THE SPACE BETWEEN

If there’s been a theme in my befuddled dating life this year, it’s been that distance does not make the heart grow fonder. Not in the early stages, at least. And if there’s been a theme for the past decade it’s been that it’s always early stages.

I do hear of couples retelling their “When Harry Met Sally” beginnings who speak of first dates that never ended. “He invited me up and, basically, I never went home.” Lovely. That’s just not me. Guys don’t invite me up on the first date. I seem to convey a solid sense of fuddy-duddy-ness. And generally I’m okay with that. An awkward, yet affectionate wave is endearing. A warm hug even, well, warmer. Add to that quick peck and it is all the more alluring—even if, in that startled moment, our lips are askew. Lip to upper chin. That’s as on target as I get in that nervous overture.

When that first date ends with that gawky promise of what’s to come, it is exciting to think about just that. Something to come.

If only.

And that’s where my rural nest becomes all the more the curse. I am certain I have had many decent dates, particularly this year. (I can easily distinguish these from the dead ends. “Keep in touch,” for example, means “Let’s pretend this never happened.” That’s when you walk away and do whatever it takes to salvage the day. Start with ice cream.) Often the promise is punctuated with a thoughtful text—“Did you make your ferry?” Yes, sometimes that blasted boat isn’t such an omen; instead, it provides an excuse for a clear sign—let’s keep the conversation going.

But then there’s the prolonged pause, the buzz killer. If I lived nearby, a second date might come in a few days, a week later at most. We’ve passed the coffee test. The logical next step is dinner. But that gets glitchy. There’s no chance for a leisurely meal and a conversation that flows with the wine amidst a candlelit ambience. If I go to Vancouver, I have to head back to the ferry terminal by 8:15 to catch the last ferry. If it’s dinner, it’s a rushed affair that artificially ends too soon. There’s always lunch. No wine, no candles, no sexual tension.

There just isn’t such an eagerness to schedule lunch. It’s the throwaway meal of the day. Meaningless. There’s a reason “Let’s do lunch” became the equivalent to “See you around.”  No intention whatsoever.

There is no spontaneity in setting up that second date. Weekdays are out. And weekends can get crammed with obligations and social routines—not mine, theirs. It becomes an effort to schedule the follow-up. There’s no natural flow of yearning making things fall into place. For various reasons, a week becomes two, then three. In the meantime, other online prospects wedge their way in. The chance for seconds passes.

I can make a good impression; just not that good of a first impression. I’m not a love-at-first-sight beacon. My exes would attest to that. It takes time for me to shift from polite and reserved to funny, affectionate and open. I’m working on it, but it doesn’t help to have added pressure on a first date. Good isn’t good enough.

Currently, I’ve got a couple of decent first dates that haven’t been completely snuffed out. But as time ticks by, it feels like an uneventful fade-out will be the logical conclusion. I’ve traveled on weekends and so have they. Two weeks now approaches three. Opportunity mocks. Despite a good start with Saul, I expect nothing more to come of it. The occasional message becomes more detached. I’m not as interested and, no doubt, neither is he.

There is one persistent fellow: Wade. Date Number 1 was six weeks ago, maybe longer. We couldn’t fit in a second date before he left for a trip to Lebanon and Israel. Since he’s been back, I spent a weekend in Seattle and he spent the next in Victoria. Let it go, my inner voice says. But he keeps texting. And it looks like we’re on for next Sunday. Maybe. Unless something else gets in the way.

It’s a hell of a long way between first and second.  

COMING OUT FOR THE NEXT GENERATION

I had coffee with Donna this morning. She is a neighbor of my aunt and uncle in a rural community outside of a town of 7,500. Her son Carter is seventeen and gay. She had cried on my aunt’s shoulder and, after meeting me last week, desperately needed to talk to an older gay man to gain some perspective on what might be best for Carter. (Bless Donna. She thought I was approaching thirty, not forty-five. How could I not want to bond with this woman?)

We chatted for almost two hours and both went away feeling nourished. As she explained Tyler’s coming out process, I was reminded how much things have changed in the past thirty years. When I was Carter’s age, Elton John had declared himself bisexual, but had a wife. A guy named Jack on “Three’s Company” pretended to be gay to get closer to Suzanne Somers’ breasts. That was it. I had no other gay reference points. Oh, there was a song by Rod Stewart, “The Killing of Georgie”, a stunningly accepting testimonial about a friend’s gayness. Unfortunately, as the title reveals, poor Georgie was beaten to death by a less accepting swarm.

Carter had found a gay confidant online in a distant Canadian city. He’d also found some of the more risqué sites, satisfying his curiosity and graphically revealing what gay sex is all about. He also lives in a country where gay marriage and gay adoption are legal. Protection against discrimination is embedded in the Charter of Rights and Freedoms. Carter has grown up with far more gay influences. Ellen Degeneres is one of the most beloved TV personalities out there. Adam Lambert overshadowed all contestants on this season of “American Idol” and made the cover of Rolling Stone. Television is filled with gay characters on past and present shows like “Will and Grace”, “Brothers and Sisters”, “Desperate Housewives”, “Ugly Betty” and “Glee”.

Coming out is still a challenge, a burden even. So much drama. So much to carry on your shoulders. Despite all the recognition in pop culture, the personal resources remain hard to come by, especially when you don’t live in a big city. Donna had never heard of PFLAG and had only talked about Carter’s sexual orientation with my aunt and myself. She grew up in Toronto and could recall gay acquaintances there. Her husband grew up in this rural area and still can’t even say the word gay despite knowing for over a year that his son is gay.

While I believe most high schools still have too much machismo, too much gay taunting, Carter’s school in town is particularly brutal. He suppresses his love of writing and photography and plays up his fascination for fast cars. He has not come out to a single peer. He is as lonely and isolated in his personal world as I was.

Still, Donna and Carter are ahead of where I was in my teens. Carter accepted his identity at least five years before me. He didn’t have to make a Grand Declaration of Gayness to Donna; instead, she stumbled upon a letter he’d written on the Internet, hugged him and told him she loved him. (I had to fly from L.A. to Alabama for my official Coming Out Weekend to my parents when I was twenty-eight.)

Donna began our talk saying she felt uncomfortable. By the end, she was smiling and hugging me and hoping I would move closer—to Ottawa, not the local town. I felt like I was giving back in a way to another family, maybe making their growth a little easier, their bonding a little stronger. At the same time, I feel a little less isolated and a little more encouraged.