lowercase pride

It’s coming! A month of Pride.

 

I’m keeping calm and composed. I’m not making announcements to passersby on the sidewalk. “Pride is coming!” I don’t have a flag to pull out of the closet and drape over my balcony—fourth floor; little chance of an outraged homophobe going all Spiderman to scale the building and yank it down. I haven’t dug through that catch-all drawer in my hutch to find my rainbow pin. I haven’t even prepared a special jogging playlist.[1]

 

I have pride but it’s more lowercase p than uppercase P. That’s just my nature. Understated, unassuming, underwhelmed. 

 

I get that Pride month is a big thing, but I have mixed feelings about it. Same for Christmas, Nicki Minaj and Elmo. I can’t put all my gay/nonbinary joy into June. I have to pace myself. I don’t want to peak. I don’t want to experience Pride fatigue. Heck, I can’t even cope with a hangover (the last one, thankfully, hitting me in 1993).

 

Capital P Pride is important for newbies and the Qs of the LGBTQIA+, if the letter stands for Questioning instead of Queer. I understand that it is a chance for them to feel A-things, like affirmation, acceptance and acknowledgment. Good stuff. I also get that for well-established queer folk, it can be about P-things: a party, a parade and a play or some other performance piece. (I’m being generous about plays and (non-drag) performances. The parties and parade take center stage.)

 

Five years ago, I felt a shift as I considered who Pride month was for. I was living in a group home for people with eating disorders, eight women and two of us guys, one straight, one gay. Dealing with (resisting) treatment and navigating weeks spent with a batch of roomies who talked endlessly about Billie Eilish, Love Island and, well, everything…ANYthing!, Vancouver’s Pride Parade snuck up on me. I was only made aware of it because the women in the house were busy buying outfits, makeup and other accessories to attend. All of them were straight but, for them, it was a must-see and be-seen event. 

 

Incidentally, the parade falls outside of official Pride month. The Vancouver Pride Parade is in August, instead of June, seemingly to allow Super Proud people to plan their own Pride circuit celebrations. (Within Canadian borders, this year’s Pride tour can include Toronto (June 30), Halifax (July 20), Charlottetown (July 20)—Ooh, conflict! Two parades in the Maritimes on the same day—Hamilton (my hometown; August 10), Montreal (August 11), Edmonton (August 24), Ottawa (August 25), Calgary (September 1). There are more, of course. 

 

Everyone loves a parade.

 

Everyone but me. They always start late, there are big gaps and I have a fear of being struck by a rogue baton or even a colorful strand of beads. Even a free packet of condoms lobbed my way might instill panic. I fit that stereotype: The gays can’t catch. No chance of physical injury from flying condoms but a sure-shot of humiliation. Pride compromised.

 

Okay, I’m sure there are others who are parade-avoidant. It’s just not talked about. A Grand Poobah is to be celebrated; someone who pooh-poohs it all is to be shunned.[2] It’s like saying you don’t like butterflies or babies or ice cream. 

 

WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU? 

 

Yes, all-caps. And that wasn’t even lifted from a Trump tweet. 

 

The point I was trying to make before I fell down a rabbit hole, looking up the dates for Canadian Pride parades, is that I don’t feel I’m the target audience for the parade anymore. It’s not that I’ve aged out in the way I’m disregarded by television ratings data, literary agents and advertisers for everything but “niche” products like Viagra, Depends and that alert system for falling and not being able to get up. There is the Been There, Done That factor though. I’ve even passed the point of regarding the event as “tradition.” Yeah. Whatever. 

 

I don’t need to see who is on the gay volleyball team. (I was for a few years.) I don’t need to see drag outfits. Those queens are everywhere now. (Yay!) I especially don’t need to see the obligatory Rave-on-Wheels, a group of toned boys in thongs or Speedos, dancing offbeat to Madonna (so retro), each accessorizing with a plastic water bottle. The fact they get the biggest whoops always makes me question how deep the gay identity goes.

