PALM PILOTS

I recently read Gay Bar by Jeremy Atherton Lin (Back Bay Books, 2021) and several of his remarks have left me thinking about how much things have changed. It’s an app world now but do apps deprive us of experiences? Indeed, Lin asks, “Is it enough to have a gay bar in the palm of your hand?”

 

I’m an old fogey. Searching for men on Grindr or some other app feels like using the Sears catalog to pick a package of underwear or, to modernize thinks only slightly, browsing the IKEA catalog for a new living room chair. 

 

In truth, it’s rare that I shop for anything online. I don’t like Amazon. I also don’t like how things are presented, how I can’t try on an article of clothing first. (“You can just send it back,” friends say.) I’m an in-person shopper. I like the experience more. I appreciate seeing things displayed in an actual room. I like the element of surprise, finding and buying something that was not on my list. 

 

Books come to mind more than any other merchandise. I’ll sometimes order from Amazon or, when I’m feeling more righteous, directly from the publisher, when a local bookstore doesn’t carry a particular title. Typically, however, I ask the bookstore owner to order me a copy. I have a long list of BOOKS TO READ on my Notes app on my phone. (That’s an app I love as a writer!) Still, I discover new books in stores and follow instant whims, the new treasure suddenly shinier, the other titles still saved on my reading list. 

 

To be sure, there is a lot I don’t miss about gay bars. I don’t like that the space inherently fosters a drinking culture. I’ve known many gay people my age who have struggled with alcohol. If the problem didn’t start in gay bars, these places certainly didn’t make the addiction any easier to deal with. I also don’t like how I might spot a cute guy only to never establish eye contact. So often, it felt like people looked right through me or past me. 

 

Still, there was the music. I loved how people would rush the dancefloor when the deejay played Madonna’s “Vogue” or when CeCe Peniston sang “Finally.” I could freely dance on my own or drag some or all of my gang onto the floor with me. 

 

That was part of the good stuff. When we went to a gay bar it wasn’t all about picking up a guy. I learned early on the odds were much greater I’d be going home alone. A little attention might be nice but, if not, it was a social night with friends. Dancing, laughing, catching up. If I hadn’t constantly hoped for—i.e., obsessed about—a boyfriend, gay bars would have been the source of even better memories. I met some of my best friends at gay bars or made the shift from acquaintances to good friends. Something about smiling and sweating profusely together while staying on the dancefloor for a fifth song in a row—anything by the Pet Shop Boys—will bond you.

 

Lin’s question again: Is it enough to have a gay bar in the palm of your hand? 

 

Old fogey says no. It doesn’t have to be a gay bar—later I got really into a gay volleyball league—but there’s something special about actual instead of virtual queer spaces. Sure, my answer is part of a more general sentiment: “Get off your phone!” In a real queer space, you can’t curate your experience as much. And that’s a good thing. Just like I find treasures in a bookstore, you come into contact with people whose thumbnail profile pic you’d have passed over. Conversations occur for a range of purposes, not just about whether someone is hookup material or has boyfriend potential. 

 

I should point out that I’m an introvert. If I’d had an app for meeting guys back in the day, I might never have ventured to gay bars. It would have been more convenient. I’d have saved gas. I’d have been spared in-person rejection which is worse than online crickets or ghosting. I know gay bars have changed. They seem to host a lot of drag queen shows that attract straight women. I hear some of my peers complain about this, but gay bars are trying to survive and if serving brunch mimosas to Suzie and her seven besties helps pay the overhead, then bring on the drag brunch! It’s partly because so many gays are hooked on apps that gay bars have a different clientele. We’ve relinquished what was once almost exclusive territory.

 

I may be part of the problem, too. It’s not apps that are keeping me away; it’s age. I’m partnered and well-settled. I don’t need to tell a stranger my coming out story. I don’t need a ten-dollar glass of ice with a few drops of vodka. But, yes, I would still really love to dance! However, even in my heyday at the bars, sixty-year-olds were not the common patron. Gay culture has always had an ageist element. But maybe it’s the same in the general population. Sixty-year-olds aren’t the target club goer where dancing is a prime part of the entertainment.

