A SIGN OF PRIDE, FARTHER AFIELD

 

I keep my eye out for gay things when I travel in more remote areas. No, not gay people. I’m oblivious in that regard. Mostly. I people watch as I do anywhere, but I focus on clothes, hair and the interactions (and lack thereof) between people. Sexual orientation is rarely a factor, particularly when I’m in a relationship. There’s a gay guy! Um, so? Handsome, too! (Sorta.) Again…so? To the extent that I do any people sorting, it’s not gay versus straight; it’s local versus tourist. What is it like to live in this small town? If I see a rainbow flag or some other queer-positive symbol, that’s when I amend my primary ponderance: What is it like to live as a gay person here?

 

I was heartened to see a sign about Pride while walking through the old streets of the town of Visby, Sweden (population 24,000). My instinct was to snap a photo, but part of the sign had been torn off which made image appear less prideful. Who had torn it? Was it an act of hate, some individual’s effort to create a backlash? If I were a queer kid in Visby, what would I take away from the image? First, I suppose there would be a sense of belonging. I’m not alone. I can be myself here. But then what to make of the tear? Maybe I can’t. Maybe it’s still not safe.

 

The circumstances in Visby are more complicated than in other small towns because there isn’t a big city an hour or two away. Visby is on the island of Gotland (population 58,000) in the middle of the Baltic Sea, a three-hour-fifteen-minute ferry ride away from Nyäshamn (13,000) which itself is an hour away from Stockholm. 

 

In places like this, Pride is even more important, not as a spectacle with drag queens and shirtless go-go boys, but as a means of networking and finding allies. A boyfriend? The chances are as remote as the area.

 

I Googled “Gotland Pride” and was somewhat relieved to discover that the celebration occurred three weeks prior—over the course of four days even. Old signs get torn for an assortment of reasons. I dislike seeing dated notices and have been known to remove such items from bulletin boards. Maybe someone else who likes to keep things current tried to take down the poster and didn’t realize how much adhesive had been applied. But then maybe I’m being generous. If I lived on Gotland, I’d try to put all my thoughts into coming up with plausible, non-hateful explanations for the bulletin’s damage. 

 

Too much thinking about a single sign? Sure, no doubt. But then, it was the only one I saw. (The others were surely removed in a timely manner.) Gotland Pride may have been in May, but June is Pride month most everywhere and I’ve seen recognition of this in shops in both Göteborg (605,000) and Stockholm (979,000). I now take these visuals for granted, along with considerable skepticism, when I spot them in cities. Is a business making a strong statement about LGBTQ rights or is it just another business decision? Welcome, gays! Buy a trendy new blanket here. And socks. (If I ever open a shop of my own, I’ll stock socks. Even if it’s a vacuum cleaner store, I’ll sell socks, too. I’m getting excited thinking about the uptick in sales. 🤑) 

 

When I started this blog, I too lived in a remote area. The only public building in my community was a small elementary school. No bank, no café, no mom-and-pop convenience store. The closest town had 4,000 people and, along the entire eighty-five-kilometer stretch of coastline, residents totaled 30,000. It wasn’t an island but, due to mountains and water, the area was only accessible by ferry, other boat or seaplane. These figures are smaller than those that pertain to Gotland, but the ferry was only a forty-minute journey, with Vancouver (675,000) another twenty minutes away on an exceptionally good traffic day. Many posts I wrote while living there addressed finding a natural paradise and a haven for writing but also teetering from the bliss of being alone to a vulnerability in feeling lonely due to the isolation. My home would have offered the foundation for an idyllic lifestyle had I been in a relationship, but as a single gay man, it nearly did me in. Indeed, several medical professionals finally implored me to move. 

 

I made that doomed decision to move to a remote place as an adult out of freewill and fanciful thinking. I feel the pain for other single gays and lesbians living in remote areas. Maybe they choose to be hermits. Maybe they are more extroverted (most everyone is). Maybe they don’t entertain any desire to be partnered. Maybe they moved there as a couple and then the relationship fell apart. Even for couples, it can feel isolating. I recall one gay couple I met early on who hosted a party which turned out to be a last hurrah of sorts. After five years living in the nearby town, they’d had enough. They were returning to civilization. 

 

I feel even more concern for queer youth growing up in these places. Not their choice. Sure, there’s the internet now to connect with like-minded people but that’s not always positive either and it sure as hell doesn’t make up for in-person friendships and relationships. 

 

I perused the Gotland Pride page on Facebook and came across a video of people marching for Pride. The post included a comment that they’d hoped for fifty and, instead, hundreds turned out. (Really, from watching the clip, maybe just one hundred. It’s not just an orange-haired ex-president who has a way of inflating crowd sizes. But I shouldn’t quibble. If a Gotlander wishes to interpret it as a show of hundreds—hell, let’s round up to a thousand—so be it. But numbers games can be empty exercises.) The posted video would surely be a nice sight for queer Gotlanders and a nice event to experience, but that’s still a small pool of people. How many were actually queer and how many were allies? (In recent years, Vancouver’s Pride parade has felt like a big event for straight people to attend, not entirely unlike everybody being Irish at the pubs on St. Patrick’s Day. Who doesn’t love a party?)  