 

I don’t even get anything out of PFLAG[3] anymore. That used to be my favorite participation group, but my first parade was during the peak of the AIDS crisis. There were fun floats, but there was also a lot of meaningful statements expressed in signs and banners or just by being in it. I’m glad PFLAG still exists. Parents need to support and, in turn, need to be supported. 

 

For first-timers and perhaps tenth-timers, the entire Pride month can be exciting, empowering or even just an opportunity to ogle gays IRL. Maybe a story or two for drag brunch. From Pride events I attended with my ex two years ago—not the parade but some outdoor Seattle festival—Pride seems as much for allies as the community itself. It’s not that different from gay bars and drag events now. Girls’ Night (or Day) Out. Something to do instead of another beach day or eating hotdogs at a ballgame. 

 

And then there are the banks, real estate agents, gyms and cider brands. I’m okay with all the corporate leeches. Their Pride comes down to a business decision. Does hanging a few flags and having two dozen employees march while handing out rainbow stickers with the corporate logo in the bottom right corner bring in more new business to outweigh the possible boycotts from incensed church-going haters? No doubt, the projections were presented at an executive meeting in January. And then an affirmative vote. Still, I’d rather see a sign of support, however calculated, than read about conservatives’ devotion to Chick-fil-A or Cracker Barrel. March on, Royal Bank! 

 

I’m even okay with the backlash from bubbas and has-been rock stars who take to shooting up cases of Bud Light (which, presumably, they had to purchase). Covert hate was more peaceful, but it left me with less of a sense of safety. Who actually hated me on account of my sexual orientation? Overt hate sets out the cones (Coneheads?) to dodge on the roadway. It also requires the haters to attempt to defend their position, to the extent it runs deeper than, “Ew. Fags,” whenever they dare go beyond their safe circle of jerks. Sure, there are unpleasant family picnics and Thanksgiving dinners but pronouncements of hate, however unwanted in the moment, only strengthen the LGBTQ community, reminding us we can’t take anything for granted while also helping our allies understand how important their support is in everyday life and when making political choices. Haters get louder as their numbers get smaller. These days, there are earbuds for that.

 

The thing is, while Pride is a one-month (plus) annual celebration that almost mandates some sort of pro-gay display in progressive shops and places, it’s an all-year event for me. Gay in January. Gay in February. Gay in March. And on it goes. Pride is not like Halloween, Christmas or St. Patrick’s Day. It doesn’t end after I’ve eaten the last mini Coffee Crisp[4] and box of Smarties.[5] It’s not out of mind once I’ve taken down the garlands, the pointless mistletoe tossed and that dang Mariah Carey song given a rest from every radio station, café and drugstore speaker. It’s not over after all those people spend a day donning green, faking being Irish, randomly saying, “Erin go Bragh!” and “Top o’ the mornin’ to ya” well past noon and then hitting the bars to sing the wrong words to “Danny Boy.[6]”

 

Yesterday, today and tomorrow, I’m gay. Forevermore. Forgive me for not jazzing it up come June just because midnight put an end to May 31^st. I have to maintain my pride, pace myself for twelve months every year. I’m not a showy dude. Pride manifests in the books I read, the essays I write, the characters I create, the causes I donate to, the art exhibits I attend, the people I choose to associate with and the occasional letter I write to a politician.

 

Okay, confirmed: 
unicorns.

So, wave your flag if you wish. It’ll make me smile, inside at the very least. I have rainbow shoes and socks with rainbow dragons—or maybe they’re unicorns…a gift (What do you get for a gay acquaintance?). Go gaga over go-go boys with hairless six-packs approximating dance moves.

 

I’ll be proud all of June. Before then and after that, too.

