TRAY BUTLER

For their third date, my caustic friend Kirk decided to raise the stakes on romance—using painkillers. He had met the guy in a hole-in-the-wall karaoke bar, where their gin-soaked conversation led to a behind-the-scenes blowjob right there in the pub. Which is why we referred to the new beau simply as "Coat Check."

Although 2 acceptable (and far more respectable) dates had followed, their outings kept ending with hugs instead of the hot monkey sex Kirk expected. Kirk’s instincts, and their porn scenario first encounter, told him that Coat Check wanted more, yet he kept sending inconsistent signals. How could a tiger that once pounced so fast, now act like a passive pussycat?

Tired of hugs, Kirk turned to drugs. The following weekend, he invited Coat Check over for some cocktails and painkillers—you know, the new dinner and a movie. His rationale: After a couple of Loritabs, surely somebody would end up with his legs in the air. Coat Check showed up on time and agreed to the game plan. But, a pill and a half later, the date settled into its familiar pattern. No clothes were shed, and the sofa was once again turning into a platonic tundra. I guess at this point Kirk just snapped. Courageous from the chemicals, he finally asked, "This is our third date, and we haven’t made out yet. Don’t you find me at all attractive?"

Coat Check sobered up quickly, all the color draining from his face. "This is a date?" he said.

And then it was painfully—and hilariously—clear. Despite the initial hummer (a mere handshake in the gay world), Coat Check thought they were just friends. Kirk had misconstrued the whole thing, and I suppose his confusion is rather understandable. We’ve all endured the mind-boggling ordeal of trying to track a guy’s thoughts. One week, he’s sending you 17 texts per day, the next he’s disappeared like Natalee Holloway.

But, Kirk’s misadventures made me wonder: Do all gay men send mixed messages, or are some of us just naïve? I thought of my own experience trying to decipher the smoke signals from a former fling. After months of miscommunication, I finally called the whole thing off. We eventually settled into a comfortable—if sometimes confrontational—friendship. Curious to see what a repeat mixed-message offender would say, I called him up and related Kirk’s situation.

"I don’t think guys really send mixed messages," he said. "But, I do think we’re the ultimate Darwinists. We’ll do whatever it takes to get what we want, whether it’s a boyfriend or just a trick."

"Is that really Darwinism?" I asked. "Sounds more like simple dishonesty."

"Yeah, it’s not really survival of the fittest," he said. "It’s more like survival of the selfish."

He makes a good point, even if I can’t surrender to such a pessimistic view of male-male relations. But, I do think he’s onto something with the survival theory. For many of us, surviving adolescence meant learning how to mask our true feelings. Those who could camouflage same-sex attraction and blend in with the herd were less likely to be picked on, or picked off. By the time we reach maturity, we’ve spent so many years covering our true colors that some of us scarcely know what those colors are anymore. Then comes the chance to mingle with others from our species, and what do we do but continue the charade. The former prey becomes the predator, stalking the next big conquest.

In Kirk’s case, the charade meant mixing pills and liquor, and daring to hope that a sleazy late-night hook-up could lead to something more meaningful—or at least to more hook-ups. His gamble led to disaster on all sides, though I suspect that both parties learned something from the experiment. Dating really is such a messy affair, but then, so is evolution.

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