 

In truth, I didn’t venture much beyond the medieval walls of Visby’s tourist draw to see how the majority of Visby residents live. I recall seeing a trans/gay rainbow flag hanging from an apartment balcony, but that may have been in another town. In two weeks of travel in Iceland and Sweden, it’s been a different place to stay every night. As just a visitor, I rented a bike for my twenty hours on the island and, when not gazing up at the ruins of so many churches, I headed to beaches and shorelines deserted by all but swans and sea gulls. Now that I have a city to return home to and am in a relationship, I crave spaces away from people altogether. For me, it’s a choice and luxury.

 

   

DATING INDIFFERENCE

At the very beginning of 2020, before the Great Lockdown, I snoozed my profiles on traditional online dating sites. I was moving. I most certainly did not want to start a relationship with someone in Vancouver. In a post from that time, I’d explained that I wanted to do some sowing of my wild oats which I never did in my teens or twenties. When I came out in my mid-twenties, AIDS seemed to be wiping out the gay population and I didn’t think sex with a stranger was worth it. I had enough fear about being gay in the first place—possible bashing, losing my job (I worked with nuns), losing friends, being disowned by family (which, in retrospect, might not have been so bad). Back in the ’80s, “out and proud” was perhaps an aspiration for others, but I was just looking to survive. I never was one for setting lofty goals.

 

Okay, so back to 2020. MY mission: makeup sex, in the sense of experiencing a little of what I missed. I opened a profile on a hookup site and wound up meeting one guy who wasn’t a hook up at all. We dated for five months. It was nice as a casual yet close connection. When lockdown forced me to postpone or abandon travel and moving plans, I suppose the stakes became higher. I had to assess whether this guy, who was comfortable to be around, was long-term partner material. He wasn’t. Nice guy, but we had some fundamental differences in terms of values. 

 

I’ve been single for a full year and off all online sites for seventeen months—I closed down my profile on the hookup site when I the supposedly casual five-month relationship began. (I’m even worse at juggling than I am at setting lofty goals.) To say it’s been good to be single and off the dating scene is an understatement. 

 

So many of us who are single spend too much time thinking about relationship possibilities. We pine. We whine. We flirt. We get hurt. (Okay, my flirting is infinitely worse than my juggling or my goal setting. Call it nonexistent. But others, I’m told, flirt.) Our friends, particularly those who are coupled, say well-intended, but unhelpful things like: It’ll happen when you stop looking. Don’t try so hard; Maybe you’re being too picky. (Um, so are you saying I should lower my standards? Hello, rock. Wanna go out?); and You need to put yourself out there more. (Sure, let me simply turn off my lifelong INTROVERT button and suddenly become a different personality.) 

 

I can be quick to put myself down, but I know I did a lot of things right when I was on the dating scene. I had many odd or bad coffee dates that made for good blog posts, but I also had many occasions where the conversation flowed and things extended to a walk or dinner before I got told I was a really nice guy, but I didn’t set off any fireworks. (My fireworks skills? You guessed it. Not even worth buying bottle rockets or Roman candles. I’ve been afraid of fire ever since a sparkler boo-boo when I was five. Can’t even light a match. I will not be putting on a fireworks show for anyone.) I suspect some of this fireworks nonsense may have been on account I didn’t give off any pressing Let’s Have Sex vibes. I’m the quintessential guy next door. 

 

When you have a lot of WTF go-nowhere dates, you can either torture yourself with What’s Wrong with Me thinking, adopt a Screw You All, Shallow Gay Men stance or just wave a white flag and choose to knit an afghan or set off in search of a rare Light-footed Clapper Rail. (That’s a bird. Frankly, if I were a bird and I knew humans called me a Light-footed Clapper Rail, I’d go into hiding, too. Because clearly humans are weird.) I’ve swum in the What’s Wrong and the Screw You sewers more than a time or two, but I’ve yet to take up knitting or birdwatching. (I can only imagine the dangers that would come with me holding knitting needles and binoculars just bug my eyes. Hmm…I’m beginning to see why guys might quickly decide I’m not such a catch.)

 

For a year now, the self-criticism has been next to nil. Whining and pining? Wasted time. (Ryan Reynolds doesn’t count. I’m abundantly aware that he is still solidly straight…and married.) 

 

Lockdown and a global pandemic have made it a no-brainer to forgo dating. (Yes, this generously assumes I have much of a say in the prospect of dating.) I’d read how one of Canada’s top doctors encouraged sex with masks, but I was having enough challenges just putting on a mask so it didn’t cover up my eyes. (I know, I know. Such a catch!) I couldn’t get my head around the thought that the sweatiness under my mask would complement the sweatiness of sex. Different things. I’d also read a New York Times article about casual sex during coronavirus, but it just made me think people had their priorities out of whack. Perhaps I defaulted to some version of AIDS-era sense of caution. I wasn’t terribly fearful of getting COVID, but I didn’t want to be the one to pass on the virus or have it passed on to me and then to have it get passed on to someone far more vulnerable. For me at least, any personal agenda needed to be put on hold to give that “We’re All in This Together” mantra some weight instead of merely being a sign people post in windows.