 

My last venture out was to a gay pub which isn’t quite the same thing. I was there to attend a memorial for a friend whom I’d met thirty years ago at, yes, a gay bar. Good times, sadly all in the past.

 

 

 

  

GRINDR KILLED THE GAY BAR

In the book Gay Bar: Why We Went Out (Back Bay Books, 2021), author Jeremy Atherton Lin says, “Perhaps the bars were only ever meant to be a transitional phase.”

 

Certainly, that seems to be how it has turned out. The same seems to be the case with gay neighborhoods. Vancouver’s Davie Street and the slightly broader West End aren’t nearly as obviously gay as they were when I moved to the area three decades ago. 

 

Part of the evolution has been on account of queer people feeling more accepted in greater society—although current anti-trans actions are huge setbacks. As the “community” has dispersed, gay bars have a significantly smaller walk-in clientele. Uber provides another responsible option for a night out but it comes at a cost as well. With gayborhoods less apparent, gay bars were bound to take a hit in terms of business. Grinder, however, has gay bars on life support. 

 

Yes, as Lin suggests, we’ve been transitioning away from the bars.

 

For me, I have not been a regular gay bar patron since about 1998. I got in a relationship and both of us considered it a relief to no longer have to go to the bars, getting looked at or, more commonly, being ignored. I saw no reason to be in a cruisy bar when I had a partner. We got dogs and a house (beyond the gayborhood). The focus changed. Domesticity felt so much better than that depressing walk home from a gay bar far too many nights.

 

When I was single again in 2004, I didn’t run back to the bars. Instead, I ran farther. I bought a home for myself and the dogs on B.C.’s Sunshine Coast, a ferry ride away from Vancouver. Any gay connections all but ended. Gaydar did not extend that far.

 

I first saw for myself the decline in gay bars during the summer of 2014 when I spent a month at an Airbnb in West Hollywood. I went out one night with my former Santa Monica roommate and his husband, first grabbing a drink at The Palm in Beverly Hills, then heading to a gay bar, The Abbey, in WeHo. 

 

As I sipped my Tom Collins—too much ice, as always—I looked around to see if anyone was looking my way. It was a clearer than ever no. Having been out of the scene for so long, the difference in gay bar culture in sixteen years was striking. The fact no one was checking me out was same old, same old. But no one was checking out anyone. The people who weren’t talking to friends had their heads down, all of them looking at the palm of their hand—or, more specifically, the phone in the palm of their hand. Even my monogamous(?) married couple friends would look down at their phones. 

 

“What is going on?” I asked as the naïve, out-of-touch person I was. 

 

But my friends were preoccupied. Someone was 250 feet away. Someone else, 300.

 

When they finally explained that they were identifying people as gay with the Grindr app, I thought I was stating the obvious: “But it’s a gay bar.” Why should anyone need a phone to do the communicating? We were all right there. (Some of us without the dang app.) 

 

In time, the reverse of what I thought would happen occurred. People didn’t quit Grindr when they were in gay bars; rather, they quit gay bars. Who needed them when you could Grind at home… or in a restaurant… or wherever the hell you were at any given moment. No more faulty gaydar. The gays in your area—the ones who had the sense to download Grindr—could be tracked based on distance and private photos. Hot… hotter… HOTTER! 

 

It all left me cold.

 

When Jeremy Atherton Lin wrote, “Perhaps the bars were only ever meant to be a transitional phase,” I’d hoped the next phase might be something else. We’d come out of dark spaces with booze spilled on the floors. We could socialize in the open. Queer Meetups, maybe. Connecting based on common (non-sexual) interests. Zoom chat rooms perhaps—a singles social. Better yet, speed dating at the library. Maybe with the decline of bars, alcohol would be less of a problem in the community and we’d meet like other people do at park potlucks, softball games, arts performances. We’d remember each other’s names. We’d have conversations. We’d connect… or realize we didn’t. Real experiences IRL.

 

Alas, no. Like the gay bar, I too have been phased out. Person-to-person meet-and-greets? WHAT?! Too old-fashioned. 

