Whoever said you find love when you stop looking is a liar. I have tried looking and not looking and pretty much everything besides a witch doctor. I mean, the closest I've gotten is buying some rose quartz. Everyone goes through a "spiritual phase". Get over it. The worst that would happen would be me having a pretty stone to look at. Cost benefit ratio favours the quartz.
A little about me. I hate this question but here it goes. I'm Zane. I'm 5 11". Black hair. Brown eyes. South African Indian (yes, with the body hair to boot). I believe I'd be known as a muscle cub? Bear lite? Maybe just a bear? I'm not too in it with the lingo. To the great delight of my parents I became a chef. The day I told my dad he followed up with, "But you'll be poor."
Needless to say, I'm not the ideal Indian son. Throw in the fact that I'm gay and you'd think that would make me a leper. You'd be wrong. Shook would be an understatement. My parents still loved me. To be fair, I do consider us "muslim lite" which probably made it a bit easier.
In the words of my brother, "Do you think we'd kick you out the house? We don't do that." I lucked out with them. However, unlike the typical Indian male I moved out as soon as possible. I chose a university in another city and proceeded to spread my wings, so to speak. I picked Johannesburg.
I like to call Johannesburg the New York of Africa. Bustling, busy and everyone involved in their own hustle. The only difference is that we have more square footage. And we don't have Broadway. Or Time's Square. Or a song about us. But we hosted the soccer whole cup and are known as Mandela's people. At least we have that going for us.
So yes. Back to dying alone. Sometimes I wish I was heterosexual. Then all I'd have to do is find any random Indian auntie and say I'm looking for a wife. I'd be married in a hot five minutes. Alas, I do not enjoy these privileges. I did, however, have control my career. I started small with a food truck. Mostly Indian fusion. If this does not appeal to you then you haven't tried my butter chicken lasagna. Starting up was hard.
Between working the truck and maintaining the gains I didn't have a lot of free time but when I did I spent it with my friends. Tonight was one such instance but one I was starting to regret. I'm not a huge scene person and the scene here was scarce at best (at least as far as I knew). This particular "queer" space was mostly dominated teenie bopper hetero girls living their gay fantasy. Crowded, loud and stuffy. Needless to say this wasn't my happy place.
There was, however, some key candy and while I was grabbing a drink with my friend, Joy, I was making what I hope were bedroom eyes to a guy leaning against a pillar. I sipped my drink and stared a little. He was tall, taller than me. Apparently this is a scarce resource. He had wavy brown hair. A little on the longish side on top with a fade. Listen, I am a grown ass man but the fuck boy haircut will still get me any day.
Joy said something but I wasn't paying attention. I was cruelly whipped out of my reverie but a sharp smack on the head. "Hey! Don't make me look like a crazy woman talking to herself,' she whined.
"Well if the boot fits, crazy lady," I said while trying to fend off more incoming blows.
"Oh wow. If you're so tough why don't you go chat up that guy you were eye fucking," she said smirking. She got me there. "God, you're so obvious."
"I would do no such thing. I am a being of purity," I said as haughtily as I could. This earned me a rather spectacular snort.
"Well I'm going to dance now. Do not follow me," she said trotting off happily, drink in hand.
We were being classy broads tonight and had forgone our usual shot flurry for long drinks. I say usual shot flurry but these sort of nights happen around once a month (for me at least).
Tall Prince Phillip (the Disney version) started cutting through the crowd towards me. I played it cool by giving a winning smile before covertly downing the rest of my drink. I was dangerously approaching "white girl wasted". A five second mental pep talk later and I was ready to go.
He slid through the crowd of excitable patrons and casually positioned himself on my right. I had to turn to look at him. Damn, green eyes. My weakness. He had the perfect amount of stubble, not too manscaped, and wore a t shirt that he filled out criminally well. Like Instagram would probably flag as inappropriate content. I'm a sucker for a perky chest.
"Having a fun night?" He asked casually leaning on the counter. He had to yell a little to avoid getting drowned out by Kill the Lights. The gays love Britney and we own it.
"For the most part. I'm nearing my limit though," I huffed.
"Wanna get some air outside?" He asked giving me a winning smile.
"That's not fair. You know I can't say no to a smile like that."
"I know," he said, smirking as he walked towards the exit. What a douche. I loved it.
I gambled after him trying not to look too keen. The books always tell you to play it cool. Well magazines at least. It's probably something Oprah would suggest. I spotted him by the outside bar. It was much breezier here. There was even space to walk without bumping into anyone. It was heaven.