 

I’ve come to realize I am happy being single. I’ve always known I enjoy time on my own but, just like 98% of us, I was raised to believe that becoming a couple was one of the milestones that made your life well-lived. As a man, bachelor has never sounded as judgemental as how women are labeled: spinster or cat lady. Still, this bachelor wasn’t ever going to be called a playboy and I’d had my wedding song picked when I was six. (“We’ve Only Just Begun” by The Carpenters, natch.) 

 

Being on my own does not make me a Have Not. I don’t need to be defensive about it just because others may project a void in my life. We have different life paths. One is not necessarily better than another. It’s what you make of the path you’re on. That’s as Oprah as I’ve ever sounded, but all this quiet time has allowed me to get more comfortable with where I’m at. The quiet has also reduced any tendency to compare myself with others I see going about their daily business since there was less of that going on in public. I stopped inferring some sense of happiness in couples I passed on the sidewalk (instead begrudging the fact they rarely walked single file for two seconds to allow more space as we came upon one another). I didn’t have opportunities to view a person having dinner alone in a restaurant as someone warranting pity. I have done this. I have felt this. I know I’m not the only one.

 

Things are opening back up again. For now. Who knows what may or may not happen when winter approaches. I’ve had both my vaccination shots. I know I can reactivate my dating profiles. It’s crossed my mind a few times over the past couple of weeks. It goes on my to-do list, but I don’t do it. It stays there along with Fix Closet Door and Clean Car Interior (so much coffee spillage).     

 

Yes, I can date again. Chat over coffee. Walk away with a funny or a maddening anecdote. Maybe even experience a firework-free spark. Maybe more. All I have to do is press one button on a dating site to make my profile public again. I can easily update things with some recent, acceptable photos of me looking smiley and sporty. It’s painless. The problem is, I haven’t figured out why. What do I want now, if anything? Is diving back into dating—or the possibility of it, at least—just a fallback habit? Gosh, it’s what I’ve always done. It’s what I’m supposed to do to “fix” this “problem” of being a single guy. 

 

I’ve had a good thing going for the past year. As an example, I just had a great weekend that had me smiling as I retired to bed Sunday night. When. I thought back on it, I realized I’d spent it entirely alone. I’d exchanged texts with some friends, three in Vancouver, one in Boston. I’d gone on a ten-hour solo hike, ascending two mountain peaks, I’d started my Sunday walking three hours in the rain and seeing how much an old neighborhood where I’d lived had changed. I read, I wrote, I watched a movie. I felt content the entire time. Not once did I think something was missing.

 

I don’t think this dating ambivalence arises from a sense of safety and I know it’s not fear that’s holding me back. Without the slightest bit of bitterness or drama, I wonder if I might just be done. I’ll give it some more thought, but I know that, for now at least, I’m happy being single. That’s a pretty wonderful takeaway from one odd year.

GILBERT O'SULLIVAN IS FOLLOWING ME!

Most of you probably aren’t familiar with Gilbert O’Sullivan, but he has hounded me ever since December 1979 when I was a teen listening to a Casey Kasem countdown of the top songs of the ’70s. I hadn’t been aware of pop music during the first half of the decade, just a few albums and 45s—Elton John, The Carpenters, The Partridge Family, Glen Campbell’s “Rhinestone Cowboy”. When I finally started tuning in to my AM radio, the playlist featured Mary MacGregor being “Torn Between Two Lovers” and William Bell “Tryin’ to Love Two” while Donna Summer faked orgasms on “Love to Love You, Baby” and rodents shared their mating calls—or was it flatulence—in “Muskrat Love”. It was clear that, as John Paul Young sang, “Love Is in the Air”. What I learned from radio was that love was aplenty. So when I belatedly heard Mr. O’Sullivan’s 1972 #1 hit “Alone Again (Naturally)” it felt bubble-bursting. Indeed, it was the most depressing song I’d ever heard.

Instantly, I identified with it. (I even liked that the “Naturally” came as a parenthetical!) Yes, this was more like it. This seemed like my past, my present, my future. (Apparently teen angst came early for me.) There would be no one wanting to be my everything. Nobody wanting to kiss me all over. (A relief, really.) And I would not have whatever those damn muskrats had. Instead, there was just a big-haired Irish guy acknowledging that this big-haired Canadian boy would feel aching loneliness again and again.

And so it should come as no surprise that, although a year ago, I was getting the sense I had found lasting love—indeed, at last!—it would wilt before year’s end.

I’ve put off this blog post for six weeks or so. I quietly changed my Twitter profile. It’s not that I see Twitter as a mechanism for dating; it just felt dishonest to continue to claim to be one of the #Taken. To be clear, I never used that hashtag. If I recall correctly, I simply said that I was scratching my head over how I stumbled and bumbled my way into a relationship.

The head scratching has stopped, much to the relief of those around me who, no doubt, fretted that I must have lice. That would be the more plausible explanation.

So, yes, Gilbert O’Sullivan has reappeared. It’s not like I’ve gone to the dollar store and purchased a “WELCOME BACK” banner to hang in my living room, but I haven’t chased him and his song away either. (Is it wrong that the song amuses me?) As the titular parenthetical indicates, this aloneness is natural for some of us. For ugly ducklings like me. (Oops. That’s Janis Ian in my head. Second most depressing song of the ‘70s.) 

