Single #12: Tray Greg

Meet Tray

Gender: Boy

Age: 12

Body type: An eerie resemblance to Gavrosh (...from Les Miserables? No?...Well for all you culturally-bankrupt philistines: look it up!)

Style: 1950s New Hampshire schoolboy enrolled in sailing camp meets drunken mime during final week of August when New Hampshire boy's family takes one last vacation at their yacht before the kids return to school and the whole rigmarole starts again... unless of course it's an Indian Summer and they can take the ol' S.S. Primrose out for one last dance in the lake even though it's slightly cooler and you can't wear white after labour day.

Best Asset: Dancing skills.

Seeking: "A mature girl. She has to be older, like 13 or 15. The girl's my age don't cut it. They just aren't as sophisticated."

About Tray
You've likely heard of Tray. At the young age of 12, this boy has already established himself as a seasoned tap-dancer with experience performing all over the globe. "My best performance was at the Bolshoi Theatre in Moscow before it closed for renovations. I shared the stage with the one and only Natassja Egorov." Who? "You ignoramus, she's only the most famous tap-dancer in Eastern Europe! She's like the Ginger Rogers of Russia."

After cackling at the thought of a Russian Ginger Rogers (tap dancing at that! Ha!) I noticed that I had rubbed Tray the wrong way. In attempts to regain his respect and trust I told him that if the two of us were in the movie You Got Served or any of the other fourteen million movies made by wealthy white people depicting inner-city black teenage boys dancing their way up the socioeconomic ladder in that way that white people romanticize so well, I would be the one who was served by him. Wait... Is that how it works? Is the person who is "served" the loser of the dance off? Or by being "served" am I actually the winner because I am drawing on the analogy of being serviced by someone of lesser importance?

"What moronic urbanite jargon are you spitting at me?! Don't you dare soil the prestigious art of tap by infiltrating it with your poorly-referenced pop-culture colloqualisms. Blast!" I took this explosion of boyish pubescent rage as my cue to drop the topic of dance altogether and ask Tray about something more pleasant: What would be Tray's ideal first date?

"Finally, a worthwhile question. Well, I suppose I would pick up my date at her house and place her comfortably in the back seat of my bike which is made out of a Sealtest milk crate attached with twist ties. If she wasn't too fat, I would ride us over to my (parent's) yacht where I would have a candle lit dinner prepared, a dozen roses scattered across the table and the Jonas Brothers playing softly in the background. We would discuss our dreams and laugh over a dizzying mix of Hi-C and Tonic Water. And as we watched the moon's reflection spill over the water's waves, I would cup her face in my hands and lean in to kiss her softly but would most likely end up prematurely ejaculating. Well... I suppose that's a relative term, perhaps it wouldn't be premature at all... perhaps it would be anticipated. That's for her to decide."

Now if that scenario doesn't win over your 13 - 15 year old hearts, what does? Perhaps the paralyzing embarrassment you will experience when you tell your friends that you're dating a 12 year old tap dancer? Or maybe you're won over by the jarring side-effects of Acutane apparent on Tray's bleach-white face? Whatever the reason, let it be known that this Fred Astaire is looking for his Natassja Egorov.