I
learned
early. Don’t stare, it’s rude. I was probably four or five and
I’m sure I wasn’t actually looking at a person. Just the ice
cream cone they held while my
mother
gripped my hand. For decades I followed established social etiquette.
It was easy. I was far more challenged by occasions in which eye
contact was required.
When
I first started going to gay bars in West Hollywood—it was the only
place to meet back then—I mastered totally ineffective cruising
techniques. I had a knack for stealing sneak peeks when I sensed a
guy I was interested in was looking away. Of course, it got me
nothing. I’d often heard of people meeting while passing on the
sidewalk, both men looking back at the same time. I
liked the idea of that but my shyness made the maneuver feel too
risky.
Good god, if our eyes met, then what?! I’d pass a guy after leaving
the clubs and wait ten seconds before going through the motions and
looking back when I knew full well that any possible moment had
safely passed. Then I’d drive home alone, bemoaning the fact I
couldn’t meet a guy.
But
that was then.
I
stare all the time now. Ice cream remains an attention grabber but I
stare at people too. Men.
I
tested it out this fall while I spent close to a month in Stockholm.
I figured I was in a different country and Swedes were known for
being non-confrontational. Besides, I was spellbound by what seemed
to be a clean
Swedish look: well-coiffed hair, combed back and parted on the side,
and classic, understated clothing, every garment warming a closet
hanger for six months at most. I told myself my watchful eye was
about picking up a few style tips.
At
least that’s how it started. Quick looks and then that necessary
look away. But then I dared to gaze a fraction of a second longer,
then an entire second. No one glared. At first, I attributed it to
consummate politeness—on their part, not mine.
And
then it became a game. While still intent on picking up a sense of
Swedish style, I wanted to be caught staring. I wanted there to be a
silent exchange: I
see you looking at me.
It wasn’t long before the experiment stopped being fun. The sense
of daring evaporated. Reality set in. I had an epiphany. It came
while having fika, a sort of afternoon coffee and cinnamon bun break,
but with a sense of something more—the fact that I don’t know
what that “something more” is only proves I’m no Swede. What I
got out of fika was utter amazement that all these people could
indulge in sugary
pastries on a daily basis and be markedly slimmer as a society than
Canadians and Americans. But that’s not the epiphany (although I
too
lost
weight while
wholly embracing
fika. Maybe it’s just something in the northern air). As I sipped
my oat milk latte and noshed
on a
cardamom
bun, a close cousin to the beloved Swedish
cinnamon
bun, I looked
at the good-looking man at the table across from me for more than a
couple of seconds. I did
it again and again, extending
my gaze
to five, then
ten
seconds. As fika is not a rushed thing, I got
a lot of looks in. Yep, that blond hair was
natural. That sweater was
navy, not black as
I’d initially thought.
How did he get that tiny sliver of a scar on his chin?
Thinking
that perhaps my eyes had fallen on one particularly oblivious (or
focused) blond Swede, I picked a new target at fika the next
afternoon. Brown hair, neatly groomed beard, lovely smile, thick wool
navy sweater. (Sweden seemed to be having a navy moment.) This
forty-something chap chatted with two women as an open notebook
balanced in his lap, never once written in. Empty dessert plates and
coffee mugs filled the small round table between them. As luck would
have it, I had a head-on view of him. I noshed on my blueberry bun—a
lovely variant on the cinnamon bun that I only found at this
particular spot—as the cursor on my open laptop blinked in place
for twenty minutes. I took in the bustle of the bakery but mostly I
studied him, creating a story of his life and daydreaming about how I
would fit into it. He looked up several times, his gaze in my
direction, but not once did he notice me noticing him. I simply did
not exist.
By
the time I’d finished the trip, my Swedish experiment had been
thoroughly tested, leading to one solid conclusion: as an aging gay
guy, I can stare all I want.
I
repeated
the experiment in Seattle and several times in Vancouver. Cafes, the
gym, the art gallery. Always the same result. My looks don’t
register.
I’m
not sure it’s in my repertoire, but I could ogle if I wanted to.
Leer
even.
I
could cast my squinty-eyed approximation of conveying lust and it
wouldn’t even cause someone to say, “Excuse me, sir. Do you have
something in your eye?”
There’s
nothing exhilarating about this newfound freedom. There is
a
sense of loss instead of a gain. Before, when casting my eyes upon
someone, there was always a bit of a thrill. Would I get caught? In a
flash, I could mold my stare into a look of pensiveness, a writer
with an open laptop, searching the air for a precise word or phrase.
Better yet, would the guy return my gaze? There was always the
possibility, however remote, that that single daring peep would lead
to a conversation, a date and then somewhere down the line a ceremony
along with a blurb in the Vows section of the New York Times,
including the statement, “The
two met in 2019 while sitting at neighboring tables at a cafe in
Vancouver.”
That
just spilled out of me. Total randomness. It’s not like I’ve ever
thought of such a thing.
Now,
with unchecked staring privileges, it’s clear that will never
happen. I don’t rejoice in realizing I’ve become the human
equivalent to the color beige. Present,
at least
in a technical
sense.
Alas,
gone are the days of an interventionist admonishing me: “Don’t
stare!” Society has come up with a colder approach: Just
ignore it and it will go away.
Well
played, guys,...well played. I think this is about the time when I’m
supposed to make the transition to sandals with knee-high brown
socks, all-weather shorts that ride up above my navel and sweatshirts
with permanent stains (mustard?). It’s freedom, yes, but it does
come with a price.