To ensure I don't wallow in Gilbert's neighborhood, I also play “Dancing Queen” and “Boogie Oogie Oogie” on repeat. It's unlikely Mr. O’Sullivan would join in my amusement. I suspect he would have been one of those who jumped on the Disco Sucks bandwagon at the end of the decade. Mr. Depressing would not want happy beats booming about in his midst. Maybe disco, as much as it offers a joyful detour, is not an antidote. Maybe being alone is my true destiny. Gil—I think I can call him that after all these years—and his “Alone Again” will likely get comfy hanging out once again, not with me but alongside me, two sad-sacks sharing the same airspace but nothing else.

(Naturally.)  

HOOKUP HOOKY

Maybe I deserved it. That’s what that prudish inner voice tells me. (Why can’t I find its mute button?) But maybe I even wanted it to happen. I got stood up for a hookup. At his place. When does that ever happen?

I felt especially nervous as I got ready to head over. Didn’t help that I read a chapter last night about Jeffrey Dahmer and a London serial killer of gay men. Also didn’t help that my last hookup had been lackluster. The guy I was meeting looked more like the sweet guy-next-door type I wouldn’t mind dating. Could something more come from this?

At the last minute, I realized I’d forgotten to shave. I didn’t want my whiskers to scratch up his face in the event of a passionate kissing session so I quickly ran the electric shaver back and forth across my face, leaving my skin burning from the wrong kind of touch. By the time I’d waited for the elevator and gotten in my car, it was clear I’d be late. 2:57 and we were supposed to meet at 3. And then came red light after red light, an elderly woman taking baby steps to cross with her walker at a stop sign and an out-of-the-blue parade of dozens of cyclists who continued to cross at an intersection after I had the green to go. It’s not meant to be, that dang inner voice taunted.

But I knew I had to reach my destination. Had to show I tried. And so I drove on as perspiration painted my underarms. A bad first impression. Hopefully I wouldn’t have the shirt on for long. I parked the car and searched for the street address. #1288. Not there! There was townhouse #1280, an alley and then a twenty-floor condominium marked as #1290. I walked through the alley, searching for a hidden door, a yurt or a rickety shed. Anything would have been welcoming. But no. Had the asshole given me the wrong address on purpose?

But then I checked the address I’d entered on my phone: #1228. Putz. Late-onset dyslexia sucks. And so, finally, thirteen minutes late, I pressed the doorbell. I heard it chime. I waited, fanning my shirt and running my tongue across my teeth in case there was a food particle lodged between molars or canines or whatever the other ones are called. After a minute, I knocked on the door…just in case that doorbell chime I heard was something I’d imagined. Alas, there was no a peep to be heard from within.

It’s rude to be late, my Prudish Inner Voice reminded me. Even for a booty call. (In truth, I’m stunned my P.I.V. knew the term “booty call” and more embarrassed that I don’t know if it fit in this context.) Maybe this guy was making a statement. Maybe he headed to the gym or the grocery store after waiting five minutes. Or what if he was making a different statement. Had he peeked from his second floor window as I locked my car and noted the five extra pounds since my profile pic? Had he spotted the sweat stains on my too tight t-shirt? Had he simply realized he could do better and turned out the lights, waiting for me to go away?

If I felt bad about the prospect of hooking up, I felt worse walking back to my car. And, yes, a little relieved. I have to keep reminding myself, it’s just sex. This despite the fact I’ve always wanted sex to be something more.

Back home, I went online and there was a message. “Running half an hour late. Sorry. Can we make it 3:30?” I suppose if I’d been spiteful, I’d have not replied. Let him wonder who flaked on whom.  But, no, that’s not in me. I only thought of that now as I write this. Instead, I let the guy know I’d shown up, that my work phone doesn’t let me check messages on hookup sites and that maybe we’d meet some other time. Maybe meaning never. The whole experience had done enough to fracture my fragile self-esteem. Next time someone else could have a crack at it.

   

ENDING & BEGINNING

Last day. Forgot to set the alarm but I woke up on my own, only one minute later than intended. Drove to the ferry terminal to catch the first ferry. It was full. I wasn’t even close.

A decade ago, I’d have been despondent. I’m not a tourist; I take the ferry for work. This is a two and a half hour setback. After eleven years of being connected to the Sunshine Coast and six and a half commuting daily one way or the other, this is a final first. First time I’ve been delayed getting to work because the first ferry was full. Maybe it’s fitting. Seems I’ve experienced it all in terms of ferry aggravations. (Okay, no sinking. I’ll happily take a pass on that.)

On October 1, 2005, I loaded up my Honda Civic with two miniature schnauzers and way too many green t-shirts and boarded the ferry en route to my new home. I was excited and relieved. It had been a prolonged breakup—the ex and I were stuck living together for a year after I ended it, as we needed to get through renovation hell on the dream home we shared. I found a house I could afford on my own, with a fenced backyard for the dogs. Vancouver and the suburbs were unaffordable on my school administrator salary; living with a ferry as part of my commute seemed like the perfect quirky element to my recovery. After all, I loved water. I’d moved from L.A. to Vancouver on account of a dream about some unknown city by the ocean, with bridges aplenty traversing inlets and rivers. I’d grown up in and by the water—a pool in our backyard, summers on the beach at our cottage, high school swim team, lifeguarding in university. All my life, I’d regularly used my family’s motorboats, canoes, rowboats, sailboats and kayaks. The ferry simply upped the scale of my aquatic life.

