Houndstooth? Wrong season. I head out in plaid Bermudas and black T-shirt to find the streets of the West Village teeming with men still in their thirties and boldly baring their hard-won physiques. I look and look away. I should lose ten pounds. I’m not my ideal gay weight, okay? But it’s been over a month since the last dating disaster, so I have to try. This one never even spoke on the phone with me. We made all the arrangements by e-mail. I know nothing more about him than that he lives downtown, works as a stagehand, and has a well-toned torso posted on his profile. He suggested we meet at the dog run at Madison Square Park so he can bring his along. Seems like a good idea to me. Why not have a friendly nonverbal third party around as a conversation starter? I cross Thirty-third Street and enter the park, shaded with locust trees, and find the only unoccupied bench. It faces Jenny’s Dog Run, a dusty fenced-in patch of dirt filled with thin youngish people and their canine companions, all clean, lively, and well behaved.
