WHEN HE WON’T TAKE OBLIVIOUS FOR AN ANSWER

I’d recently written here and here about my puzzlement over a budding friendship with a guy who lives in my building whom I run into often at the gym on the first floor. He’s married to a woman whom he introduced me to a few months ago when we ran into each other on the street, an odd moment seeing each other out of the regular setting, maskless even. A quick hello, a hasty getaway on my part. Chitchat is not my strength. 

 

Damien is a likable guy and we’ve got some things in common so I always said “sure” when he suggested we go for a walk sometime. Still, I’d had some weird vibes, as though Damien might be interested in me. Silly thinking, I kept telling myself. I’m that sort of Guy Next Door who oozes niceness, albeit awkwardly, but doesn’t register to people in a possibly sexualized, I’m-Into-You way. In the past, I’ve wished otherwise, but I have to assume some kids keep fishing out my tossed fountain coins before the aqua-genies can make things happen. (It’s only one of the reasons I’ve gone cashless.) When we finally set up a time to go on that walk, I thought, whew, he’s not gay. After all, most gays I’ve known don’t follow through. At the very least, they’re never on time. He showed up on the dot. 

 

So, it was clear. Not gay. Proceed to possible friendship…with caution, of course, as my chitchat challenges could flub it up. And yet, throughout the walk, he kept dropping gay-leaning hints…a guy’s abs, his love of musical theater, comments over my fitness.

 

Okay, then maybe Damien’s bisexual. I don’t have any bisexual friends. It’s very possible that a bisexual man and a gay man can be just friends, especially when the bi guy is married, right? Even if there was any other sort of interest, I doused them when I explained that my fitness was rooted in an eating disorder. Not sexy. 

 

I know how to repel men; I just don’t know how to attract them. 

 

Since then, I’ve put off Damien’s suggestions we go for another walk or grab coffee. A month has passed. I’ve seen him in the gym a couple of times, but he can’t talk much on the StairMaster and I do my best to look especially focused on chest presses. I maintain that grunting is uncouth, but I can conjure one up the equivalent in one of those cartoon thought bubbles above my head. Damien texts now and then. I never initiate, but I was raised with enough social skills to know that a reply is in order. Keep things cool. Let that bi-gay friendship emerge slowly. 

 

Our second walk is on Friday and I’m concerned based on Damien’s recent texts. I keep telling myself it’s nothing, that I have no grounds for intuiting anything suggestive, but Damien seems intent on breaking down my act at being oblivious. 

 

FIRST RED FLAG: "Hey there. How’s life? We will find some time for that coffee. Gabi goes to Toronto on September 2 for a week."

 

Okay, nothing, right? Coffee when the wife is out of town is just because the guy’s got more free time. Nothing else at play. It’s fine.

 

SECOND RED FLAG: "Hey sweet friend. I have Friday off. You free for some coffee and conversation?"

 

No doubt, guys say “sweet friend” all the time to other guys. Good riddance, “Bro” and “dude.” The only reason I’m not familiar with it as a regular practice is because I’m not up on regular social exchanges between platonic male relationships, especially in platonic bi-gay friendships. It’s just Damien’s way of saying, Thank god we can drop that machismo shit. Should I be flattered (and perplexed) that he thought I had any machismo to drop in the first place? Maybe it’s from not shaving as much during COVID.

 

He’d suggested meeting for coffee and I replied my schedule was open.

 

THIRD RED FLAG: "Looking forward always. I am wide open too. Sans spouse."

 

Um, still okay. I guess. Must not read anything into the “wide open” remark or the reminder that his coffee will be away. Happy couples often look forward to a bit of space. Absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that.

 

I ran into Damien in the gym yesterday. It wasn’t my regular time, but I had to fit in a workout before some dental surgery. 

 

FOURTH RED FLAG: "Happy thoughts with your laughing gas. Let me know if you need anything at all. Heal fast. Bjs."

 

Um…

 

What do I make of the last three letters? Did his phone fail to autocorrect “bye”? The j and y keys are awfully close together. Same for s and e.