 

 

 

    

---

[1] Okay, I kinda sorta created a personal jogging soundtrack…the power of suggestion.Here’s are the tracks:

·      “Pride (In the Name of Love)” - U2 (not gay, per se, but it has such an anthemic sound)

·      “Smalltown Boy” - Bronski Beat

·      “I’m Coming Out” -  Diana Ross (already a regular jogging song; makes me hyper which is a good thing on a run)

·      “Freedom! ’90” – George Michael

·      “I Adore U” – Adore Delano (drag performer and 2008 American Idol semi-finalist, using a different name)

·      “Macho Man” – Village People (no “Y.M.C.A.” since that tune’s been lost to straight wedding receptions)

·      “Evergreen (You Didn’t Deserve Me At All)” – Omar Apollo

·      “Born This Way” - Lady Gaga (obvs…)

·      “Love Today” – Mika (he strikes me as hyper to the core, just like his songs)

·      “I Will Survive” – Gloria Gaynor (obvs, too, but one of the first 45s I ever bought, before I had any understanding of the word gay.)

·      “Constant Craving” – k.d. lang

·      “Latch” – Disclosure featuring Sam Smith

·      “Slide” – Calvin Harris featuring Frank Ocean and Migos

·      “I’m So Tired” – Troye Sivan & Lauv (I like this stripped-down version; their voices go so well together.)

·      “Come to My Window” – Melissa Etheridge

 

I could list more songs, but I’d risk a leg cramp if I kept running.

 

[2] Unless you’re Winnie-the-. Or possibly Eeyore. We must cut Eeyore some slack. His tail is pinned to his ass with a nail. Plus, that pink bow. AND, he’s had to put up with that bouncing Tigger all these years. 

[3] Formerly, the acronym stood for Parents and Friends of Lesbians and Gays, but now, according to Wikipedia, it’s been broadened to Parents, Families and Friends of Lesbians and Gays. Makes sense. Don’t we all want a big sis cheering us on?

[4] Canadian chocolate bar. So good!

[5] Canadian version of M&Ms. Basically the same, but ours comes with a catchy, classic commercial jingle in which the red ones are especially feted. Plus, Smarties came before M&Ms although a French version, dragée, preceded both, the hard coating covering the chocolate for the practical reason that it allowed fashionable women to nibble without getting chocolate on their gloves (or having to take them off). One article also noted that Smarties are packaged in recyclable cardboard while the American candy comes in less-often recyclable plastic bags.

[6] Incidentally, the melody is Irish but the lyrics were written by Frederic Weatherly, an English lawyer. Blimey!

I SAW THE SIGN

Okay, sorry to put that Ace of Base song in your head. I still like it. (Their ditty about wanting another baby was catchy too but came off as creepy. As if that’s the solution to the lonely life she leads.)

 

Focus. Signs. 

 

Surely it’s not just me who feels that, when something specific happens in life, there is suddenly an online article or a TV news item especially for them. Many items! Perfect timing…uncanny. It’s like my first year teaching seventh grade and, as I was preparing a unit on Ancient Egypt, all sorts of articles popped up on the subject. Magazine covers even. (Remember magazines? Sigh. The ancient pyramids outlasted them.) It was somewhere around 1996 and there was no reason for Ancient Egypt to be trending. Heck, “trending” wasn’t even a thing. Still, the topic emerged all around me. Thank you, universe and, I guess, Osiris. 

 

It was clearly a sign. So glad I hadn’t chosen the Mayans instead. 

 

Yes, I know the rational explanation is that I was looking for information on Ancient Egypt. It's reasonable to surmise the general public has an enduring fascination with King Tut, the Sphinx and mummies. I hadn’t been paying attention before because I didn’t need to. I’d been preoccupied listening to “I Believe I Can Fly” by R. Kelly (back when it was okay to listen to his music), talking too much about nothing (aka, Seinfeld) and wishing someone would say to me, “You had me at ‘hello’,” or, if not that, I could say to someone, “Show me the money!” 

