to friend.   It wasn't like a whispering grapevine that got so bent out of shape that it came back to me with  "Pssst, did you hear about that guy who slept with a street person for a copy of Rent?"  In fact, by this time, the only people to know what happened were the three I was hanging with and the bartender.

Anyway, I'm outside having my cigarette.  When I came out, there were already a few other guys smoking as well, but one guy who I know just as a face in the crowd was well on his way to becomming horizontal.  He swayed back and forth, his cigarette held loosely in his hand.  His speach was so slurred, it was almost it's own language and his eyes had the glassy look of someone just coming out of anesthesia.  He was talking to his friends about something that had to do with New York.  I couldn't quite make out what was being said and I didn't try too hard to figure it out.  But for some reason, his bloodshot eyes landed on me and he leaned in my direction (almost hitting the tipping point, but catching himself).

He looked at me and, in one long drawn out slurred together sentence, said:  "Hey!! Youlikebroadwayright?"

"What?"  I asked, thinking someone put him up to this because no...no I can NOT be profiled again.

"You look like you like Broadway."

"Broad Street is that way."  I answered, trying not to laugh.

"Not street!  WAAAAY!  Donchalike it?"

"I don't really do Broadway."

"What?  Waddaayamean?  You GODDA like Broadway!"

"Why?"

"Cause isss fun!" 

I went inside to replay part 2 of my night to my friends...