In this new home, I’d find Me again after eight turbulent, eventually abusive years of We. I don’t know if it was the city or I who turned its back first, but Vancouver no longer felt welcoming. I couldn’t see a future there. It felt like a blessing that I was priced out of the city. My ex had become more erratic and I didn’t feel safe. A stretch of ocean water between us offered a buffer for greater safety. (Never mind that he found my house and staked it out. Never mind that, for the next eight years, he continued to plead for a second chance in out-of-the-blue emails that always pulled me back to memories of our darkest times.)

My new home had an ocean view and the cul-de-sac was surrounded by forest. There was far more wildlife than people—deer, raccoons, bears, coyotes and the always-rumored-but-never-seen resident cougar. While I was always alert for an unwelcome encounter, my dogs had more freedom than ever before. The leash stayed hanging on a hook in the hallway closet. Our walks through local trails offered exciting sniffs for them and cleared my head before I sat down for productive writing sessions.

My mother recalls me saying, “I’m never moving. I’ll die here.”

For the first year, I was very content. I’d found my paradise. It didn’t matter that I had a five-hour commute each day (two and a half hours each way). It didn’t matter that I left and arrived home in darkness for six months of the year. This was destination living.

Things got even better when I landed a job on the Coast after nine months. The job was twenty-five miles up the coast but ferries were no longer a factor. I didn’t have to schedule my life based on ferry departures that were two hours apart at the best of times. I was fully in control of my life.

But loneliness crept in. The novelty wore off for friends to come visit. The ferry made my home seem farther away than it actually was. Closer to Timbuktu than Vancouver. As a school administrator, I was now the boss and teachers were always respectful, even friendly, but never friends. No one wanted to be seen as too chummy. And, while the deer were lovely, they never had anything to say. Worse, they were terrible listeners, darting off every time I tried to initiate a conversation. While my first year had necessarily been All About Me—part of a recovery process—I began to think about dating again.

But single gay men were as rare as cougar sightings. In the first five years, I discovered two of them. No chemistry. Both of them came to their senses and moved back to Vancouver. I decided to do the same. I put my house up for sale, quit my job and accepted a position in a Vancouver suburb. The dream was dead.

And so began the nightmare. The house wouldn’t sell. I’d listed it ten months before starting the new job, but the once hot—okay, warm—market had gone cold. Frigid, in fact. For Sale signs became obscured by ever-invasive blackberry bushes. I’d list the house, take it off the market after months without a showing, and then list it again. I tried three different realtors over the course of three years. Nothing. I kept hearing an Eagles line from “Hotel California”: You can check out any time you like, But you can never leave.

I gave up. After three years of dreadful commuting, I took another job back on the Coast. The suffering would continue, but at least I’d have more sleep. I tried online dating, venturing into the city for go-nowhere coffee dates that took up six hours of my Saturdays, factoring in ferry time. I tried to be keen. I downplayed the ferry thing. But guys weren’t that desperate for a boyfriend.

Eventually, one dog died, then the other. I was in a three-bedroom house all by myself. I spiraled downward, slinking into what I later learned was deep depression. Within a week of the second dog’s death, I was admitted to hospital in Vancouver. I’d begged my doctor, “Don’t let them send me home.” I knew, he knew and every psychiatrist I encountered at St. Paul’s knew I posed too much of a risk to myself. I had no reason to live. I’d grown devoid of emotion. I’d completely given in. That Eagles lyric took on new meaning—yes, I’d checked out. 

I stayed in hospital for nine days of what was supposed to be five or six weeks. I couldn't handle being in a psych ward so I lied aplenty to get a discharge.

That was two years ago. I’m surprised I’m still here. I endured months of pain that I can’t describe. I don’t even think the psychiatrists understood. They called me an enigma. One wondered aloud how I’d ever made it this long. If I’d had any guts, I’d have been dead thirty years ago. Somehow I held on.

And a little luck finally came. My team of doctors implored me to leave the Sunshine Coast. Another line, this time my own, had a new connotation: “I’ll die here.” In January 2015, I listed my house for the fourth time. Miraculously, I had two offers within five days. Sure, I had to take a loss, but I finally had a healthier Exit ticket. I meant to only rent an apartment back in Vancouver, but on an impulse, I bought a teensy one-bedroom condo and moved on April 1, 2015. (Never mind April Fool’s; I’d played that part for a decade.) Of course, I still had bills to pay. I had to keep my job. For the past fifteen months I’ve done what is known as the “reverse commute”, sucking up five hours a day going from the city to the Land of Nowhere.
Officially, I’ve been living in Vancouver, but I haven’t actually been living there.

Until tomorrow. Today I’ve got a long list of things to do to wrap up work. I’ve taken a new job back in the school district I left ten years ago. I’ll have bridges to cross but no boats to board. The commute will be almost two hours a day if I travel during rush hour. That’s nothing. And I can linger if I want. I don’t have to rush to a terminal. As of July 1, I’ll be free and clear from paradise.