 

I Googled “what does bjs mean,” and it turns out there are other possibilities. Sure, I had to scroll down quite a bit, but I found them. Could be the Bureau of Justice Statistics which is the primary source of criminal justice stats in the U.S. Hmm, possible. Could be Beaux Jardins du Soleil, located in what Wikipedia says is a commune in southwestern France, admittedly a random reference, but perhaps Damien was watching a documentary on YouTube. Other plausible options: basic job skills, British Journal of Surgery, a videogame called Battle Just Started, the Beloit Janesville Symphony (established 1954) or the code for an airport in Beijing.

 

Okay then, Damien likes a symphony in Wisconsin. There is so much to learn in the early stages of a friendship.  

 

If “Bjs” meant something sexual, it would have fit better before “Heal fast,” right? Maybe “bjs” means something else. Maybe Damien’s into K-pop and mistyped BTS, even if I can’t figure out why he’d end a text with an announcement about musical fandom. I replied with, “Everything went well, thanks. Glad it’s over.” Should I have tacked on “abba”? Maybe “sarabareilles”?

 

Good god, life taunts me. Social situations with people I don’t know well are awkward enough. I don’t need them spiked with additionally awkward elements. I’m bracing for a possible Friday morning text in which he says, “Hey, I just brewed a fresh pot of coffee. Come on down.”

 

No, no. I’m way past the days of someone saying, “Wanna come in for a drink?” Okay, the only time I ever heard that was while watching TV but, jeez, I’ve spent my entire life being cast as the harmless Guy Next Door with the genitalia of a department store mannequin. For once, let me land the role when I actually want it. This is one week when I don’t think I’ll be saying TGIF. 

 

 

 

EXCUSES, EXCUSES

It was Pride weekend in New York, Toronto, San Francisco, Seattle and in many other metropolitan areas. But I did not have to book a flight to The Big Apple to walk around with a water bottle and plastic rainbow bead necklaces this weekend. They celebrated in my isolated region as well.

Friday night featured a lesbian film I’ve never heard of, screening at the local playhouse. On Saturday night there was a Stonewall Dance at a community hall in a former hippie enclave, now facing gentrification as retirees and Albertans wanting waterfront summer homes attempt a takeover.

I passed on the movie and the dance. That’s right, I bemoan my single status in post after post on this blog and then, when opportunity knocks, I hide under the bed. (My dog and I think it’s quite nice there.)

You have every right to give up on me and to go back to spending your online time reading Gwyneth’s goop or scanning Lady Gaga’s tweets.

Skipping the movie was a no-brainer. I didn’t have my car Friday night as I had to leave it at the ferry terminal on the other side. Besides, I knew I’d feel self-conscious being the only guy in the audience.

I still feel shame over the dance pass. Could’ve, should’ve, didn’t.

Since you’re still reading, I assume you are up to date on Gaga and goop. Allow me to share my So I Think I Can’t Dance excuses.

I ‘d left my dog alone all day while dashing into Vancouver to see a local production of Avenue Q. I’d gone with a couple of gay friends, there were other gays in the theatre,...surely, this country boy exceeded his gay quotient for the day (heck, the week,...even the month). My dog’s sad eyes demanded I stay in. Besides, I needed to recover from my first exposure to naked puppet sex. (Since when did puppets start getting luckier than me?!)

It was a hot evening. I’d been in that community hall on a hot night before. No air circulation. I hate meeting new people as sweat clings to my forehead and creates broad pit stains in what is supposed to be an eye-catching fashion-forward shirt. Damn you, summer heat. (But please stay.)

I’d gone before. Two years in a row, years ago.

The first time, I lasted twenty minutes. I was forty-one and a guy immediately started talking to me. It had been a perfectly normal, superficial first conversation until he said, “So, are you retired?” Just how old did I look? Crushed, I casually excused myself, fled to the car and zipped home to stare desperately in the mirror, contemplating Botox, plastic surgery and the miraculous effects of Oil of Olay.

The second year, I dragged a friend from the city to come along. Amongst the tiny cluster of gay men, he was the star attraction. I didn’t get my feelings hurt. Not that much anyway. They all started smoking pot and, being as I’ve always found all kinds of smoke extremely unappealing, I grabbed my friend and insisted on leaving. Still, I left feeling like I’d grown. Staying forty minutes, I’d doubled my time. For some reason, my friend has refused to come again for future dances.

