On the way to writing my series of books called “My 10 Million Most Humiliating Moments With Guys,” let’s provide this more-manageable sampler. Believe me, it’ll be way more than enough to give you an idea that life in the middle (as a gossip columnist slash bon vivant) isn’t always such a wet dream come true.
* When I was just starting out as a gay, I was enamored with a guy I’d met in the clubs, though things never got very physical. In fact, one night, when we happened to be laying in bed together, I was certain I was playing with his nipples, but I was so inexperienced that in actuality, I was probably closer to his armpits. “If you’re looking for my nipples, they’re over here,” he barked, guiding my hands.
* In the early ’90s, I would occasionally see a fellow clubbie. We made a date to go to a Times Square club for my birthday. But be careful when you go out with clubbies. The guy got so wasted that the second I turned around, he was gone. I found out he’d escaped to the bathroom to play around with a gay activist. Happy birthday.
* In the same decade, I was dating one guy (let’s call him Fred), but was madly in love with someone else named Joe. Well, one night, Joe cornered me at a club to say something, and I prayed it was going to be that he loved me back. Instead, here’s what he had to offer: “When you break up with Fred, I want to date him.”
Read more: MICHAEL MUSTO: The 12 Most Humiliating Moments of My Life
* Fred happened to be passive-aggressive and had absurd ways of trying to get your attention, stunts that inadvertently drove you away. Once, when he thought I was ignoring him, he left a message on my voicemail saying, “I have AIDS.” I frantically called him back again and again, but he didn’t answer. Soon enough, I found out through a mutual friend that he didn’t have AIDS at all — he was just saying that to get back on my radar. Hey, it worked. I truly took notice of him all over again — and dropped him pronto.
* In addition to being passive-aggressive, Fred happened to be a chronic pot smoker. As a result, he’d never remember half the things he said and often wasn’t reachable, lost in a cloud of his own making. At one point, he had promised to get me a free ticket to go with him on his glamorous business trip to Florida. But one day, he blurted, “Well, I’m off to Florida tomorrow. See you in two weeks. Will you miss me?” I replied, “What? You said you were going to take me!” “I never said that,” he swore, and no amount of arguing was going to get that memory back. Another time, I thought he’d forgotten that he’d promised to take me to dinner, but it turned out he hadn’t forgotten at all. “I did take you to dinner!” he exclaimed. “Remember that time at the diner?” Yes, I did. I’d ordered nothing but a cup (not even a bowl) of soup and some tap water, and he generously picked up the tab. That was my free dinner. Oy.
* I met an impossibly cute guy at a bar and started hanging out with him, wondering what the catch was. Well, the catch was that he seemed to be severely schizophrenic, veering between personalities and behaving wildly inappropriately at times. “I LOVE MICHAEL MUSTO” he screamed in the street — the first time we went out! Other times, he’d call me, not knowing who he was talking to or he’d pretend to be at meetings or he’d launch into a pre-rehearsed bio of himself that was obviously all lies. Sad — but I was glad we stayed just friends and even gladder when I found out he’d lost his cellphone and couldn’t figure out how to reach me.
Read more: MICHAEL MUSTO: The 15 Biggest Insults Ever Hurled at Me
* A guy I met at a gay club seemed nice enough, except that he had a bordering-on-sick obsession with a Russian guy he knew. He would only talk about that guy and whether he might ever have a chance with him. It’s a real seduction toppler to have your date coo, “Oh yeah, baby. I’m so in love — with that Russian guy.”
* At a club called Arena in 2007, a 30-something person jumped me, his tongue out. He said he loved me, adored me, was a fan of every word I’ve ever written, and he wanted to be my man. Utterly flattered, I made a date with him for the next night, anxious for some more ego gratification. We hooked up at a club, but strangely, I found that he suddenly didn’t say one word about me! Instead, he ran a deadeningly boring stream of consciousness about his own life story, starting with childhood, going through the ice-skating years and building up to today, when he was newly single. Oh, yes, he hintingly revealed to me that he’d just broken up with his live-in lover after eight years together and was desperately looking for a new guy to move in. Honey, I moved out of that nightclub and never contacted him again.
* In the mid-aughts, a drunk who lurks around the Village was always lurching up to me and trying to get romantic. I never bit the bait, but that hardly dampened the drunk’s flames. A couple of years ago, he came up to me at a bar and tried the same Salome routine. To ward him off, I said, “Didn’t you just mention that you have a boyfriend?” “Yeah,” he responded, “but he’s seen pictures of you, and he said it’s OK.” Yikes! I was horrified that (A) This person who only exists in the recesses of my existence had somehow discussed me with his boyfriend, and (B) The boyfriend saw what I look like and decided I’m not a threat!
* Last year, I was at the bar Eastern Bloc when a 40-ish bearded dude from Brooklyn started chatting me up and dancing with me. I wasn’t even thinking of this as a potential love situation — I was just having a passably nice time. At one point in the night, the guy became insistent that we go outside and have a smoke. I don’t smoke, but came along and watched as he did so, since this obviously meant a lot to him. But outside, in the brighter light, he seemed to be scoping me out, burrowing into me with his eyes. I figured he was trying to see what I really look like and/or how old I am, and that’s why he’d dragged me out there in the first place. Sure enough, once we got back inside, he stopped talking to me and started flirting with someone else! I would have been absolutely mortified by this turn of events except (A) I didn’t like him that way anyway, and (B) The bring-them-in-the-light-before-you-go-home-with-them trick is something I’ve long advocated myself! Taste of my own!
Michael Musto is a contributing journalist for TheBlot Magazine.
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