I went to lunch today with a gay black guy I met at Sunday's Pride Parade. He was a bit inquizitive, and asked the same questions, then asked questions that made no sense. I could tell he wasn't listening when he asked me when I lived in Jamaica; I'd told him already that my parents were born there, that I was born here, that I'd only ever been there twice. He keeps asking me if I'm mistaken for a man, always questioning my gender, like he thinks I'm lying or something. I can't tell if he's being flakey, or if he's testing me by playing dumb. I'd catch him staring at me from my peripheral vision, and that annoyed me. I bit my tongue, as we were at a community center, Crossroads or something like that. There was a young girl, about 12 or so, and she was asking about my hair, assuming it was fake. Her mother or guardian of some sort was standing nearby, but I was civil enough to let her know that if my hair was fake, I'd have said so. I mean really, if I had a weave, acryllic nails, a boob job, or was formally a man, I'd have said so. Well, the transsexual thing would've been harder to admit to, but still. I don't know what it is that people think I have the word LIAR written on my forehead in neon pink, but it was a frustrating time hanging with him.

First, I get to the center where we're suppose to meet up, then he's just a few minutes late which makes me suspicious. I don't know this guy, and I don't know where he's coming from.

I must be just PMS'ing or life is catching up with me. I've been seen as a push-over in the past, that I'm easy, and now I become more cautious with strangers, especially when they stare at me, ask me stupid questions and repeat themselves. I've heard his life story 3 times already, word for word.

He wanted to smoke pot with me and another friend at the clinic across the way, but as long as I live at home, I don't want anything to do with drugs. I'm too afraid of showing tell-tale signs of drug usage, and I don't need it. It's something to do, and it's never enriched my life in any way.

At the center, we had to make our own lunch, so I helped to make ratatouille, vegetarian-style. I felt myself close off when he'd ask question after question, and I finally made my getaway by simly saying I was leaving. We hugged, and relief overcame me.

He's not a horrible person. I kept thinking that it's because he was HIV-positive that the ailment was effecting his mind, something to make myself feel better about why he was acting the way he was. I could've just said, "Is something wrong with your brain that you interrogate me like this?", but I didn't. I'm just glad to be home, to forget about the day while my dad plays housewife by making dinner. As I was typing this, he handed me a bowl of sliced watermelon. MMMMMMMMMMMMM WATERMELON!

I know he'll call again.