 

Earlier in the ’90s, there was a movie starring Steve Martin and Sarah Jessica Parker called L.A. Story which I’ve always liked, if not loved, because it both spoofed Los Angeles and served as an homage. The movie featured the changing electronic road signs on L.A.’s notoriously backed-up freeways as the equivalent to a recurring character. Rather than saying there was an accident on the 405 with the left lane closed, the signs kept sending Steve Martin messages. I don’t have that sort of connection with freeway signs.  

 

Signs are all around us all the time. We just notice what’s relevant to our present circumstance. 

 

And so, as I navigated the world anew after my two-year relationship ended, I saw messages in such things as murals, graffiti and a neon sign that had long been present. A few captured my feelings, some mocked, others nudged me to get over it.

 

Enough time has passed that they all make me smile. Most of the time.

 

Here’s a photo tour of the signs that spoke to me:  

 

Before this latest relationship, I’d never understood what gaslighting was about. I’d read explanations and still didn’t get it. Regardless, I always liked this sign, perched high on one of my favorite old buildings in downtown Vancouver. It stings now. Yes, I was gaslit. While breaking up, he said I was only in it for fun and adventure. Total BS. I’d been through so much with him. I’d listened, advised and supported. Gladly. That’s what makes a relationship stronger. Or so I thought. It felt especially dismissive to be told I was all about hikes and tracking down new coffee spots, things that, yes, I enjoy, but had nothing to do with the heart of us. 

 

This graffiti offered the sentiment many strive for when it’s over. Relief! Renewal! Good riddance! I wanted to embrace the message, but I couldn’t. I hadn’t been the one seeking freedom. His sign of victory, perhaps; not mine.

 

This sign popped up in an empty storefront a week ago. It feels it’s my takeaway from the entire relationship. He emphasized our differences. Differences were problems: from what kind of sauce I liked on my pasta to my preference to running over yoga; from the fact I wore what he always called “ath-leisure” instead of leather to the fact I would have been happy to read while he watched a zombie flick; from my comfort as an introvert to his need to be around people. I always said, “You be you.” I meant it. He couldn’t say the same to me. I still think a cornerstone of a mature relationship is about common values more than common interests. It’s about understanding and respecting differences instead of seeking a clone. 

 

This graffiti still fits. I dreamed big for us. I dreamed far into the future. I dreamed forever. I still feel foolish.

 

This graffiti burned when I first saw it. More? I’d loved all I could. Not enough. Now when I look at this, I try to reframe it: Love Again. Maybe. Maybe not. I hear the Rolling Stones in my head: “You Can’t Always Get What You Want.” It’s all right. Or, at least, it is what it is. 

 

 

This taunt came this past weekend in Portland. A café intentionally named itself Never Coffee to undersell its main offering. Yes, Portland, you are weird. As I sat and wrote at a corner table, I got a final dose of reality regarding the relationship that was. Flatlined. No hope for resuscitation. A succinct, repetitive display saved me from shelling out money to a fortune teller. Any possibility for a second chance? “Never.” More in tune with Taylor Swift’s “We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together” or En Vogue’s “My Lovin’ (You’re Never Gonna Get It)” than the nothing-will-break-us view in Heart’s “Never.”

 

Ouch. Okay then. Signs seen. Messages delivered. As summer nears, I’m ready for a shift to signs about Pride, farmers’ markets and even pesky orange notices about construction for the next five miles. Personal impacts, yes, but on an entirely different plane.

 

NOW PLAYING, CENTER STAGE: AN EATING DISORDER

May is Mental Health Awareness Month. For myself, the awareness is a daily experience. Even on a good day, a worry will pop up—often—that a new chance to unravel could be moments away. The slightest glitch can do it. I hate when I crumble. I fight to be resilient. Sometimes, all I can do is surrender and wait things out. Things do pass.

