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.