When I moved to New York, I thought it'd be fun. I thought I'd be an oversized Mary Tyler Moore moving to another big city. I'd gaze up at the skyscrapers from a crosswalk and, way too suffused with big-city coolness to exhibit any visible signs of delight, at least mentally fling my beret in the air.

Instead, it was something like Godzilla moving to Tokyo. Are all big creatures that clueless? I wondered the first time a startled woman screamed as I lumbered past her in the dark. When Godzilla packed his bags to move to Tokyo, did he think, "Gosh, think of all the great museums I'll get to see!"?

See, nobody cares if you're short and serious. Short and serious is easily ignored. Salman Rushdie is short and serious. Maya Angelou is short and serious. When you're short and serious, nobody gives a damn. Because what are you going to do, hold a poetry reading without a permit?

When you're tall and serious, though, it's another matter entirely. Whether you're sniffing roses at a botanical garden or sipping tea at the Plaza, you're seconds away from the SWAT team being called. The maitre d' quavers slightly as he leads you to a table, then for the duration of your meal he stands ten feet away with a baseball bat behind his back.

After I'd settled into my new apartment I figured the time had come to find a dude to cheer me up. I threw on a jacket and headed to Christopher Street, but when I walked into the Piston everybody froze. It was like a scene in a movie where everyone's laughing and joking and then Mildred Pierce appears. Every eye zipped straight to me and watched in horror as I headed for the bar.

I hadn't gotten five feet when the manager scurried up. "You know this is an establishment for GAY MEN?" he asked.

"Yeah," I said. "I know."

"So if you have a problem with GAY MEN," he continued, "you should leave IMMEDIATELY."

"I don't have a problem with GAY MEN. In fact, I was hoping to bring one HOME."

He shuddered, and I realized he was probably picturing me clonking my chosen partner over the head and dragging his lifeless body away. I pushed past him and got a beer but he stayed in my shadow, glaring at me like a Tiffany security guard watching Winona Ryder shop.

I did my best to ignore him but he finally wore me down. I gulped my beer and left. At the next bar, though, the scene was even worse. I wasn't three feet inside when the manager appeared. "PLEASE!" he shrieked, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. "WE DON'T WANT ANY TROUBLE HERE!"

I backed out immediately and walked the cold street in disbelief. Is this even possible? I wondered. This is the city where everyone's seen everything, yet somehow they come unglued spotting the opposite of Truman Capote? It's incredible. It's unbelievable. And I'm guessing it'd be even worse if they could see the scar I got opening that can of paté.

I spent most of the ride home staring at myself in the rear-view mirror. Yes, I'm a little intimidating. Okay, maybe scary. With deep-set eyes, angular face, and pointy black beard, I could have been the model for the guy who tried to kill Mulan. The serial-killer glare, though, pushed it way over the top.

I'll admit it: I'm not a smiler. I think smiles looks dopey. They're the default facial expression for people who think, "Isn't the Lord just grand?" Besides, I've always found masculinity attractive, and a big dopey grin doesn't exactly scream Sean Connery to me.

I'd never taken into account my size, though. I'm sufficiently large that I cast a shadow on people ten minutes before I'm close enough to talk. They see the darkness, feel the cold settle in, then spin around to see me, and that's when they take on the look of Melty Nazi in Raiders of the Lost Ark.

Maybe I could crack a hint of a smile, I thought. I mean, my size is manly enough. I'm like the Hunchback of Notre Dame, sufficiently strange that a familiar facial expression is required to convey the idea that I had parents too. In fact, if the Hunchback had smiled a bit more I bet he'd be a dental hygienist right now.

I wasn't ready to go home but didn't think my ego could take another blow. Then it hit me: The Ramble in Central Park was supposed to be a sexy little fun zone for gay men after dark. I'd never been there before, never being that desperate, but now I craved it. After all that humiliation I needed the furtiveness, the shadowy thrill, the release. I needed to lose myself in weeds and dirt and sheer, unadulterated animal lust.

I wandered the twists and turns for twenty minutes without spotting another soul, then saw the red end of a cigarette glowing in the dark. I followed it to a handsome, broad-shouldered man leaning against a tree.

Yeah, I thought, this could work.

I fired up my new mantra in my head -- I'm not scary! I'm sociable! People like to be with me! -- and forced myself to smile as I approached. "Hi," I said. "My name's Roman."

He shot me a look of disgust as he shook his head. "Ain't nobody doin' no gay shit over here, officer."