A SIMPLE CRUSH

It seems I’ve got a schoolboy crush. It’s simple, based on very little and it’s not going to go anywhere. I’m one hundred percent good with that. I just like the fact that, at fifty-seven, this guy can still have such a thing…and pretend the word “schoolboy” has any application to me.

 

I’ve attended lots of author talks, gone to many writers’ conferences and bought some books on writing, but I’ve avoided classes. I feared them. I didn’t want my writing to be dismissed or mocked. I didn’t want to be overwhelmed by the vastly superior talent in the room. More than anything, I didn’t want irrefutable confirmation that I couldn’t write. 

 

At the beginning of 2022, I decided I needed to shake things up. I wanted something more than a one-shot workshop about writing. I enrolled in an eight-session writing class called Queering the Personal Memoir…or something like that. It’s offered by Hugo House, a wonderful writers’ hub in Seattle. I’d attended a few afternoon workshops there in the past, always looking for an excuse for a road trip to the Emerald City. Pre-COVID, these were led by local authors and attended by local writers and Spice Girl song title folks. A sunny side up result of the pandemic is that, by offerings going online, the faculty and the students come from farther afield. Our instructor is a published author who lives in New York City. We’re a small group of students, but we hail from Seattle, Dallas, Orlando and NYC. Two of us are from Vancouver. 

 

During the first two sessions, I was highly distracted by…myself. I’d participated in many Zoom events but, typically, I was a listener, taking in a performance or an interview with an author. Zoom one-on-ones with a mortgage broker or a psychiatrist were brief. I’d see my image in a rectangle on the screen, but I managed a fair job of fixating on the other person’s tie or the yellow sponge resting on the counter in the background. What kind of person doesn’t put a soggy sponge out of sight? But these writing classes go on for two hours. There are usually nine of us in attendance and I can amuse myself by pretending we’re some queer version of “Hollywood Squares” or the opening title of “The Brady Bunch.” But then I get bogged down remembering that closeted Paul Lynde died of alcoholism and closeted Robert Reed died of AIDS. The distracting images lose their fun factor. I stop visual contortionism and, there I am again, right there in the Jan Brady box, middle child syndrome bubbling up again. 

 

Focus! They’re talking about writing. Something about a braided essay. Or, no, they’ve moved on to discussing the stakes in the work.

 

I’m paying for this! It seemed a reasonable amount but then there was that conversion to Canadian dollars. I really need to get something out of this.

 

Still, that face of mine. Disappointing. Frightening. Weary, gaunt, so old. If the Italian mafia, a Mexican cartel or the Norwegian underworld find some need to torture me to confess something, all they’d need to do is sit me in a tiny room and force me to stare at my image. “Okay, okay! That yellow sponge in the background was mine!”

 

Thankfully, someone told me to put a Post-it over my image. Brilliant! My level of technological problem solving. I have to move the Post-it around as my face appears in different places on screen, I’ve gotten speedy at adjusting. It’s like an office supplies version of Whack-a-mole.

 

I’m now drawn to another distraction, a more pleasing one: a classmate. My crush. He had me from the moment he logged in that first class. Feast your eyes on that background! The entire wall was filled by a bookcase loaded with books. 

 

 

And then, of course, there was the figure sitting in front of all those books. A strikingly handsome Black man with closely cropped hair and a starkly serious demeanor that jolted me every time he broke character to flash a smile. 

 

 

This man is not one of those students who needs to speak every five minutes to process his learning or to show what he knows or thinks he knows. There’s one in every class, right? Actually, in this class, there isn’t. These are genuinely nice people, the kind I’d show up to class early for just to hang and get to know each other more. Especially a certain someone. My crush often holds back, sitting silently as others chime in each week. Then, he takes his moment to offer a sage comment about tweaking the structure of an essay in a simple yet shape-shifting way that makes the writer’s work more polished, more powerful. 

 

 

Bonus factor: the clothes! Every week he’s appeared in a gloriously stylish cardigan or hooded sweater, something that tells me it’s brr-cold in The Big Apple, something that begs to be touched. Yes, there’s a sunny side down to all this Zoom-i-ness. 

 

This week the class spent the first hour critiquing my 3,000-word essay. My anxiety and insecurity led me to writing eight possible essays to turn in, each sounding more overwrought and woe-is-me. After slogging through one that was a greatest hits medley of All that I Wrong with Me, I’d had enough. Verbal diarrhea and persistent nausea are not the writerly vibes I strive for. I drafted a new essay, this one “lite” and packed with humor…or, at least, what I think is funny. How would the class react? What if my crush held his starkly serious demeanor for the entire two hours? What if he attacked my work? What if he said nothing at all, eyes downcast as he examined Wordles on the phone resting on his lap?

