Bitter Betty and the perfect man

Not one but two ideal men Photo credit: Laverrue/Flickr

Forget everything about my married business man and my egocentric artist – I’ve reached a new high on the scale of unrealistic love interests.

I met him at a friend’s party a couple of nights ago. I was instantly charmed by his flirtatious smile and, well, equally pleased with his big, well-shaped upper arms. We laughed and joked and talked for about an hour, and he didn’t seem to take his eyes off me. Then, just as I thought I had nailed it, he gestured towards a man in a suit and said: “Let me introduce you to my boyfriend!”

It is difficult to pretend to be delighted to meet someone who has just ruined your new wedding plans, but I must admit the boyfriend was lovely. He entertained us with the story of how he met the man of my life at the local fire station where he works. Meanwhile, I drowned my disappointment in five cheese and pickle sandwiches that I wouldn’t otherwise have munched right next to two such fine examples of the male species.

Whilst listening to their love story, I kept smirking at the irony that the man of my dreams was gay. His alpha-male aura of testosterone made my ovaries beg to be fertilized.

I couldn’t believe it would never happen. Perhaps it just hadn’t occurred to me that he might be gay because there was nothing blatantly “gay” about him. But then, why should he be indicating a private matter like his sexuality in the way he dressed, talked or walked?

Why did I expect to be able to tell such things about people I’d only just met? Wouldn’t I personally be annoyed if someone thought they could detect my sexual preferences in the course of a party conversation? If they scanned me with their eyes and went “Oh, she’s one of those romantically deprived, try-sexual wannabe-bridezillas who thinks she’s got a chance with everyone who talks to her”. Of course I’d be annoyed.

I guess I’ve been one of those people who claim to be all open-minded and tolerant, yet tied up to my own prejudices of what I’m tolerant of. I think I deserve the irony. When I ended things with my artist, I partly blamed his flamboyant use of hairspray and the way I once saw him run around in his flat with his arms raised, causing his much too tight t-shirt to lift so you could see his waxed lower belly, whilst screaming at the top of his voice because he had found a mouse in his cupboard. Not “man enough” for me, I thought.

Now I’ve found the perfect man, and it turns out I’m the one who is not man enough for him.