Coeur à la Crème & my broken heart – A night to forget!

In case it’s not obvious from this Coeur à la Crème photo, I have a rather hostile attitude toward Valentine’s Day. Let me assure you—I absolutely do.

For nearly my entire life, February after February, this so-called day of love has never failed to sour any sweet pretense of romance I might have been enjoying—usually while seated at a fancy restaurant, watching couples gaze longingly into each other’s eyes and eating an overpriced dinner. My experiences with this “holiday”, and the relentless pressure to be in love on it, have left me several real-life lessons. Lessons, I might add, that you won’t find printed inside a greeting card or attached to a dozen roses delivered to your workplace.

But because I am a giver, I will still present to you this Coeur à la Crème—a heart-shaped blob of milk fat, arguably the sappiest of all Valentine’s Day desserts.

I hate it.

This dessert is little more than cream cheese (and other dairy), sugar, and a splash of vanilla. It owes its exalted romantic status entirely to its shape. Spare me. Just looking at it makes me wretch. And yet, for reasons I can’t quite explain, it compels me to share with you the story of the Valentine’s Day I experienced in my 26th year—the one where my own naïve coeur à la crème was mercilessly stabbed by my so-called “true love.”

I call it: “The One With Dr. Frank.”

At 25, I was a romantically naïve yet hopelessly optimistic late bloomer. A teenager-equivalent in the ga dating world, really, having suppressed all romantic activity until after I graduated college. This delay, unfortunately, created a false sense of urgency, making every potential romance feel like my last chance at love. At the ripe old age of twenty-five, I was convinced my window was closing. 

Then I met Dr. Frank.

My grandmother, upon seeing him the first time, described him as “all that and a bag of chips.” Which was fitting, considering that when I first met him, he was literally holding a bag of chips while cruising me in a supermarket. His bold, borderline prurient gaze—right there under the fluorescent lights of a snack aisle —was something I had never experienced. He looked at me like I was his next meal. His complete lack of shame? Inebriating. He gave me the hot tinglies.

After so many years trying desperately to remain invisible, it was both unnerving and thrilling to be seen—really seen—by someone so gorgeous, so “normal-looking,” and, somehow, still interested in me.

Naturally, I botched it.

Flustered by my own inexperience, I imagine I bored Dr. Frank to death with awkward small talk. I wasn’t a fully baked gay yet—my cruising patter needed work. Not quite ready to let Dr. Frank “close the deal,” I scampered off, retreating to the safety of my bachelorhood.

Fate, however, had other plans.

Several months later, we crossed paths again at a house party thrown by a mutual friend. Dr. Frank spotted me immediately, locked on like a heat-seeking missile, and, this time, turned the charm up to full blast. His flirtation was even more shameless than before, and this time I was powerless against it.

Though he wasn’t the host, he certainly acted like one. Smiling, confident, he took my hand and led me to the bar, offering to make me a cocktail and give me a tour of the house.  A house I had already been in many times!  I didn’t care. By the end of the evening, I was completely under his spell—already planning our wedding and our golden years in the Italian countryside, where I would cook large afternoon lunches and we’d nap beneath the olive trees.

He seemed to be everything I had ever wanted. Eight years older, devastatingly handsome, successful, confident, unashamed—and most importantly? Interested in me.

Dating Dr. Frank was never easy, but it was always a thrilling, passionate ride—like a rollercoaster with no safety bar. I could never count on him to call when he said he would, and the timing of any next date always seemed deliberately vague, as if he felt keeping me in a constant state of anticipation was part of his charm.

Naturally, this made it difficult to iron out the finer details of our future Mr. &-Dr.-Frank life together, but for that torso, fancy car, and a many who looked that good in scrubs, I was willing to make do.

One good date night (and an even better early morning) at his place was enough to wipe away any concerns I had started to notice. I became very skilled at projecting “reality” onto reality.

“He just forgot to call because he’s under a lot of work stress right now.”

We had been dating for just over three months (a personal record!) when February 14th started to loom on the calendar. I knew this was going to be my first real Valentine’s Day—a romantic celebration I had craved for years but had always eluded me.  I would be in love, with the man of my dreams, eating at a fancy restaurant! 

Twenty-five-year-old me—the guy who had never dated anyone for this long—waited anxiously for Dr. Frank’s invitation. Certainly, he was planning something special and would call me the moment he had all the details arranged!

So I waited.

And waited.

Finally, Dr. Frank would call. He invited me to dinner at Maximilian’s—the hottest gay restaurant in town. Wow. Not only was I getting the ultimate Valentine’s Day prize: a romantic prix-fixe dinner date with my super hot doctor guy, but we were also going to be seen in public as a couple for the first time.

Up until this point, our relationship had been a mostly private affair, and I had grown increasingly frustrated that we hadn’t yet made a grand public debut the way I had seen other couples proclaim. But this night, at this restaurant, with what was sure to be our love on full display, I happily ignored the glaring red flag I had been pretending not to notice.