 The LGBT events I have been to—there is the occasional potluck as well—are always heavy on the L, lite on the G. (No idea if the Bs and Ts have a presence at all, but it is imperative that we’re inclusive, even if in name only.) Past dances have had about a hundred people in attendance—85 women, 15 men. I knew the odds were stacked against me meeting someone special, even having a conversation beyond, “I’ll have a Diet Coke with lime, please.” Why should I have to launder another shirt? Why set myself up for a miserable drive home, fighting to keep the disappointment in check. Besides, there are enough risks with night driving here. I’d never forgive myself if I hit a deer.

The last Saturday of June is when I look my absolute worst all year. Schools in British Columbia remain in session until the last possible day of June. As a principal, things do not die down. The May and June calendars are loaded each year with more and more celebratory events that require loads of planning and result in regular crises that I must manage. (No, I didn’t realize the school carnival’s co-coordinator was sleeping with your husband. Can’t you two settle this in the dunk tank?) Add the work happenings to ten months of a five-hour daily commute and I look and feel ragged by the time Alice Cooper tells me it’s all over.

Why hadn’t Stonewall come at a more convenient time? How about mid-July when I’m rested and I’ve worked off the few pounds that always show up during the final months of the school year? (I tried to have donuts banned from the staff room, but that whole apple-for-the-teacher thing didn’t go over well.)

If I’d gone to the dance and actually met Mr. Right, the timing would be all off. In a week, I’m off to West Hollywood for the summer. I’ve done the “Let’s go for a date six weeks from now” thing before—twice, in fact. It doesn’t work—too much anticipation, a certain letdown.  

Excuses, excuses.

It all comes down to how painfully awkward I am when surrounded by strangers. The confidence gets harder to find as the years go by and I remain single. I realize that nothing can possibly happen when I don’t even show up. Still, I need some rejuvenation. Maybe the trip to West Hollywood will help. Maybe a guy will give me that look. That’s exactly what I need—a little affirmation, a sign that perhaps I can fall in love a fourth time. Maybe with the right guy even.

I am not proud of opting out of Pride weekend. Let’s hope I don’t have to wait until next June to put on a brave face and step out again!

LEAVE 'EM WANTING MORE (or something like that)

Last summer, I stumbled upon a Meetup link on the internet. I discovered that people weren’t waiting anymore for their spouses and friends to commit to a “dreaded” art gallery visit or fondue tasting adventure. Shockingly, your partner or BFF doesn’t share your interest in a creamy vegan cheese fondue party. Seems opposites do attract.

You can go online for anything. Casual, momentary connections? Twitter. Peeping updates from old high school friends? Facebook. Potential dates? Take your pick of sites (and don’t take any advice from me). Turns out you can create any club you want online and you don’t even need to get the Chemistry teacher to be your sponsor.

I joined a Vancouver screenwriters Meetup group and I have attended a couple of worthwhile events. Have I truly connected with anyone? No. Perhaps because this cluster of people was birthed from technology, everyone turns to texting or playing Angry Birds or checking Pinterest during breaks. Still, I sit in a room, take in information from a speaker and marvel at the fact I’m not the only one hanging on to a Hollywood dream without moving to L.A. (Heck, if my writing’s that good, they’ll move Jay, Gloria and the rest of the Modern Family cast and crew to Vancouver, right? Or maybe CSI: Miami. The viewers will never know the difference.)

I also found a Meetup group of adults that met on Saturday afternoons to play tag in various parks. That made me laugh. And make no mistake, if I didn’t have to come over on a ferry, I’d be right in on it, quick to yell “Not it” at the outset and shouting “Time out, time out” every time someone got close to tagging me. (I have NO idea why the kids back in Hamilton forbade me from neighborhood tag all those years ago. Lifetime bans mean nothing when you cross provincial lines.)

About two months ago, I joined a gay Meetup group, started by someone who may be creatively challenged. The founder called the group “Nice Intelligent, Successful Vancouver Gay Men”. Sure, that’s the kind of people you want to attract, but I think he should have consulted a drag queen for something cheeky or at least a tad sparkly. No need to worry about scaring off a few guys. The self-consciously butch gays wouldn’t give up a night of “Ice Road Truckers” or inventorying Phillips screwdrivers anyway.