 

I’m deep into a stint where my eating disorder has taken charge. It’s not altogether unwelcome. I journaled what appears below near the point when it shifted into higher gear. I thought it might have passed by now but this is Day 51. I have reached out for support but there’s a wait list. The thoughts and behaviors go on. I’m okay-ish for now. 

 

I’ve decided to post this because maybe it will help a reader understand what a friend, relative or colleague experiences. Perhaps it helps enlighten someone about the fact older, not-so-thin men can have an eating disorder, too. Maybe someone will recognize their struggle and begin the process for seeking help as well. 

 

To an outsider, the solution is maddeningly simple: eat something. I know this. I can tell myself this. However, it’s like telling someone who is clinically depressed to just smile. Cue Bobby McFerrin: Don’t Worry, Be Happy. Mental health, however, doesn’t correspond with a meme or a Hallmark card. 

 

March 31, 2024

It's another Easter weekend and I'm struggling. Easter is the longest weekend on the Canadian calendar. Things shut down for Good Friday throughout the weekend and for Easter Monday. This was especially problematic a decade ago in 2014 when I found myself admitted to the psych ward at Saint Paul's Hospital on a Thursday afternoon which just so happened to be the day before Good Friday. Ever since, Easter makes me feel uncomfortable. That stint in the psych ward left me with heightened anxiety and PTSD since the only bed they could place me in for that long weekend was in the most severe psych ward. (It had never dawned on me that a hospital would have multiple psych wards.) I was scared, I feared for my safety, I desperately wanted out and, having no control being involuntarily committed, the entire experience spiked my eating disorder behaviors.

 

It's not because it is once again Easter nor is it because this is the decade anniversary, but I am once again in the midst of a spiked eating disorder situation. This is day 7. I didn't plan this, but something about last Monday had me so busy that I missed lunch. I don't eat breakfast. Lunch is when my body finally receives a little fuel—cottage cheese or yogurt; rice cakes. Everything is limited and controlled. But having missed the lunch mark, it became a warped game. It was already 2:00 in the afternoon. I could clearly go without eating lunch. I could wait until 5:00. Dinner. A single meal. 5:00 came and went. I knew if I delayed dinner, I wouldn't have an evening snack as well. There would be a significant drop in my caloric intake for the day. This was victory. I was winning my game.

 

With the win on Monday, I decided to make it a streak. Let's go for Tuesday. Mission accomplished. Same for Wednesday, even though I swam 5 kilometers that morning, my maximum distance in the pool which I hadn't done in over a year. Usually, I am famished after a swim workout. My body craves carbs to restore whatever I swam off. But, no. One meal once again. Thursday, Friday, same.

 

This was easy. If I smiled, the smugness would show. I am in control. Not of life. That's a mess. I am still shocked and saddened by being dumped six weeks ago after a two-year relationship I thought would last. I feel especially alone here in Vancouver. My best friend moved to Montreal four months ago. 

 

I can no longer relate to my closest friend who still lives here. Every time I see him, the experience rings false. He launches into a monologue about a new hobby, a long-winded recitation I sense he has repeated many, many times to other people. It used to be about mushroom videos on YouTube. Zero interest from me. More recently, it became about fermenting onions and other vegetables. Zero interest from me. During our latest catch-up, he arrived uncharacteristically late, hauling a five-pound bag of sugar. His grand new hobby: making vinegar from scratch. Dear God, help me.

 

So, yeah, he is not someone I can lean on. Other friends seem to have disappeared. They have families, one is still dealing with the death of her spouse; another is so passive he never ever is the one to reach out to do something. I am as alone in this city and in this life as I have ever been.

 

I do not know how to change this. I am stuck. I can do nothing to get my relationship back. I don't have any idea how, at 59 years old, I can go out and make new friends. Good friends. People I could lean on. 

 

My immediate family is not helpful. “Get a dog.” That’s their solution to getting over a bad breakup, not that they have any sense of how bad it’s been. There is no depth of conversation about the loss I have experienced. It’s par. They just don't go deep. It does not seem to be within them. They have all been in longstanding relationships, decades and decades of anniversaries celebrated. They understand very little about me being gay—that would require conversations and questions. They understand less about my habitual boomeranging to singlehood.

