Confessions on a Dancefloor

Most of the queers in the house will probably understand this story more than anyone else. Not only because of the obvious Madonna-inspired title, but because most homosexuals have expierenced something similar at one time or another. But this is more like a letter to that one person that this is dedicated to. It is very personal, but it is a need for me to write it down.

I remember the first time I met you. It was a very crazy moment in my life, and I didn't think anyone could call my attention. But you did, and in a very strange way. The first time we talked was in the Men's room, in the company we worked for. And you just asked me something really stupid, but that showed me that, somehow, I had been noticed by you. And, since we were teammates on that callcenter, I got to know you a bit more, and notice you, too. You had a strange way with me. I don't know what it was... if it was all those hugs, soft kisses on my cheek, bringing me food for my lunch hour, calling me "love", what made me like you the way I did. But was it all a game we were playing? Was it ever real?
You quit that job not long after you had gotten used to it. It wasn't for you, and you had a big chance at your own calling, so you left. But we were still in contact for a while. You kept feeding me sometimes, not only with food, but with hope, since one of the last times you came, you told me to call you and we could go out and get a few drinks sometime. And I did, the very next day. We arranged to get together, and you said you would call me that very same day. You did call me, but to cancel on me. It was fine, on the next few days we kept in touch via cellphone text messages. This was my way of keeping the small string of whatever it was we had from breaking. But the second time you cancelled on me, made me realize how that string might have never been there. And I realized that, once again, I had fallen into the trap of an illusion. An illusion that reflected my most desperate desire: for you to be SOMETHING for me.
We didn't really lose touch altogether after that. I ordered food a few times and would chat with you through Instant Messenger, but the link I had seen was clearly not there. You insisted upon calling me "love", though.

Now, what? A year or so later, you show up on my friend's birthday in Ameri-k (my favorite place for a broken heart), looking good as ever, looking you. My whole world shook in one second (and not because I was wasted). I didn't remember you being so beautiful. I didn't remember how much I liked you. But it all came back to me in ONE second. And I think everyone in that room found out, since I couldn't keep my mouth shut. I promised myself I wouldn't care. I promised myself I would ignore you, and the thousands of women around you, kissing your fucking lips. You were perfect, but I would act as if you weren't there at all. That is, until you started dancing with me. That is, until you turned around, and moved in such a way that began to arouse me. That is, until you grabbed my hands and placed them very near your crotch, while we were both moving our hips to the groove. But that was IT. Nothing more. No kiss on your lips, no secret that you were afraid to admit.
Are we still playing that game? If so, what are the rules to this game? Because, as far as I can see it, you are asking me to help you come to my side of the street, but whenever I'm willing to help you, you back down and go back to your side, and disappear from sight. And, not only is it confusing, but it's annoying. You're wasting my time, and you allow me to think I might have a chance to be part of your world, when really, I'm not. You have to make up your mind, because it's killing me. I want to be with you, but I want you to want to be with me too. Make up your mind. It's yes, or no, that side of the street, or this one. Or stay in the middle. Just don't turn away, and face your fears. And, more importantly, face yourself.