 

Everything now fits in the palm of one’s hand. Our phones own us. Is this progress?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SHAPE (Documentary Film Review)

I’ve seen a lot of mediocre documentaries since the introduction of streaming channels. They can be cheaply made, a series of interviews on a single set, a few cheesy reenactments, too often the key people not participating in the production, leaving the “truth” to be told by people two or three degrees from what actually happened. Because of this, I now make snap decisions, tuning out many a documentary within the first five minutes.  

 

Shape: When Idolisation Leads to Exclusion is an Australian documentary available for watching on YouTube that I may have given up on, but someone I respect as a deeper thinker recommended it to my partner, Evan, and so I decided to stick it out. I would watch it; Evan would watch it; then we’d come together to discuss over FaceTime. Being as we have a Vancouver – Denver long-distance relationship, our version of movie night can take a few days to unfold. 

 

Shape unfolds on a simple set, a stage on which six different queer people appear separately to offer their opinions on finding one’s place in the gay community and how one’s appearance plays a major factor in a de facto sorting system.

 

The interviewees, along with how they are identified in the film are: Miss Jay (drag queen); Stewart (casual model / dance party promoter); Stefan (Gen X, 55); Aaron (President, Vic Bears); Budi (intersectionality, equity and justice trainer; consultant; director, Ananda Training & Consultancy); and Glen (associate professor, La Trobe University / clinical psychologist).

 

Aaron, a self-described bear,
sees gay men as having
restrictive views on body shape.
He believes there is even
work to be done among bears.

Nothing in the film is earth-shattering, at least not for anyone who has been immersed in the gay community in the past several decades. From the film’s outset, I found myself nodding but wondering if I needed to stick with the ninety-minute documentary. It felt like listening to a new alphabet song—all familiar letters, just different rhythms and notes. 

 

And yet I stayed with it. I resisted the temptation to get up and tidy the living room or do the dinner dishes while the documentary droned on. I wondered if there might be a different take, however slight, when listening to a half dozen people immersed in, or at least exposed to, Australia’s gay scene.

 

“To be as diverse as we think we are,” Aaron says, “we need to get rid of the discrimination.” Hmm…the differences, if any, would be subtle.

 

Stefan, in his mid-50s, often
comes across as exasperated 
by ageism amongst gays.

The film is slow in the beginning. With half a dozen interviewees, it takes a while to get to know them. They have each been chosen to offer a slightly different take on gay inclusion, and lack thereof. Connection on film, just as in the gay scene takes time. For many a viewer, the familiarity of the gripes made about gay interactions may lead one to turn away—been there, heard that. 

 

Still there’s something to be said for the cumulative effect of six strangers, talking separately, yet echoing one another, delivering one consistent message: things are messed up. 

 

The film becomes most compelling when the interviewees are asked to read and react to Grindr profiles. In the virtual world, many do not even consider the pretense of politeness and acceptance. It’s brutal hearing profiles men have typed, saved and posted that boldly—and offensively—say this is what I want; this is what I don’t want. “This” is not a product, however; instead, it is whole groups of people. We know this about Grindr, but listening to the participants read and respond makes one want to auto-delete everyone’s profile. Grindr is too far gone. Is there a way to start over?

 

I had another reason to be hesitant in viewing Shape. The main topic is about an important one—how our looks, in general, and our bodies, more specifically—affect our integration into the gay community. I have an eating disorder. Too much talk over body ideals and body flaws can be triggering. I’m presently in one of my greater periods of struggle. One body shot or one phrase might hit me the wrong way and set me back even more. Because of this, I am grateful the film limits its images of body ideals at least until two-thirds in. One shirtless white model, who does not have a speaking part poses between interview segments. Then there is a model who would be called a twink, one who would be a daddy and one who is Asian, each of them fitting a proximation of a body ideal. By limiting the men and images, I did not become overwhelmed by notions of body perfection. 

 

When the film starts to talk about men portrayed on social media and in ads, there is a deluge of The Body Beautiful but by then I was invested enough in the film and I’d heard enough from the interviewees, each offering a form of support by saying this objectification and the higher stature it brings in the gay community are fucked up. 

 

Budi, who is of Indonesian
descent, makes many astute
comments about how gays 
discriminate over race, height
and views of masculinity and
femininity.