 

He loves me. He loves me not. 

 

Some poor little flower got all its petals plucked. The City of Vancouver should take out a restraining order, keeping me a hundred meters away from all garden spaces.

 

So yes, hello anorexia nervosa. It has always been there with me. This is one of those times, however, when it is taking centre stage. It has the power. I have given it that power. 

 

Yesterday morning, I was in a different part of the city to get my haircut. I brought my backpack, slipping in my laptop and two canvas bags. A health food grocery store I love is a block away from the salon and I figured I would pick up some of my favorite products while in the area.

 

I entered the grocery store and was immediately confused. I'm not eating much at the moment. Should I even grab a hand basket? I hesitated, then took one. Maybe just holding the basket would encourage me to buy more items. 

 

As I walked down the first aisle, one of the dangling tags indicated a box of wafer crackers was on sale. I buy these crackers on occasion. I stopped and stared at them. It became a dilemma. Do I want these crackers? When would I eat them? My sense was I didn't want them. I certainly didn't need them. I put the box in the basket nonetheless. Let this be the start to my grocery haul. I picked up nothing else from that aisle nor the next. 

 

I glanced in frozen foods windows. Ice cream registered in my brain. Usually, a pint or three of Häagen-Dazs or Ben & Jerry’s become an irresistible temptation. Sometimes, I load up so many, I feel obliged to lie to the checkout clerk. “Having a little ice cream social.” 

 

I had no desire for ice cream. I had no desire for anything. As I reached the last aisle, I stopped again. I stared down a container of non-fat cottage cheese. This is the only store I know in Vancouver that still carries it. I do not like the taste of 1% or 2% fat cottage cheese. It tastes heavy, it tastes gross. This was my chance to get the cottage cheese I like. I checked the expiration date: April 27. It was good for a whole month. Still, I questioned whether I would be able to eat it before then. I put the container in my basket, a companion for the crackers.

 

I perused the fresh vegetables and fruit. Nothing appealed to me. I had gone through the entire store and picked up two items. I had my two canvas bags in my backpack. I suppose that meant one item in each bag. A very balanced walk home. I headed toward the checkout. I glanced down at the two items in my basket. No, I did not want them. I did not need them.

 

I went back to the dairy aisle to return the cottage cheese, then went to the other end of the store to place the box of crackers on the shelf where I had gotten it. I put the basket back in the stack of empty ones by the entrance and left.

 

Grocery stores have given me many problems over the years. I often become anxious in them for reasons I don't fully understand. But this was the first time I walked all the way through a grocery store having planned to buy food and then consciously decided to not buy anything. On the sidewalk, I felt stunned. I knew this was a problem. But nothing was going to change my decision. I walked a couple blocks farther from home, stepped in a favourite café, ordered an oat latte and had a writing session. Keeping with my new routine, coffee with oat milk is all I consume until my evening meal. 

 

Walking home, I passed that grocery store again along with two others where I frequently shop. Generally, I like going into grocery stores farther from home to pick up items on sale, to save a few bucks. I get this from my father. He is a man who glories in a bargain. He stocks up anytime any item he might possibly want to consume in the years ahead is on sale. This is a coup to him.

 

No. Grocery. Shopping. 

 

I realized I had a lot of food at home and I didn't know how I was ever going to eat it all. I passed bakeries, a donut shop, two of my ex’s favorite eating spots, a vegan restaurant I love. When would I ever go into any of these places again? In only one week, food had become the object of my rejection.

 

Still many blocks from home, I felt weak. I felt panicky. I didn't know if I could make it back to my place. I was vaguely aware of an emergency vehicle passing by me in the street. Not a police car; maybe an ambulance, maybe one of those smaller red trucks the fire department uses. It dawned on me after the fact that maybe I should have flagged it down. Maybe I really needed a ride back home. Maybe it was even an emergency. 