 

They thought it was funny! Feedback included references to Andrew Sean Greer and the hallowed Nora Ephron. Okay, not with regard to the whole essay but, if someone can cite an Ephron moment, I’m doing an (extremely clumsy) happy dance. 

 

Find yourself a Post-it to block that image. 

 

When my crush chimed in, he smiled. He said, “There were laugh out loud moments on every page.” He cited examples and, by golly, laughed out loud. It wasn’t a throwaway “LOL.” He meant it!

 

My crush chimed in again later, laughing again, saying he wanted to know more about what I’d referred to as a past partner’s “condom collection.” Well now. This was getting intimate. In truth, there was zero innuendo in his comment, but I prefer to misinterpret as I wish. That’s what crushes are all about. Lots of imagining what could be, even when Be Mine will never be.

 

Two more sessions to go. We’ll review his essay on the final day. I’ll be unabashedly biased, gushing over his catchy phrasing, his refreshing point of view and how hooked I was from the first paragraph. If it turns out this man can’t write, I’ll sound like a fool. But then that’s how crushes go. I’m such a silly schoolboy. At my age, it feels good.

 

 

 

CRUSHING DURING COVID

Lately I’ve been picking up a lot of handsome men and bringing them home. We first meet in public, at the library or the bookstore on Robson. Authors, all of them.

Once we’re back at my place, I let them tell me a story while I sit on the sofa or get cozy in bed. Every so often, I dare to sneak a glimpse of them between the covers. They look so confident, their gaze fixed, never backing down. I’m always the one who looks away first. I remind myself it’s silly to put much into a photo, one that the writer chose to submit to his publisher, the absolute best image he has of himself, perhaps edited to the point of looking nothing like his true self. However altered, it’s a good look.

There is nothing intimate about our time together. I’m well aware of how this works. He shares his photo indiscriminately, joining many willing readers in dens, bedrooms, sometimes out in the open in park settings. Buy or borrow his book and you too can ogle if you so choose. He’s told his story so many times, the words so well rehearsed. He’s no whore; he’s just a writer who yearns for his work to be noticed, even appreciated.

He’d probably be a little creeped out to know how many times I’ve peeked at his photo at the back of the book. I could honestly tell him I do this with all books, no matter the gender of the writer. I like visualize writers at work. It betters the reading experience if I can imagine a book’s creator going through multiple drafts, nixing or reworking characters and plot points to get to this final form. I often wonder if particular scenes are only slightly altered versions of lived experiences.

Crushing on gay authors is new for me. I suppose it’s one of those unexpected developments arising from the coronavirus. Zero dates, by choice instead of by default. No chance to linger in cafes, no opportunities to travel, so I’ve been reading much more. For a while, I passed endless idle hours streaming shows, avoiding the overhyped “Tiger King,” instead plodding through “Grace and Frankie,” “Dead to Me” and, yes, finally, “Schitt’s Creek.” Hiking filled up many of my summer days. But then Vancouver’s rainy season arrived, libraries reopened and I decided to make a dent in my seemingly endless reading list.

Garth Greenwell may have been the first author I brought home during this new period. I’d heard he’d introduce me to risky, raw sexual situations. He did. I responded with a shrug. Not a great start.

Next came Carter Sickels, author of The Prettiest Star. Very talented, strong storyteller and a thorough researcher on the ways AIDS ravaged the body during that era before medications could tame the beast. Glad to spend some time with him, but the crush would never go anywhere. He lives in Kentucky, land of Mitch McConnell and Rand Paul. Mr. Sickels can rest comfortably, knowing I shall not be stalking him.

At some point, I brought home Bill Clegg. I’d learned about his latest book, The End of the Day, in The New York Times Book Review. I shall admit to being smitten, staring at his photo a little too long before finally reading the review. Gay? I Googled. Sure enough. I didn’t review the book on the blog because, while there’s a hint at never acted upon feelings of love one of the three main women feels for another, this is not a gay novel. Based on an interview I read with Clegg, I learned he has a partner and they’re raising a child. Moving on…

I gave Andrew Sean Greer another try. I’d read Less as soon as it was published back in 2017. I remember rushing to the bookstore to get my hands on him—or it. The store’s website noted there were forty copies in stock, but I was sure they’d be scooped up. I’d never read such a glowing review in The New York Times. But, alas, Greer—er, Less—and I were not meant to be. He did everything right, but I wasn’t moved. Perhaps I was jealous. What would it be like to be so lauded as a writer? (Later, he even won the Pulitzer.) Maybe I was petty. Maybe I was looking for flaws. Sometimes you just can’t explain a lack of connection.