I didn’t reach for the button to close my YouTube window. I managed to watch the whole documentary without feeling any more messed up than I am. In fact, I went away with my feelings affirmed. Yes, the “community” has some growing up to do. The acceptance and inclusion we seek in greater society is often lacking within the Pride fold, particularly amongst gay men.

 

In general, I think gays are nicer people. We’re kind; we’re sensitive. 

 

Until we’re not. There’s the group mentality that I witnessed—and, yes, partook in—as I was coming out in the late ’80s. The gay bar was a sieve, washing away all the Not Good Enoughs, limiting everyone’s gaze to men with seemingly perfect hair, faces and bodies. Little things—a bit of body hair, a possible love handle, an underwhelming bicep—constituted reasons to overlook so many people. “Swipe left” culture existed long before the apps.  

 

I’ve often lamented that groups of gay men often go through a difficult journey—even now—in coming out, only to find rejection and cliquey behaviors in the very “community” that knows all too well about the struggle to be truly accepted for who we are. Why must we continue to dismiss and discriminate amongst our own?

 

Shape is worth a watch. Better yet, it’s worth watching with a partner and/or friends. While the messages are familiar, sometimes it helps to hear things from other people, offering another opportunity for reflection about our place in the “community” and what we can do or not do to stop us from swimming in the shallow end so we can explore deeper topics and people. The discussion that can arise during and after watching this documentary might cause some of us to rethink how we view our own, be it ourselves or our community. 

 

If you do watch it, feel to leave a comment or two about your thoughts. I’m curious to know what takeaways others get from the film.

 

 

 

 

BATTLING BOTS (Damn Scams - Part 2)

First time for everything. Today someone accused me of being a robot. Not, in person. That would be particularly awkward. Online. On the most popular gay “dating” app. 

 

I’ve been back on dating sites for a couple of months now and, boy, my age is playing more of a factor than ever. I’m 59. I don’t lie. I see guys who do—they say they’re 48—and the photos either look to be from the previous century or they show someone who is pushing 70. In no world—including the virtual version—can they pass for 48. Not even close. Shave a couple years if you must, but lopping off decades is never going to lead to anything in your favor. I’m not trying to be mean. Aging is humbling to me, too. But some of my contemporaries need a good head shaking. 

 

In fact, just state your actual age. Why start something, however casual, by being dishonest? Let Pride extend beyond just being gay or queer. If we’re supposed to be accepted for being ourselves that includes as our older gay selves. Ageism exists in the real world and it seems more brutal in our “community.” It needs to be confronted, but it starts with older gays being real with themselves.

 

There. Said it. Will say it again, no doubt, but for now I’m stepping down from my soapbox, no cane required, no sudden calf cramp. 

 

I’m finding that a number of guys considerably younger than me are sending messages. This is highly suspect from the start. Why is somebody a quarter of a century younger sending me a message? I mean, 35 isn’t exactly young but, dammit, it’s a long, long way to 59.

 

What happens is these guys will send a little, meaningless text. Actually, meaningless texts seem to be the opener for virtually every message, regardless of age, motivation or the number of framed degrees one has stuffed in the back of the hall closet. (The movie Bros keeps this as a running joke with “Sup?” supposedly sufficing as a conversation (or something else) starter.) 

 

Unfortunately, I—one of those idiots with degrees in the closet—have no clue how to respond to a meaningless text. No momentum from the outset. It exasperates me. This is lazy. This is communication diluted to the tiniest puddle, the kind that’s easy to step around or over and get on with the day. Words mean so much to me. As an introvert, I have little tolerance for idle chitchat. These lame openers aren’t even that. They aren’t even “chit.” 

 

I don’t play by the rules. I text full sentences, a whole string of them even. I try to add a question at the end to offer the person something of substance to respond about. Nothing seeking opinions on what’s going on in Gaza or even thoughts about Dua Lipa’s new album. Something “lite,” connected to their profile if at all possible. (Please write something in your profile. Anything.) Here you go, I’ve given you a topic. Go with it.

 

I’m not meant for Grindr. It may have nothing to do with age.

 

But back to bots…

 

There’s something distinctive in the meaninglessness of the texts from these young ’uns. The messages, while generic and saying absolutely nothing, have just enough beyond lazy-boy “sup” and “how r u” to stand out in their similar formality:

                   Hello, how are you doing today? 

                   hey how are you?

