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I had a date with a straight man. In the past year I'd begun to look at men again. But most of the men I knew were gay, like I was a lesbian. When the first gay guy spent the night, I thought it was a fluke. But the second hookup — with Corey, a guy, also gay — had stretched into months of casual but steady friendship and sex.

I thought I should at least try a straight man. So after my seminar, I asked the cutest guy, Brant, if he wanted to get something to eat. We picked the slightly-too-expensive-for-graduate-students Italian restaurant on my corner, and not the affordable-slash-almost-digestible Mexican across the street. We stepped into the candle-dotted semi-dark, and I felt a flicker of euphoria, as if I was entering a scene from a romantic movie, and leaving my real life behind. See, I thought, it could be easy.

I could be with a man, a straight man, and have this (I wasn't sure exactly what "this" was) from the get-go. I wondered if I'd get nervous.

We sat, and Brant ordered the wine. He swirled it impressively under his nose, sipped, then said: "At Cornell they have this restaurant-management school. It was so fucking cool, because my roommate was in charge of ordering booze for the training restaurant, and he'd bring home whole fucking cases of tequila and wine."

Then I remembered: I'd had plenty of boyfriends when I was younger. My instant disappointment (that they didn't necessarily grow up after all) was mixed with relief (my current life was probably no more difficult than any other). It was just the candles that fooled me.

No. My relief was deeper than that. The truth was, I hated dates. Or rather, I hated dates with people I liked. Sitting across the table from someone with whom I hoped a relationship might start, I immediately forgot how I ever cut my chicken, lifted a water glass to my mouth, without feeling that the food, utensils, and napkin were props for a screen test. Even with my last could-be-serious relationship, Marla, I never stopped feeling I was an imposter when we went out to eat.

Now I knew there was no chance I'd fall for Brant. We ordered and chatted about the seminar, and it was easy for me to say: "I noticed you right away in class."

"I noticed you too," he said. "I wondered if I was attracted to you. And then, I decided I wasn't attracted to you."

And now I remembered this too. He wanted my eyes to glaze over with terror that I didn't meet his approval. He thought this would make me imagine I needed him. And

he thought that would turn me on. Sadly, he wasn't aware of any of this. He heard these sort of comments spill from his mouth, without knowing exactly why he made them. Which meant he probably wouldn't be much fun in bed. People who hadn't thought about the relationship between sex and power rarely were.

I felt a pang of appreciation for Corey. In bed, Corey would play whatever I wanted. And after, he held me, my true fetish.

The first time we hung out, we left a party together, many puzzled glances following us to the door. Corey said: "That's the thing about you, Penny. You really know how to wear a pair of jeans."

That was a secret: gay men were more talented flirts. I was full of shit, of course. Brant wasn't All Straight Men, and I knew it. And I had at least two gay male friends who were so terrified of any inkling of romantic contact that I repeatedly played matchmaker, then had to nurse them through the subsequent nervous breakdown from not being able to talk on the date.

My relaxation with Brant was bordering on boredom. "So," I said. "You're not attracted to me now?"

His grin drooped away. "Oh, no — I am now." Halfway through our pasta, he said: "You're cute. You're funny. You remind me of my friend Diane. She was this big flaming lesbian, but I always knew deep down inside she just wanted to be a wife and have babies."

I hoped I could remember his exact words so I could repeat them to my friends.

After dinner, I took him home anyway.

He was exceedingly proud of his erection. I had my usual tremors of gender-neutral performance anxiety. Then, I started down on him. He guided my head back up: "Don't worry. It's not going anywhere."

We reverted to missionary, and it was of course enjoyable. But, as I'd expected, not mindblowing, not particularly affectionate.

Very early in the morning, Brant dressed and had to leave, since he was allergic to my cat, Lola. "Are you mad?" he whispered, hopefully.

He called in the afternoon: "Well, what did you think?"

"What did I think?"

"How was it? Last night."

"Oh. It was fine. It was nice."

"That's all?"

"Uh. First times are hard. I think that was better than usual for a first time."

"That's all? I guess I'm not used to just casual sex, jumping in bed with people and then not talking about it. Are you?!"

"Uh. Well, if there's two consenting adults, I guess I think it's okay."

Brant was waiting outside the building before the next seminar. "By the way," he said. "I haven't decided if we'll have sex again. But you'll be the first to know."