In high school I went on my first, last and only blind date. The boy’s name was Gordo. My best friend at the time, a sensitive, fun and imaginative gay boy named N, arranged for Gordo and I to go to a homecoming dance together.
Being, at the time, pudgy, pale and under-bite ridden, dating was something foreign and mystical to me. The only dates I’d ever been on were when I went with N to family functions and parties, serving as his “beard.” Getting the chance to go on a real date felt like a rare and special treat. And, too young to realize the problematic social issues that usually accompany a blind date, I was a bit excited.
On the day of my “date” I preened and primped, scrunched my bangs into a well-coifed wave, put on my Baby Soft perfume, and wore my finest dress from Forever 21.
Gordo arrived at my house with a lovely rose for me. He’d taken the liberty of calling me prior to the occasion to find out what color dress I was wearing. Sweet, indeed. I really liked that about Gordo. I noticed his quiet, sweet demeanor right away. I also could not help but notice the slight lisp that Gordo possessed and the side long glances he took at N while Gordo, me, N and his date posed for pre-dance photos.
Later, I could not help but notice when Gordo ordered peaches and cottage cheese for dinner and told me that his dream job was to be a dancer in a cabaret.
Half-way through I pulled N aside and said, “What the hell is going on? Who did you set me up with?”
N looked at his feet. He looked at the wall. He looked at the ceiling. He looked everywhere but in my eyes. He tried to shuffle away and I threatened to beat the shit out of him if he didn’t tell me right that minute why he’d set me up with someone who obviously had more interest in him than in me.
“Well,” N said slightly ashamed, “Gordo and I have been eyeing each other for awhile and I knew we wouldn’t be able to go to the dance unless he went with you so I figured you wouldn’t mind if you know you were…”
“His beard!” I screamed, bursting into tears. “Just say it! It’s bad enough that I’ve been your beard for 3 years and now I have to be Gordo’s too! I thought I was going on a real date! You got my hopes up! You could have just told me!”
“I know,” N said pitifully, “but you’re not very good at being a beard when you know that’s what you’re doing. I’m sorry, but you’re a terrible liar.”
“What?” I said, shocked.
“You’re a terrible liar. You’d give it away. No one in my family actually believes we’re dating,” N said softly.
“Oh,” I said, genuinely regretful, “I mean I can try harder. Next time, do you want me to stick my tongue down your throat?”
N quivered and a look resembling nausea passed over his face. He quietly said, “Please don’t. I shouldn’t have said anything. Just, eck, please don’t kiss me.”
“Fine,” I said, “But I do want to get better at this. I mean what use am I to you if I can’t serve as your beard occasionally?”
“Don’t worry about it, Honey,” N said consolingly, “You’re good at other things. Like letting me help you pick out cute dresses from Forever 21 and constantly reminding me of how late I am. Now, that’s friendship.”