                   Hello, what are you looking for?

                   Hello, how are you doing

                   Hello, how are you doing today?

 

Three texts in a row:

                   Hello, I hope you have a nice day.

    Hello, I hope you have a nice day.

    Hello, I hope you have a nice day.

 

The photo—always just one—shows a pretty/handsome Asian man. Exceptionally so. I can tell even as I adjust my glasses, lean in and squint at the thumbnail pic. He looks like he could be in a high fashion print ad. Decades younger, gorgeous and he’s messaging me. Well, isn’t this flattering!

 

Louis was my first. He texted within twenty-four hours of my opening an account. 

The bot welcome wagon. Oh, Louis! Wowza!

 

Thirty-five…hmm. 

 

If I were a narcissist, I might have nodded my head, smiled and thought, “Yep. I’ve still got it.” 

 

But I’m not. And I never had it.

 

Still, I was feeling mighty bruised about being summarily dismissed by my ex who happened to be four years younger than me. Couldn’t I be gentle with myself? Couldn’t I always for the possibility that another younger guy might see something in me? MUCH younger, true, but, feeling fragile, I thought I should accept validation even if it came from a handsome young man who had lost his way. I even tried to self-talk myself into believing Louis wasn’t lost. If I wear sunglasses, I look young for my age (or that’s what my best friend and my aunt say). 

 

But 59! It’s right there. Large font immediately below my profile pic. Oh, Louis…

 

I immediately thought about the stereotypes of older white gay men with significantly younger Asian men. There is a basis of truth in many stereotypes, including this one. Who pursues who? Why would handsome, twenty-four-years-younger Louis message me?  

 

I stared at the message:

Hello, how are you doing today?

 

So formal. Punctuation at the end. Very appealing. Even as a newbie, I knew this was exceptional.

 

I decided to respond. I figured just saying, “Fine” or, going for extreme positivity, “Doing great!” wouldn’t be enough. 

 

As someone who knows a little something about how conversations are supposed to go in the non-app world at least, I needed to ask something in return. But, with a blank profile other than the single pic, age, height and weight stats and Grindr indicating he was six kilometers away, there wasn’t anything to go on. I winged it with something lame—“What have you been up to today?”—but, yes, something. 

 

Too much thinking time for this kind of app. He’d probably moved on. So many thumbnail photos to click on. (Oh, to be twenty-four years younger, have rapid fine motor skills and not have to squint through glasses!)

 

A reply:

                   What are you looking for?

 

Gee. Gosh. Was this a sex question? Was this about race? Marriage? One vague question was making me sweat. Validation wasn’t supposed to come with anxiety. 

 

I dodged a bit. I don’t like online messaging with strangers. This exchange was already affirming my opinion that they rarely evolve, they fizzle out and then, well, what was it for? Even the validation would fade out.  

 

“What area do you live in? Maybe we could chat over a coffee.”

 

A reply. But nothing about where he lived. Flaky or avoidant. Young ’uns. I let it go. 

 

Midway through the next day, my phone vibrated. Louis again.

 

                   Hello, how are you doing today?

 

Persistent. Wasn’t that a plus? But the same opening. Groundhog Day. I knew nothing more than the day before. This is what I hate about online conversation. It’s typically too lite. This wasn’t even that. 

 

And then it dawned on me. He’d looked familiar but now I realized we’d had some sort of go-nowhere message exchange last time I was single. Same name, different pic. A headshot instead of this side profile. I’d had enough validation—from Louis, at least. I pressed: “Haven’t we chatted before on a different dating app?”

 

I waited. Waited a little longer. No response. I looked at the app. The message was gone. So was Louis. Familiarity breeds contempt, I guess.

 

Later in the day, a message from Xaio, another very handsome Asian man—model-caliber. A single photo. A barebones profile. Thirty-four. Seven kilometers away. 

 

Wasn’t feeling as validated. 

Wasn’t feeling young for my age. 

Felt like I was being played because of my age.

 

Scams can attempt to dupe anyone but older people are prime targets and, on a gay dating app that isn’t niche like Silver Singles (been there; nothing but crickets), I’m about as old as it gets. Prime target.