I gave away my copy of the book last year as I prepared for a big move that still hasn’t happened. (Curses to you, COVID!) During the dog days of the pandemic, I found myself holding Greer again. Yeah, yeah, his book. That’s all. Consider me charmed, Mr. Greer. Shout out to second chances. I do think Greer and I would look good as a couple but, alas, he’s taken. I wish them well. Really.

I was excited to bring Philippe Besson home. His Lie with Me appeared three times on the reading list I keep on my phone, evidence that multiple sources were telling me I’d take a shine to Philippe. Oui, oui, Philippe. Lie with me. There was also the added kitsch factor of his work being translated from French by Molly Ringwald. Yes, that Molly Ringwald. She’s had a long career in Hollywood, but I’ll forever associate with that mid-’80s movie trifecta of Sixteen Candles, The Breakfast Club and Pretty in Pink.

Monsieur Besson wowed me. Told as a memoir but described as a novel on the cover, I took in everything Philippe shared. The writing, the compelling nature of the story, the vulnerability of his character, everything worked. I couldn’t resist Googling this man. No clear mention of being partnered. Well then! He spends time in both France and Los Angeles. Ideal! Philippe et moi. C’est possible! But, alas, still no travel. I suppose the timing’s not right. C’est dommage.

Perhaps that’s why I turned to Daniel Zomparelli next. He lives right here in Vancouver, my city. And, while it’s probably a sign that I’m messed up, I’m a sucker for a guy who calls his book Everything Is Awful and You’re a Terrible Person. (Probably a good thing I’ve gotten back into therapy as of last week.) If his stories are based at all on his own experiences, it’s clear Daniel has had his share of dating misfires. We could bond over the bad. While he strikes a charming, geek-handsome pose at the back of the book, I suppose it’s lucky for Daniel that I shall not try to track him down. I did put in some time digging up stuff on the internet—yes, he seems lovely—but he’s too young for me and he has a husband. I shall not pursue him. Sure there’s the age difference and the fact he’s married, but there’s also the fear that I might become the basis for his next book with an even more savage title. Well played, Mr. Zomparelli!

There have been other men. TJ Klune (The Extraordinaries) has a wonderful sense of humor, but he’s way too into superheroes for my liking. I have no desire for some sort of Batman-Joker role play in bed. I don’t want to get makeup all over the sheets. Ryan La Sala (Reverie) is far too young and that whole science fiction thing does nothing for me. I tried but ultimately I had to cut short our time together. I keep coming back to David Levithan (Wide Awake) who by now is too familiar...if anything, we’ll always be in the friendship zone. I could take a shine to Abdi Nazemian (Like a Love Story), but I discovered right away that he has a husband, too. Gay marriage has done wonders for others, it seems. I tell myself I should be happy about all this progress.

Right now I’ve bouncing back and forth between two gay authors, Andrew Holleran (The Beauty of Men) and Grant Ginder (The People We Hate at the Wedding). Holleran, whose real name is Eric Garber, is too relatable for me. Lots of angst from him about aging, even a quarter century ago. Has he worked through his issues? Perhaps he could be a mentor, but, at 78, he’s living in Florida, another no-go state for me. I couldn’t possibly live in a place where people elect Marco Rubio and Rick Scott. And it’s got Mar-a-Lago. The horror! As for Mr. Ginder, he lives in Brooklyn which is doable, but he’s not. Too young and, sigh, married. I’m sensing that writers are nesters. I’m also sensing that I need to take a break from all this flirtation with gay authors. I’ve got Alison Bechdal, Fran Lebowitz, Helen Hanf, Nora Ephron and Jia Tolentino on deck. They too may woo me with words but at least with them there are clear boundaries. That’s probably a good thing, for everyone involved.

WHEN HARRY MET SOLLY

Even though it’s my all-time favorite movie, I still have a quibble with “When Harry Met Sally”. When the movie premiered thirty-one years ago, it got a lot of buzz, not just for a certain diner scene but for it’s central question: Can men and women just be friends? (Hang on, I’ll give it a gay context soon enough.)

As a still mostly closeted gay man in 1989, I’d felt the query clouding many of my friendships. Yes, I had lots of girl friends but definitely no girlfriends. Maybe I passed for straight—it took deep concentration for me to get my pinky finger to cling to my coffee mug instead of dangling outward. Maybe, instead, people were subtly taunting me and trying to coax me to come out when they’d ask, “Did you and Ally/Sue/Rowena/Cynthia/Carrie ever date?” Texans were too bound by social niceties to just blurt, “Did you two have sex?”

No. And, as to what you’re implying, no. Not Ally. Not Sue. Not Rowena. Not Cynthia. Not Carrie. Clear enough for you?

“Told y’all,” Carole Lee no doubt said behind my back. “He’s gay.”

