DOMINO DANCING

I am three for three this month.

I’ve read it in articles, seen it on TV and heard it on the radio: there is a surge of people joining online dating sites after Christmas. Furthermore, more people break up in January than any other month. (Maybe Johhny shouldn’t haven’t joined the online site on Boxing Day while still attached to Frank.)
So call me an opportunist. Someone’s pain could be my gain. I rejoined one dating site and tried to view my ol’ standby, Plenty of Fish, with new eyes. Perhaps a cute little fishy has been lurking amongst all that algae.
Thus far, match.com is a complete dud—just like last time I shelled out money to join. Despite being a top site for heterosexuals, very few Vancouver gays have profiles on it. I have received two very nice expressions of interest from men whose photos suggest there could be a physical attraction. Great,…if I lived anywhere near Edmonton, Alberta or Baton Rouge, Louisiana. (Why taunt me? Why make me regret my foolishly chosen home even more?!)
There are more guys on POF and, lo and behold, it seems some new fishies have joined. And, yes, as my opening sentence suggests, I took the lead and messaged three guys whose photos/profiles piqued my interest.
Not all at once, of course. In my mind, that either seems slutty or defeatist. Slutty in that juggling multiple guys goes against my dating intentions—a relationship, not hookups. Defeatist in that mass-messaging would show that I am not particularly hopeful of hearing back from at least two out of three of them.
Having shared my online approach, you might surmise that, if I messaged three guys, at least the first two messages went nowhere. And, yes, you’d be absolutely correct. You’d be even more correct if you guessed that all three messages went nowhere. Shame on you, logical defeatist!
Three for three. Three messages, three periods of painstaking virtual silence.
Nothing,…

Nothing,…

Nothing.
Except I did receive messages the day after I sent each of my charming, witty notes. It’s just that the incoming messages did not match the outgoing messages.
Welcome to mismatch.com.
I wonder if the three guys who received my messages lapsed into a hyperventilating fit of despondency as did I when I opened my mail. Is every middle-aged single guy delusional in thinking he can attract men beyond his reach? Are we all seeking to reel in that prized catch that spawns a truly unbelievable fish story? This pathetic dating game is more reminiscent of knocking down dominoes than playing Go Fish. Why do I keep playing?
It is still January. These newly thrown-back fish have yet to adjust to the pond. We’re not the same and neither is the pool.

Maybe they’ll come out with a news story on what time of year people are the most desperate. I can hold off on the opportunism ‘til then.



WHAT ARE THE RIGHT PLACES?

In my last post, I bemoaned my perennial single status and worried about the recent coffee date trend whereby I chat at length to another presumably single soul and yet never feel the slightest physical attraction. How can that be?! Am I too picky? Do I need a dating moratorium?  Do I need to invest in a pair of rose-colored glasses? And, if so, why can’t I find them on eBay?

On Twitter, one well-meaning fellow suggested, “You’re just looking in the wrong places.” Though unintended, the comment sounded like something my mother would say—if, that is, my mother dared even engage in the topic of my (non) dating life. (She still frets over the notion that Dating = Sex = AIDS = Death despite my father the doctor’s robotic response, rambling on about safe sex.)

Looking in the wrong places. The comment did cause me to YouTube this catchy song from my days living in Texas, but otherwise it comes off as wholly unhelpful. I wondered if the Tweep (Twerp?) noticed my blog name, which also happens to be my moniker on Twitter:  Rural Gay. Let me restate it:  RURAL Gay.

Where exactly are the right places?!

Admittedly, I may be stretching the notion of rural. There are houses on either side of me. There are houses across the street. I live on a cul-de-sac, something that probably does not exist in truly rural areas unless a farmer creates one as a convenient means of turning horse trailers around. (There are horses in the area, but they are a five-minute bike ride away.) To be more accurate, I live in a hamlet where there are no local services or shops other than a small elementary school. I suppose I could change the blog to Hamlet Gay, but the word always makes me think alternately of Shakespeare and that McDonald’s kid-marketing creation, the Hamburglar. (Am I the only one who ever wondered if Ronald McDonald and the Hamburglar were a couple? Why are there no women characters?)

Myself excepted, single gay men do not move to hamlets that are a forty-minute ferry ride away from civilization. I am certain I am the only such fool.

Technically, there is a civilization that does not require a boat ride and a good chunk of change. There are two towns on the eighty-kilometer stretch of coastline linked by one winding roadway and bookended by ferry routes on either end. Again, single gay men do not appear anywhere along the route. There are lesbians aplenty and a few gay couples. I am a category unto myself.

So that’s the predicament. Based on where I live, there are no right places.

Every place is the wrong place.

Online dating is the one avenue I have to try to connect. My profile indicates I live in Vancouver. It is my one deceptive statement. By the second message, I make it clear that I am Vancouver-adjacent, at least when one pulls far, far back on a Google map. The hope is that my photos and my charm will interest another desperately single individual enough to consider meeting me for coffee. I always make the trek into the city. On those rare occasions when things progress to a third or fourth date, some guys have been known to venture my way.

Sadly, my last third or fourth date happened eons ago.

If Plenty of Fish is the wrong place, my only other options seem to be other online sites. I’ve tried match.com which turned out to be an even smaller pool of unwanteds. I even tried gay.com but I don’t know how to choose a potential date based on photos of asses and penises in various stages of arousal. It seems POF is best amongst a series of apparently wrong places.

Perhaps I need to take a bigger leap of faith. Maybe I should consider a new website. Here I come, Travelocity! What is the cheapest airfare to New York City? I have a certain attraction to one particular gay man who is apparently single. If I can woo him before he secures a restraining order, my life might change for the better.

Fingers crossed.

Then someone else can have that elusive pair of rose-colored glasses. I’ll happily lie in the arms of my guy, listening to him giggle with abandon.

Until then, I’ll have to make the best of all the wrong places.

 

UPDATE: Oh, the despair! According to Wikipedia, my dear Coop has a partner by the name of Benjamin Maisani. Who am I to stalk--from a respectful distance--now?!