 

                  Hello, what are you looking for?

 

Still hadn’t figured that out myself, but I had a hunch what Xaio was looking for. A sucker…and not in any sexual sense. I cut to the chase. “Hey! Thanks for the message. What part of the city are you living in?”

 

Xaio vanished. Abracadabra! Profile gone. Message gone. 

 

I always sensed I had a talent for making men disappear but it was becoming my super power on Grindr. While I didn’t know what I was looking for, I was certain this was not the place I wanted to hone my magic act…unless I could pull coins from behind my ear. Gold ones. Lots of ’em. Not to be.

 

More Asian models with just one pic and barebones profiles appeared, each reaching out with a bland, respectful opening message. It was like Whac-A-Mole. One would pop up, I’d “hit it” with a question and—BAM—back down the hole, the mole-bot tunneling toward a new possible opening on someone else’s game player…er, cell phone.

 

I extended the chat with one—Lin—to see what would happen. I answered as vaguely as him. I’d ask where he lived in the city. I tried to get something specific. What’s your favorite spot to grab a coffee? And then I turned the tables, so to speak. “I’m considerably older than you. What are you looking for?” 

 

He said he was new on the app—duh…VERY new—and was going to be leaving it. Because that’s what new folks do. 

 

Exit Lin.

 

Maybe Grindr will get wind of me. These aren’t bots. I’m scaring off hot young men, real profiles people actually want to view. Maybe my account will be suspended. Maybe I am the one who has to disappear.

 

Maybe not.

 

Louis became Mark.

Louis showed up again when I was in Washington, D.C. Same image. Different name though. Is this what younger people were doing these days? This week call me…

 

I’m thinking of trying out Bartholomew. Seven days, that’s all. Fun! I’ll switch before people started getting too familiar, calling me Bart. I have never aspired to share my name with an animated Simpson. Next nametag: Hello, My Name Is Scooby. Animated dogs are cooler. In general, I like dogs better than people anyway. So loyal! They don’t break up with you. They don’t ghost you.

 

I went so far as to contact Grindr, a challenge in and of itself. I kept landing on pages where I could pay for upgrades or pay to have my profile boosted, but report something? Complain?! Grindr didn’t want to encourage that sort of thing. I abandoned my efforts the first two days I tried but then I’d get another message—

                   Hello, how are you doing today?

 

Bots kept pushing my buttons so I kept pushing Grindr’s. Finally found a spot to report a problem. An open text box! I told them what I presume they already know. But, just as old folks are targeted more for scams, where known to get cranky and air our grievances. Another stereotype. I’m becoming the truth behind that one. 

 

That was two weeks ago. No response from Grindr even though I mentioned I wouldn’t be renewing my subscription. (I’d paid for some sort of upgrade. I still haven’t figured out what I got for what I shelled out since I am invited every time I’m on the app to pay more. Is it a symbol of Pride or shame to be a Gold Member on Grindr? Platinum? Kryptonite?) 

 

My term ends soon. I will vanish, too. No one will miss me. Not even the bots.  

 

DIVING IN AGAIN

It’s been a month since I was dumped. Harsh verb but fits perfectly. I held my breath and hoped he’d come to his senses. I thought he’d realize that, however disappointed he’d been in me, he could express that and then rejoin me in getting us back on track. I was sure we’d been a solid two-year investment. In stock market terms, you hold on, ride through the low, have confidence in its inherent value and wait for the momentum to surge again. But he got out. A complete selloff. I had become a bad investment.

 

The stock market analogy is perfect. My dabbling has had dismal results. Same for relationships.

 

Our closure call helped me clearly see he was not going to reinvest. In the days that followed, I went back on apps for single gay men…and apparently for gay men in “open” relationships. Based on the number of faceless profiles, I wonder if their partners know it’s open. Not my business. Call me old-fashioned, but I like faces.

 

I told myself I wasn’t ready for anything anywhere on the casual-to-serious spectrum. Still in shock. Still feeling the bruises from being rejected. Too embarrassed and humiliated to even mention the breakup to friends. (But blog about it? No problem! Weird, I know. This is how this particular writer processes life.) Getting on the apps was symbolic. Must move forward. The future isn’t to be found in the past; alas, but especially not the recent past. That’s gone. He’s gone.