This group plans quite a few events, one or two each week, things like attending an Oscars house party, going to see a gay-themed play or snowshoeing on the North Shore mountains.  The problem (for me, at least) is that all activities are scheduled for weekends. It takes an awful lot to get me back on a ferry on a Saturday after my grueling weekday commute. Perpetual isolation is not enough.

Finally, someone posted an announcement for a weekday event, a 6 p.m. social at a club called The Junction in Vancouver’s West End. I did not RSVP until the morning of since attending would mean I’d have to take a later ferry home and, after hobbling around work in my boot cast all day, I usually want to get the commute over with as soon as possible. I was the fourteenth person to commit to the event so I figured I could have a few quick conversations before dashing—er, limping—out at 6:30 to catch the 7:25 sailing. Being a shy guy, thirty minutes of socializing with strangers would be a fine first effort. Best to leave before people spot the pit stains.

This Meetup group is not meant to be a dating pool. It merely offers an opportunity for gay men to socialize, to create a few connections in a city that is gaining a reputation for being disconnected. I looked forward to an opportunity to mingle and to be reminded that I am not the only gay man on the planet. (And if some guy happened to be single, attractive and “nice, intelligent [and] successful” as advertised, well,...bonus!)

By the time I found parking a few blocks away and limped to the meeting site, it was 6:10. At the door, I talked myself out of entering. Why feel so rushed in making it to the ferry terminal? For once, I ignored that nagging inner voice, pulled the handle and walked in.

The place was empty. Well, almost. Two women sat at a nearby table and, in the darkened cave at the back of the place, a few men gathered around a two-top. I headed toward the bar and figured there was no harm in ordering a club soda before hitting the road. They always load the glass with ice anyway. Besides, my cuticles were overdue for an inspection.

I asked the bartender if a Meetup group was gathering here and he pointed to the cave dwellers. I took my drink and approached. The five guys introduced themselves and, as I pulled over another chair to squeeze in, I realized none of the names registered. Oh, yes, this is what social awkwardness is all about. Funny how long bouts of isolation don’t miraculously improve my social skills.

After introductions, Guy Number One resumed telling a long story about a charity fundraiser he’d just done. Or maybe he was talking about a trip to the dentist. Or giving his opinion about what it will take for Lindsay Lohan to reconnect with that persona we all loved in “Freaky Friday”. I can never follow conversations that begin in the middle. Taking the cue of others, I simply smiled and nodded along. My understanding was wholly unnecessary. Guy Number One had come with a monologue and, dammit, he had to tell it.

Ten minutes later, there was a pause and I realized he’d finished. The fundraiser had been a success or he had no cavities. Or something like that. He smiled and sipped his beer.

The Meetup host had done his homework and knew that I traveled by ferry so the focus shifted to me for ninety seconds before Guy Number Seven arrived and I got another shot of ascribing names to people. Matthew, Mark, Luke, John. Or something like that. I did learn that Seven was actually named Lucien (George Costanza would be relieved), a transplant from Quebec, also attending his first Nice, Intelligent, Successful Vancouver Gay Men Meetup. He openly shared that he’d lost most of his Vancouver connections in the past year—a breakup, a dog dying, friends retreating to Montreal, a couple moving to the (relatively) affordable suburbs. All unfortunate, but I was thrilled that I retained something—ears and mind still worked after all.

Another person arrived and I hoped that the group could finally break off into smaller conversations. Larger group talks always lead to a few big talkers and a passive audience. There were others who’d been limited to silent gesturing and stating their name. As wallpaper, I had company. Alas, I glanced at the time, announced that I had a ferry to catch and departed. I hobbled back to the car, fretting that some may have thought my hasty exit arose from boredom, a perfectly plausible deduction. I’d made no impression and neither had most of the other guys. I’ve had Twitter exchanges—a couple of 140-character back-and-forths—that revealed more.

Still, it’s a small step. The next event is on a Friday night, a movie at someone’s home. I cannot attend as I would have to miss the last ferry home. (Yes, all ties with civilization are controlled by BC Ferries. Last time I Googled helicopters, they were out of my price range.)

I’ll keep my eye out for another opportunity. Fondue at five? Heck, yeah! As long as I live where I live, it cannot be about the event. If it fits with my commute, I’ll be there.