Life can begin again.

FIRST DATE #432

New green tee. It’ll bring out the color of my eyes. No cologne. He could be allergic or maybe the person behind us will have sensitivities. My shirt won’t look great with a fresh spray of sneeze-phlegm. My hair needs extra attention. It’s frizzy more than curly and out of control even though I just had a haircut. Did she snip anything or were we too busy talking about books? I should get a new stylist but we’ve got a good relationship. I’d date her but, well, she’s the wrong gender. A few more razor zaps. I stare at myself in the mirror. I still see the bags under my eyes before anything else. Is that what everyone else sees? How could they not? I could blame it on a lingering jet lag, but these fleshy, saggy rings are permanent. If only I had the guts to go for Botox. It’s not quite the rah-rah send-off I want before heading out on a date. I have to settle for a diluted affirmation: This is as good as it gets.

I check the time as I exit the elevator. I’ll be right on time. A have a hunch this guy is prompt. On the street, I practice my smile on strangers. After two blank stares, I grin at my shoes. I eye a syringe resting in the crack of the sidewalk. Yes, I chose this neighborhood. When I get to the intersection closest to Revolver—a coffee snob hangout in Vancouver, nothing like the gay bar in West Hollywood—I spy a lanky guy across the street, walking toward the café. He’s dressed in some long, draping thing, more cloak than coat, and he’s got busy sneakers—higher than high-tops the tongues the size of beaver tails. What a mess.

That’s my date. Of course it is. I consider walking on. It would be rude. How long would he sit inside? At least he’d get a great cup of coffee.

But I’m not a ditching kind of guy. I turn toward Revolver. Go. Talk. Be pleasant. At least I’ll get a great cup of coffee.

I greet him—was it a handshake, a wave, a nod? I don’t remember—and we get in line. He’s a competitive swimmer. It’s common ground. (I’m a regular swimmer, at least, with a sideways roll for a flip turn.) As I ask him about his morning workout, I notice how much I’m looking up. He’s 6’4” to my 6’1”. More than that, I gaze at very high cheekbones and pretty eyes. (In an authentic Elton moment, I’ve forgotten if they’re green or they’re blue.)

I’m suddenly nervous. And it’s warm in here. Please don’t let my green tee develop pit stains. He goes off to find seats after his cappuccino comes up minutes before my pour-over. I’m interested. And I’m all too aware there is another exit from the other room. It would serve me right if he ditched me.

But he doesn’t. We chat for the next ninety minutes. The swim talk is a surface-level thing we have in common but the conversation gets more animated as we talking about our writing projects and about favorite authors. This guy’s genuinely nice. It’s exciting to talk to someone else who is so passionate about writing. There are moments when I think he’s better than me. He’s giving Salman Rushdie a break; I’ve never even given Rushdie a chance. But we’re connecting. It’s going really well. Even a chronic doubter like myself can see that.

As we’re leaving, I notice our cups have been cleared. So engrossed in the conversation, I didn’t see it as it happened. That’s a very good sign. On the street corner, the very same one where I considered bolting, Craig says, “That was really enjoyable. I want to get together again.” I smile, and not at my shoes. We hug and go our separate ways.

It’s a promising beginning.

TAKING EXCEPTION

So London was great.

Except that it wasn’t.

Yes, I thoroughly enjoyed jogging along the Thames. And it was great to brush up on the theatre scene (if 2008 Tony-winning “In the Heights” counts as current—this is the place where they keep performing 400-year-old works of some dude name Billy Shakespeare). Being wholly ignored by the salespeople at Harrods, not as great, but still a kick to say I’ve been there.

But I’m home again and there isn’t an email or a text from a Ted Baker-clad gentleman, saying he wishes I were still there. No Skyping or Facetime to hear that gorgeous accent and see that sexy face. He has dimples. And thick, wavy hair.

Except he doesn’t.

My prince never appeared. No doubt he had to trek to Scotland to oversee a reno of one of his lesser castles. Terribly bad timing. But that just takes me right back to where I was. Hopelessly single in Vancouver. And still without furniture. Hello, condo. It’s an instant comedown.

And so I search for inspiration. This time I harken Taylor Swift. I shake it off. And after a YouTube detour that leads to “Teardrops on My Guitar”, “15”, “22” and the cathartic “Mean”, I find “Love Story” and get back on the hopeful track. I log on to OkCupid and Plenty of Fish and muster up a renewed sense of optimism. I’ve been gone a week, after all. Surely new local guys have decided to give online dating a whirl.

Except they haven’t.

But I try to be open. I am jetlagged but refreshed. I commit to sending one guy a message. A sign of effort. An act to delay the insufferable whining. (Yeah, I can hear myself.) I squint and scroll through the POF thumbnails generated by my wide-open search criteria—40 plus, photo, within 100 kilometres—and click on a few, quickly shouting “Oh, no!” and “Oops!” each time. This has a purpose. It reminds me that I really need to splurge and buy a new pair of glasses after losing the last ones four months ago.

After ten or fifteen minutes, I settle on one profile. An active guy, swimmer and jogger like me. He describes himself as artsy. And best of all there is not a single writing error in his profile. He even paragraphs properly. So I draft a message. I reread it. I pause to reconsider. I press send anyway. He’ll never reply.

