Why I’ll Never Date a Man Whose Skin Looks Like Mine
Growing up gay in India, I was bullied mercilessly by my peers, and fantasized about the out-and-proud white men I saw in movies. They’re still the only type I can love.
Illustrations by Chris Kindred
Sitting in a Midtown Manhattan coffee shop, it’s clear that I’m waiting for a date. I’ve overdressed. My iced latte is long gone. The screen on my phone is greasy from my sweaty, fidgety fingers. Every time the door opens, I look up expectantly.
Normally I’m never this nervous. But today isn’t normal for me. At nearly thirty years old, for the first time, I’m about to have a date with a man of my own race.
I’ve recently gone through a dry spell, followed by an OkCupid binge. This wasn’t a casual hunt. I was looking for ‘the one.’ I always am. My search results are filtered to guys within five miles of Manhattan, not religious or chain smokers, who enjoy travel and theatre. And, of course, are white.
I messaged white guys all day long with a decent rate of return. Some got as far as meeting friends, others disappeared the morning after. I’d mope for a bit, then get back on the site and start all over, searching for my Disney Prince Charming.
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