Coeur à la Crème

With the benefit of hindsight, I can now see that there were, in fact, many, many red flags. Had I allowed myself to acknowledge them, I would have known from the start that our “special” Valentine’s night was doomed.

For one, Dr. Frank wasn’t picking me up in his beloved, rare vintage Mercedes sports car that evening. Instead, he told me to meet him at the restaurant.

“He’s so busy taking care of patients. I don’t mind if this makes things easier for him.”

Except I did mind. I loved it when he pulled up outside my place, in my nosy-neighbor-filled neighborhood, and honked obnoxiously, turning heads so everyone could admire his expensive car. It was embarrassing—but, if I’m being honest, I kinda liked it.  

And so, that night, I parked my own car, walked into the restaurant alone, and followed the host through the dining room. I had no idea that, in just a few steps, the entire night was about to change.

What was this? There were four other people sitting at my boyfriend’s table.

Dr. Frank stood as I approached, kissed me hello—on the lips, open mouth—and then, with an unsettling level of cheer, introduced our dinner companions:

First, there was Tom—his dashing “ex,” whom I had immediately despised the moment I first saw his photo framed and still sitting on Dr. Frank’s bookshelf. Then Darrel—another ex—somehow even more handsome but less threatening since he didn’t live nearby. And lastly, Carlo and Michael, whom Dr. Frank breezily described as— “the other guys I’m dating right now.”

Um… what?

My brain short-circuited. There was a thwap to the head, followed by a punch to the gut, followed by an incomprehensible blur of table chatter as I tried to take my seat. My heart pounded too loudly for me to even hear actual words. Too much had just hit me at once.

Should I have known about these people? Who were they, and why were they at my Valentine’s Day celebration? Where the hell was my cocktail?

In the movies, this would have been the moment I threw a drink in his face, stood up, called him an asshole, and stormed out of the restaurant, Alexis Colby-style. But that just wasn’t me. My WASP genetics and years of emotional suppression wouldn’t allow it. Instead, I did what was instinctual: I pushed down my feelings and quietly took my seat at dinner with Dr. Frank and his…romantic harem. If anyone in the restaurant was watching, and it felt like everyone was, I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of witnessing my meltdown.

A self-debrief of the past three months would have to wait—ideally with the help of a therapist. At this moment, I was just beginning to realize that this—this bizarre, polyamorous spectacle—was Dr. Frank’s Valentine’s Day tradition. Apparently, on this day each year, he liked to gather the whole gang together!

I kept my cool.

And, besides—one of Dr. Frank’s other unsuspecting boyfriends happened to be smoking hot. It turned out Carlo, my the dark and Italian-looking sister-wife, was as bewildered by the evening’s events as I was. We quickly bonded over our shared misfortune. Drinks were ordered. Many drinks. Expensive drinks. We sharpened our wit at Frank’s expense.

By the time dessert arrived—each of us presented with a perfectly formed coeur à la crème, naturally—our table of six had started to feel more like a flirty table for two.

Like Dr. Frank, Carlo was bold and confident. He won my attention with the simplest of gestures: offering me a cocktail. And then another. Why not? I was newly single, and at the advanced age of twenty-five, I couldn’t afford to let another chance at love pass me by. Making the best of it became much easier when Carlo’s hand found its way to my thigh under the table.

“Carlo, let’s consider this our first date!”

Eventually, and the conclusion of our mutual date with our mutual boyfriend (and his boyfriends) the two of us got up to say our tipsy goodbyes to Dr. Frank and his living scrapbook of romantic history. They had barely noticed us, and I doubted they would miss us. Besides, it was getting late, and Carlo and I had far more interesting plans for the night.

We made a dramatic exit—walking through the restaurant together, holding hands, acting as if we had just had the best dinner of our lives. We kissed goodnight at the door, and then Carlo, ever the gentleman, offered to walk me to my car.

Little did I know—the night’s surprises weren’t over.

As we passed Dr. Frank’s beloved Mercedes in the parking lot, Carlo, with the casual ease of someone tying a shoelace, pulled a serrated steak knife from his pocket (one he had pocketed from the restaurant, mind you) and, in a single fluid motion, plunged it into the front tire. Barely a pop! Before I could even process what had just happened, there was a short hiss as this time he drove the blade into the rear tire for good measure.

And with that—Carlo had simultaneously deflated both Dr. Frank’s ride home and my hopes for a new hot boyfriend.

Some red flags are simply too impossible to ignore. Run!

That would be the last time I saw Carlo. I think even he knew there would be no follow up. But from that night forward, I finally learned to relax while dating new people, to let them reveal themselves before falling for them. Mostly. Kind of. Not always. But at least I would try

Oddly enough, I still consider this lesson my Valentine’s gift from Dr. Frank, and—surprisingly—I remember him quite fondly for it as it made a difference in my future life. 

It wouldn’t be the last time I saw him. He would make several reappearances in my life, but never again with the same gravitas or drama as when I was twenty-five—in a hurry, and in a hurry to love.

Damn Valentine’s Day.

And damn this stupid dessert.

As delicious as it is, I will never enjoy this Coeur à la Crème, you might so please try it.