 

You can't tell if someone has an ED
just by looking at them or checking
their weight.

Although scared, I knew this would not be enough to change the level of restriction I am on. As I walked, I leaned into one of my regular distractions. I stopped and took a selfie against a background that matched my shirt. Usually, I do this for amusement. In the moment, however, it gave me a chance to pause and also a break from thinking about the struggle the walk was becoming. 

 

I walked down an alley I knew had a great deal of graffiti. I looked for more backgrounds to take more selfies. Then I continued the walk. With only a few blocks left, I was very weak, but I could make it. 

 

Despite this experience, I knew that after sitting on the sofa for a little while, I still had a three-hour workout to do involving ab crunches, time on the exercise bike and using weights to focus on working out my chest. This would not be compromised. In fact, I shortened my rest on the sofa, got up and got started with the workout. I didn't want a delay to make me complacent, to make me back out of the exercise I required of myself. 

 

All this is fucked up. I know it. 

 

I can't stop it.

**

IF YOU NEED HELP...See your doctor. Tell the doctor EVERYTHING. (People with eating disorders tend to minimize things or be secretive.) If the doctor dismisses your concerns (as first happened to me), get a second opinion. Don't settle for or freak out over whatever Google says. Seek actual supports in your community. 

If it feels like an emergency, go to Emergency at your nearest hospital. 

 

BATTLING BOTS (Damn Scams - Part 2)

First time for everything. Today someone accused me of being a robot. Not, in person. That would be particularly awkward. Online. On the most popular gay “dating” app. 

 

I’ve been back on dating sites for a couple of months now and, boy, my age is playing more of a factor than ever. I’m 59. I don’t lie. I see guys who do—they say they’re 48—and the photos either look to be from the previous century or they show someone who is pushing 70. In no world—including the virtual version—can they pass for 48. Not even close. Shave a couple years if you must, but lopping off decades is never going to lead to anything in your favor. I’m not trying to be mean. Aging is humbling to me, too. But some of my contemporaries need a good head shaking. 

 

In fact, just state your actual age. Why start something, however casual, by being dishonest? Let Pride extend beyond just being gay or queer. If we’re supposed to be accepted for being ourselves that includes as our older gay selves. Ageism exists in the real world and it seems more brutal in our “community.” It needs to be confronted, but it starts with older gays being real with themselves.

 

There. Said it. Will say it again, no doubt, but for now I’m stepping down from my soapbox, no cane required, no sudden calf cramp. 

 

I’m finding that a number of guys considerably younger than me are sending messages. This is highly suspect from the start. Why is somebody a quarter of a century younger sending me a message? I mean, 35 isn’t exactly young but, dammit, it’s a long, long way to 59.

 

What happens is these guys will send a little, meaningless text. Actually, meaningless texts seem to be the opener for virtually every message, regardless of age, motivation or the number of framed degrees one has stuffed in the back of the hall closet. (The movie Bros keeps this as a running joke with “Sup?” supposedly sufficing as a conversation (or something else) starter.) 

 

Unfortunately, I—one of those idiots with degrees in the closet—have no clue how to respond to a meaningless text. No momentum from the outset. It exasperates me. This is lazy. This is communication diluted to the tiniest puddle, the kind that’s easy to step around or over and get on with the day. Words mean so much to me. As an introvert, I have little tolerance for idle chitchat. These lame openers aren’t even that. They aren’t even “chit.” 

 

I don’t play by the rules. I text full sentences, a whole string of them even. I try to add a question at the end to offer the person something of substance to respond about. Nothing seeking opinions on what’s going on in Gaza or even thoughts about Dua Lipa’s new album. Something “lite,” connected to their profile if at all possible. (Please write something in your profile. Anything.) Here you go, I’ve given you a topic. Go with it.