 

A couple years away from apps and it’s been jarring to lurk again to see what’s there…and what’s not. I’ve taken to laughing at things I’ve observed and experienced so far. Like every form of social media, people can be their worst selves online. Decorum? If I were to mention the word, the reply would be: WTF? (Actually, there wouldn’t be a question mark. I just need to see it for my own sanity. Breathe. The world is not coming to an end.)

 

When I say I’ve been laughing, I truly have and not in that meaningless LOL sense. (We seem to have phased that expression out, thankfully.) Men have devolved to boys, young teens with urges but not enough words. This is a reminder of why I never wanted to teach ninth grade. Funny. Not funny.

 

This morning I glanced at Grindr. The worst. I never ever thought I’d be there. A guy who identified himself as a swimmer had viewed me. Same age. Fit. His tags included hiking, reading, writing and travel. And his profile concluded with a refreshing remark: “Not your daddy.” I despise when gay men use daddy to describe themselves or others. That comment alone was worth sending this guy a message. The matching interests were a big bonus. So, yes, message sent.

 

What I hadn’t realized because, either I don’t understand technology or there was a glitch, was that he’d already messaged me. So we had basically first-messaged one another in parallel universes. That’s something. I might use it in a gay romance I write.

 

What I’ve already come to realize—or remember—on these apps is most message exchanges go nowhere. Example (not a real exchange): 

Hey.

 

Hi! Thanks for the message. How are you? Looks like the sun may finally come out later today.

 

Good.

 

You can guess which person I am in the sample exchange. I like words. These “teens”? As previously noted, not so much. Granted, I basically said nothing. Inane chitchat, the sort of stuff I abhor as an introvert, but I understand I shouldn’t open with my mental health history or that tragic tale about getting dumped by my ex. 

 

Good. Was he answering how he was doing or was he happy about my sunny forecast? Did it matter? Nothing to go on. Did I really have any further interest in a monosyllabic creature, albeit one with nice biceps?

 

Let me answer that monosyllabically (when in Rome…): Nah.

 

End of hypothetical exchange. 

 

Back to this morning’s not-your-daddy swimmer guy who reads/writes/hikes/travels. He stood out. His profile said he liked meeting for coffee so I’d suggested we do that. He replied immediately:

 

Yes please

 

No punctuation but at least he had manners. Wowza. (Sad, yes, but that’s all it takes to get a wowza online. I’m working on my very own little emoji for that.)

 

Ninety minutes later, we were sitting across from one another at a café in Chinatown. I walked; he took the Skytrain and then biked over. Wowza. Wowza. (Double emojis would be so useful right now.) I LOVE mass transit! I’m that geek. I actually say, “I love mass transit!” Frequently. He’s never owned a car. Kudos! And biking? I love cycling, too! Everywhere I can.

 

Because that
Valentine's Day stunt
is so last month...

Cupid was clearly messing with me. Let’s take this total sad-sack, dangle a carrot and then watch him fall again. Hysterical!

 

Attraction? Definitely! 

 

Mutual? He said so right away.

 

A clear, direct communicator. Emoji.

 

He runs his own business, working with schools and other entities throughout the world on empowering collaborative action to respond to climate change and to process mental health impacts related to it.

 

Okay, Cupid. Enough. You’ve had your fun. Now you’re just being mean.

 

There was so much more. An hour of engaging conversation. I had to work hard to keep my smile from crossing a line to goofy and/or gaga.

 

A hug goodbye. “Can I kiss you?” he asked. My turn to say, “Yes, please!” 

 

One hour. One date. That’s all. 

 

Easy. Breathe. 

 

A follow-up message pinged on my phone the moment I walked in my place. (Off Grindr, on my regular message stream, thank god!):

What a treat to meet you—I have to admit that it was just a bit surreal as you seem so very much worth getting to know. I look forward to our next coffee date.

 

Words! Meaningful ones! Emoji, emoji, emoji.

 

More messages exchanged. We’re chatting again tonight after my bike ride.

 

The sun can come out today or not. I’m already basking in something. A lovely start.

 

You better not be playing me, Cupid. But, if you are…well played. Wowza!