Still, I didn’t want to have another butt-glued-to-the-chair
first date. I suggested we check out some Vancouver galleries. Why not
experience something together and exchange opinions of what we see and
feel? In firming up the starting point,
however, he suggested a vegetarian restaurant for brunch. The place is one I’ve
been wanting to try so I agreed.
I arrived on time and he’d already staked out a table. From
the start, I knew I was not physically attracted to him—in person, he was a
wonky funhouse version of his profile photo. Even so, I looked forward to an
engaging, edgy chat.
He conveyed a nervous energy, immediately blathering
apologetically about a geographical error he’d made online about where I lived.
It was not an issue, but he’d apparently obsessed about it, having shared his
supposed faux pas with friends. He’d also consulted friends about where to take
a vegetarian; as proof—not that I needed any—he pulled out his phone with texts
about suggestions he received. Apparently, this meeting was an Event.
As we scanned the menu, he pointed out an item with beets
and shared a comment about the vegetable’s effect on human feces. Egad. Could we not just stick to one of the
discussion topics from his profile?
But things got worse.
When he finished talking shit, he went on and on and on and
on about how he had conquered the local film industry and how every short film
he created had won major awards at every Canadian film festival he entered. He
smugly expressed his superiority to the apparently clueless wannabes who
coughed up megabucks to film schools.
I sipped my coffee and gazed at other diners, longingly
observing the clear back-and-forth in their table talk. My distracted glances became more obvious, but
he remained oblivious. There was too much hot air to release.
I became irked as I waited to see how long it would be until
he’d take a breath and perhaps pose a question.
It finally came. “So what do you write?” Unfortunately, I needed a
second to finish chewing a mouthful of pancake. Amazingly, he continued on with
his monologue.
I’d missed my moment.
In vain, I tried to get the attention of our server. Check,
please. PLEASE. When I finally had a chance to talk, I didn’t care anymore. I
simply posed a question, and let him ramble on again.
Check or not, I’d checked out.
It took ninety minutes before I got out of there. I’d had
plenty of time to figure out what to say to get out of a gallery walk. “I’m
sorry. I’ve got errands to do before I catch an early ferry home.”
He insisted on walking me to my car. The fresh air seemed to
do some good. He became more subdued. Perhaps there was some
self-reflection: I blew that. One can only hope. I certainly don’t wish that
blabbering mess on any other poor online sucker.
So, yes, another dreadful first date. Another toad that will
never become a prince. Another stinky
clam with no pearl.
Some of us have forgotten the inherent mutuality in
conversation. I have had too many coffee dates like this. I am convinced this
is not my doing. On the ferry into Vancouver, I ran into a friend, a coworker
and some acquaintances. We each talked. And we each listened. We built off of
one another’s comments. We laughed. We enjoyed the interplay. Yes, it is true:
I can be part of a dialogue with an able social companion. Why are so many
single, middle-aged gay men so lacking?
This dating world is full of needles and no hay. So many
annoying pokes, so many bad reactions. Are the good ones really all gone? Or
have the few remaining good men gone into hiding? I keep trying to be hopeful,
but I walk away from every experience shaking my head or wanting to scream.
Make it stop.
Please, enough already.
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