Except he does.

Five minutes later. I’m still going through the obligatory profile search. Nobody replies that quickly. It goes against all the rules. Even for people who don’t go by rules. Too eager. Too desperate. This could be a match.

Sending my first message was all I’d committed to. I still have to unpack my suitcase. (I’m the opposite of most travelers—I cram everything in during the hour before I head to the airport and then take days after my return to get around to the unpacking. The suitcase can sit in the living room for a week. Okay, longer.) I don’t feel like drafting another message. Things can get chatty. Like text messages. And I still hate text messages. They can end so suddenly. Besides, my mind will be fresher in the morning. Perhaps I’ll throw in some witty asides. I decide to write back tomorrow.

Except I don’t.

I suck it up and send a reply to the reply. I don’t play games either. Two days later, we’re meeting for coffee. And, just like that, I’m giving Vancouver another try.

VACATION READJUSTMENT

Maybe it was when I hit the snooze button, not once but four times, on Saturday morning, a lingering jet lag as the acceptable excuse. I would end up arriving at Hyde Park twenty minutes late for the gay running group.

Perhaps it was two nights earlier after logging in to Manhunt and changing my location to Kensington only to check back and find no messages. Not even a record of profile views.

I suspect it was earlier, maybe even on the first day as I wandered in and about Harrods, realizing I wasn't registering as the new kid old man in town to, well, anyone.

Hell, the moment may have even come before taking off from YVR as I spotted two gay couples boarding and sensed quite strongly that that wasn't my lot. At least not in the foreseeable future. I tried to swat away any defeatist thinking. Your Stella moment awaits! Get your groove back! Or, if you never had it, then just get it. And, if not a full-on groove, a slight indentation. A back scratch.

Whenever it was, it was blessedly early on. Any notions of finding a prince in this land of palaces, a Mr. Right or Mr. Slightly Left of Centre evaporated along with any sighting of that notorious London fog.

Whether I view it as pessimism or realism (even self-preservation), abandoning any hope of a romantic interlude proved a good thing. Shaking off all expectations, I felt complete freedom. Isn't that how a vacation is supposed to be? No goals, no agendas. Seeing what I see. Not seeing everything else. (Oh, why would I ever want to go to a wax museum?!)  The only man I had a conversation with was a daft Scotsman who'd just witnessed a woman stumble on a raised portion of a sidewalk near Trafalgar Square. As had I. Unfortunately, he needed to debrief this exciting event and chatted me up for two long blocks as I politely nodded--in part, I struggled with his accent--before I got wise and asked for directions to a place I'd just passed. Complete U-turn and I was safely all alone once more.

A vacation for an extreme introvert like me mutes all the people, single and otherwise, and allows a closer pondering of the lone black swan in the pond at Hyde Park, of the utter nonsense of being a boy king and of the lives lost while building the fanciful Tower Bridge. I leave London still single but feeling a greater sense of inner peace.

Bloody hell. Maybe Stella got 'er groove back after all.

 

PARLOR GAMES

I get two scoops, he gets none. And this after twenty-minutes of waiting in line at Earnest Ice Cream. He whispers in my ear, “I can’t. I’m getting naked with a guy in three weeks.”

This friend of mine is fifty-two. He’s slim and active. And yet he’s still ruled by the thought a man will reject him if he fails that f*#king Special K test.

I have a date in three days but I can still eat my ice cream. It’s not that I’m any more accepting of my body. I’m just not as optimistic over how far things will go. It usually ends with “We should keep in touch.” It’s an ironic phrase as it couldn’t be farther away from any semblance of touch. So this is my silver lining: the salted caramel is amazing.

My friend caves. He asks the girl behind the counter for an extra spoon. He digs in, coats his spoon with a portion as large as a five-year-old’s pinky fingernail. He tastes. “Too sweet” is the verdict. He tosses the spoon. There will be no going back for more. I’m not exactly disappointed. I’m not so good at sharing, especially ice cream. Too sweet?! I know he means not what he says. Just like all those we-should-keep-in-touch guys. To rid himself of all that sweetness, my poor friend will go home and do five hundred sit-ups. Then he’ll most likely do the “getting naked” pre-test. And another five hundred ab crunches.

My honey lavender scoop is just as delicious. “I don’t like lavender in food,” my friend says. “It makes me think of soap. Whenever I taste something with lavender, I taste soap.”

Poor thing, I think as I shovel in another mouthful. But he doesn’t need my pity. He is, after all, getting naked in three weeks. All the dieting and depriving will be worth it. The wads of money he shells out for extra sessions with his personal trainer/life coach will instill self-confidence…or at least lessen the self-consciousness.

This is what it’s like to still be single in our fifties. Chronically single. We’ve fought off the middle-aged belly. It never came so we’ve never abandoned hope and gotten into a habit of grabbing a second or third Corona to go with a Family Size bag of Cheddar Jalapeῆo Cheetos. (A friend who has abandoned hope dragged me down the chip aisle at Safeway recently just to show me the bag. He fondled the bag but then left it on the shelf as I shifted my gaze to the rice cake display.)

