Not that I’d been going for dinner and coffee with nervous suitors a heckuva lot, pre-pratfall. And, to be honest, my inbox hasn’t been clogged with messages from people completely taken with my online pics and profile since the accident. In fact, my last date was five months ago. My last online expressions of interest came from a fellow in Dallas with an apparent affinity for photographing himself in the shower and a beastly dude with hairy ears. Seriously hairy. At first, I thought it was a joke in which the guy emulated Tumnus, the faun in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. But every picture, even those taken from a distance showed off the hairy ears. I’m talking ear manes. I assume the guy is targeting a fetish niche.
Technically speaking, the broken foot has zero impact on my dating slump. But I can kid myself into thinking that I was on the cusp of turning things around. I’d been feeling good about myself and, with that confidence, I was ready to send a message to a guy online whom I’d previously dismissed as being “out of my league.”
Can you date on crutches? Well, sure. Pardon the pun, though, I like to put my best foot forward. On dates, I often have nervous energy and, if there’s any chemistry, I like to get up and walk about. The crutches cast needless attention on my natural klutziness. And, as noted in Footnote Number 1, needless attention to a growing gut.
I suppose I could turn this current inconvenience into an advantage. I suspect that more people have foot fetishes than ear hair fixations. I could even add a closeup photo of my cast, a head-on shot with the toes sticking out. Yes, hunky single gays, come play “This little piggy” with me! Still, what if things blossom and playing footsy is not enough come April when I am free of casts and boots? What if he wants me to don a cast for old time’s sake? And what if he wants to cut my toenails and save the clippings?
Yeah, all fetishes are out.
Two decades ago when there was a lively gay bar scene, the crutches might have played to my advantage. I have noticed that my hobbling around provides a conversation starter with strangers. Unfortunately, without a predominant gay gathering place, the informal chats are mainly with seniors who seem to enjoy having a young whippersnapper as an elevator companion on the ferry. They’re all quite lovely, but we’re not exchanging phone numbers.
Realistically, any shot at dating again won’t come until July when I am truly footloose and flabby free. No doubt I’ll be dating with a vengeance by then. Or maybe I’ll realize that the foot is the least of my problems. Sometimes reality is best postponed.