Back then, I wasn’t just in the closet (even if the door had come off its hinges). I was conservative and repressed. I should have lived in Victorian times. Why did everything come down to sex?

As I sat in a Santa Monica movie theater with my friend—yes, friend—Sue, after having just moved to Malibu—yes, Malibu!—I was loving the movie. Nora Ephron’s script sang, Meg Ryan looked and acted absolutely adorable and Billy Crystal locked in on likable schmuckiness. Still, when Harry authoritatively said to Sally, “Men and women can’t be friends because the sex part always gets in the way,” I was one hundred percent TeamSally as she argued the point. So, later in the movie, when Harry and Sally were walking in a park and he stopped and asked, “Are we becoming friends now?” I wanted to stand and cheer...something celebratory but not as euphoric as the classic diner scene.

Just friends! Yes! Yes! Forever and always! Oh, yeah!

It happens.

Okay, so all my personal cases in point with all my close girl friends were marred by that bubbling gay thing. I was—and am—still a big fan of platonic friendship.

That’s why I was startled when my current boyfriend, Daniel, asked me not once but twice if my closest gay friend in Vancouver, someone I’ve known for twenty-five years, ever dated or had sex or if, at the very least, either or both of us ever liked one or the other in that way.

What? Ron?! Ew.

Sorry,...no offense, Ron.

The query felt as icky as if Daniel was asking about my brother or cousin or uncle. Just no. Whether it’s blood or a clear friendship track, there are lines you never ever cross.

Gay men can just be friends with gay men. Can’t they?

It’s true that the friend I’ve known the longest in Vancouver—twenty-eight years—is a guy I met in a club during my first visit to the city and we fooled around that one night. I’d like to think we long ago blocked that experience from memory. It’s so insignificant compared to the friendship that developed.

I’m confident I can rebut the gay version of Harry’s claim wherein he says, “No man can be friends with a woman that he finds attractive. He always wants to have sex with her.”

Sally replies, “So you’re saying a man can be friends with a woman he finds unattractive.”

“No, you pretty much want to nail them, too.”

Yes, there are guys I’ve dated and it wasn’t the right fit but we became friends. Not best buds but something at least slightly more enhanced than Facebook friends. Initially, at least. People move. Really, I don’t see myself ever visiting Palm Springs. Sorry, Jim. I wilt in anything over 75 degrees.

And it’s true that there are gay men I’ve never dated that I felt might like me. I’ve been known to be oblivious and sometimes, yes, it’s a bit of an act. Let’s not ruin a possibly perfectly good friendship. Generally, it only takes a few occasions together before they come to their senses and realize I’m not all that (or even half that) and they dismiss any other kind of interest in me. Friendship is fine.

I’ve only had to spell it out once. Jay was my first friend I ever met in a gay bar after moving to California. He came on really strong—heavy flirting, maybe a grope (that wasn’t uncommon in dark gay clubs thirty years ago)—and I held up my hand to mime a strong STOP sign. “I just want us to be platonic.” From then on, he made a point as always introducing me as “my platonic friend, James.” Whatever. It worked. We became really good friends. (Until he moved to Bakersfield. I tried to be his Facebook friend fifteen years later and never heard anything back. Denied?! I have a hard time letting things go.)

I’m trying to think of examples where it worked the other way where I crushed on a guy and he wasn’t interested but we became friends, if only temporarily. Cue spinning rainbow. Thinking…thinking...Now cue Yukon Cornelius from my all-time favorite TV show, “Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer”:

“Nothin’.”

My crushes never ever became dating experiences or consolation prize friendships because I’ve never ever figured out how to establish any sort of communication with them. My attempts at eye contact had me staring at my shoelaces. A simple “hello” was always nixed by a sudden tsunami of armpit sweat that caused me to flee for the nearest exit, even if it meant sounding an alarm. If I held it together enough to stick around, I feigned absolute disinterest. Right now, you’re everything but I’ll act like you’re nothing. Man, I was hopeless. I crushed every crush all by myself.

But, yes, gay men can just be friends, with no dating, sex or inkling of oogly, googly liking ever preceding a permanent state of platonic interaction.

“Are you sure Ron never liked you?” Daniel asked yet again.

“Certain.”

But then Ron hasn’t dated anyone at all in the last twenty years. Occasionally, just to be polite, I ask, “So,...are you seeing anyone?”

He scrunches up his nose as if I just offered him fried liver and a glass of milk that expired three weeks ago. “Are you kidding?” These days, Ron’s all about watching mushroom videos on YouTube. And, no, I kid you not. Little clusters of chanterelles in the forest. “There are thousands of videos!” he says.

Okay, so Ron is awfully quirky. Still, he’s my example and not just an exception (even if I can’t name anyone else).

Gay men can just be friends. Take that, Harry. I rest my case.