The obsession with diet and exercise continues. We think it will make the difference. If they like us on the outside, maybe things will progress so they’ll like us on the inside.

I write of “we” and “us” because I am no more enlightened. I am not better adjusted. These two tasty scoops are my ice cream intake for the month of June. I’ve used up my ration awfully early. It’s a good thing June has thirty days, not thirty-one. If I continue working out six days out of every seven, I might cave and allow a second ice cream experience. I can hear the rationalizing ping-ponging about in my brain already. I won’t be on a three-week alert for months, maybe years, maybe never. But my own disciplined approach to diet and exercise shows I still have hope, however f*#ked up that hope is.

My friend’s date will be in Los Angeles, with a guy who lives in Phoenix who hates the cold and will only consider possible travel to Vancouver in the summer—since Vancouver is so close to the Arctic Circle, after all. There are so many holes in this budding relationship but he doesn’t need me to point them out. I know he knows they’re there. It’s all f*#ked up but it’s as hopeful as things have been for my friend in the past ten years.

I toss my empty plastic dish in the trash. I’ve scraped the bottom so many times and there’s nothing more to reward my tongue.

“Good luck,” I say. “I hope it goes well.” I do and I’m a tad envious.

And that too is f*#ked up.

CONFLICTING SIGNALS

Now I’m getting dating advice from traffic signals. Everyone—everything!—has an opinion.

I pressed the knob to trigger the pedestrian WALK message and Mr. Button blurted, “Wait! Wait!” 

It was stating the obvious, but this was a traffic signal after all. In real life, we can’t expect to go deep like the electronic freeway billboard that sagely supported Steve Martin in “L.A. Story”. (I’ve tried but the electronic sign closest to me is one-track minded: BUCKLE UP. IT’S THE LAW.)

At least Mr. Button was on point. It’s true. I absolutely should wait. In two months, I’ll be back in Vancouver. There will be other single gay men. I may be interested in a few. And there’s always a chance that one might be interested in me.

It could happen. And that’s a thought I’ve never been able to reasonably think in the ten years I’ve been under rural arrest.

But I was still feeling the sting from a recent Seattle coffee date that went bust. Yeah, yeah. It should not have been a surprise. I’ve been going on these meet-and-greets for years, with no lasting luck. Seattle men, Vancouver men. It’s getting to the point where I can’t keep blaming them. I’m starting to think it must be the coffee. Yeah, that’s it. I should switch to tea.

I tried not to get too excited in anticipation of meeting Steve. Sure, his online profile was impressive, as were his messages. The guy could communicate in whole sentences, even paragraphs. Such a rare find! And, on a shallow note, his photos revealed a handsome, fit 52-year-old man—most notably in his shirtless selfie. Woof!

He did not disappoint when I met him in person. If anything, he dazzled more. I’m not a beard guy but the look suited him. And his blue eyes hooked me every time I gazed at him. Simply put, Steve was stunning. Even better, he could carry on a conversation. My profile jokes, “Save your monologues for Letterman” and he took it to heart. It was a very natural back-and-forth. I laughed and smiled without force. He made me feel completely at ease. Without a doubt, I knew this had been a great first meeting.

Early in the conversation, Steve startled me, saying I was “genetically blessed”. As we hugged and went on with our separate plans for a Sunday afternoon, he referred again to my biceps and my chest. I shrugged it off. “I’m a late bloomer. The bulk has only come in recent years.” He ogled away. Flattering, not creepy.

And yet I left and formed an adversarial relationship with a traffic signal. Something went wrong. Really, nothing.

Except for one fundamental, immutable factor. Steve had made it clear that he wanted to pursue a relationship with a local guy. In his messages, he’d mentioned passing on a man who lived but an hour away. Vancouver, with a border wait, well, it was never going to be.

Too far. And I knew this was as far as it would go. Within an hour after coffee, he sent me the crushing confirmation:

It was so nice to meet you. Sincerely, I enjoyed my conversation with you and my time. You are a beautiful man and I mean that both inside and out...nice to come across and yes, if you were in Seattle, I would definitely have gone out with you. ;-)

If.

Location, location, location. Steve is all too rational. Somehow I’d hoped. If I were somehow dazzling, he’d be border blind. Whatever happened to Anything for You? Alas, one coffee cannot dazzle, no matter how buzzed one might get.

No dazzle; just fizzle. This is a hard one to take. I’ve had many a coffee date where I thought I clicked with a guy and then he vanished. And I’ve had many more where the lack of clicking was indisputable. But here we did click. It was not a twisted figment of my imagination. It was real. It was mutual. And it was not enough.

And so, as Mr. Button advises, I must, “Wait! Wait!” Not for Steve. My visa application with U.S. Immigration will not be processed for years. Instead, I have two months to go until I move back to civilization. Maybe there’s a guy in Vancouver.

I wait because I have to. It’s already been eleven years since I’ve been in a relationship of any significance. What’s two more months? I should be accustomed to the loneliness and the complete lack of affection or intimacy. Of course, I’m not.

For now, I’ll head back home to the land of solitude. There are no pedestrian traffic buttons to offer further advice. I shall appreciate that silence at least.

And I shall spend the next day or two ruing what might have been if I lived in Seattle.

If only.