 

I’m not meant for Grindr. It may have nothing to do with age.

 

But back to bots…

 

There’s something distinctive in the meaninglessness of the texts from these young ’uns. The messages, while generic and saying absolutely nothing, have just enough beyond lazy-boy “sup” and “how r u” to stand out in their similar formality:

                   Hello, how are you doing today? 

                   hey how are you?

                   Hello, what are you looking for?

                   Hello, how are you doing

                   Hello, how are you doing today?

 

Three texts in a row:

                   Hello, I hope you have a nice day.

    Hello, I hope you have a nice day.

    Hello, I hope you have a nice day.

 

The photo—always just one—shows a pretty/handsome Asian man. Exceptionally so. I can tell even as I adjust my glasses, lean in and squint at the thumbnail pic. He looks like he could be in a high fashion print ad. Decades younger, gorgeous and he’s messaging me. Well, isn’t this flattering!

 

Louis was my first. He texted within twenty-four hours of my opening an account. 

The bot welcome wagon. Oh, Louis! Wowza!

 

Thirty-five…hmm. 

 

If I were a narcissist, I might have nodded my head, smiled and thought, “Yep. I’ve still got it.” 

 

But I’m not. And I never had it.

 

Still, I was feeling mighty bruised about being summarily dismissed by my ex who happened to be four years younger than me. Couldn’t I be gentle with myself? Couldn’t I always for the possibility that another younger guy might see something in me? MUCH younger, true, but, feeling fragile, I thought I should accept validation even if it came from a handsome young man who had lost his way. I even tried to self-talk myself into believing Louis wasn’t lost. If I wear sunglasses, I look young for my age (or that’s what my best friend and my aunt say). 

 

But 59! It’s right there. Large font immediately below my profile pic. Oh, Louis…

 

I immediately thought about the stereotypes of older white gay men with significantly younger Asian men. There is a basis of truth in many stereotypes, including this one. Who pursues who? Why would handsome, twenty-four-years-younger Louis message me?  

 

I stared at the message:

Hello, how are you doing today?

 

So formal. Punctuation at the end. Very appealing. Even as a newbie, I knew this was exceptional.

 

I decided to respond. I figured just saying, “Fine” or, going for extreme positivity, “Doing great!” wouldn’t be enough. 

 

As someone who knows a little something about how conversations are supposed to go in the non-app world at least, I needed to ask something in return. But, with a blank profile other than the single pic, age, height and weight stats and Grindr indicating he was six kilometers away, there wasn’t anything to go on. I winged it with something lame—“What have you been up to today?”—but, yes, something. 

 

Too much thinking time for this kind of app. He’d probably moved on. So many thumbnail photos to click on. (Oh, to be twenty-four years younger, have rapid fine motor skills and not have to squint through glasses!)

 

A reply:

                   What are you looking for?

 

Gee. Gosh. Was this a sex question? Was this about race? Marriage? One vague question was making me sweat. Validation wasn’t supposed to come with anxiety. 

 

I dodged a bit. I don’t like online messaging with strangers. This exchange was already affirming my opinion that they rarely evolve, they fizzle out and then, well, what was it for? Even the validation would fade out.  

 

“What area do you live in? Maybe we could chat over a coffee.”

 

A reply. But nothing about where he lived. Flaky or avoidant. Young ’uns. I let it go. 

 

Midway through the next day, my phone vibrated. Louis again.

 

                   Hello, how are you doing today?

 

Persistent. Wasn’t that a plus? But the same opening. Groundhog Day. I knew nothing more than the day before. This is what I hate about online conversation. It’s typically too lite. This wasn’t even that. 

 

And then it dawned on me. He’d looked familiar but now I realized we’d had some sort of go-nowhere message exchange last time I was single. Same name, different pic. A headshot instead of this side profile. I’d had enough validation—from Louis, at least. I pressed: “Haven’t we chatted before on a different dating app?”

 

I waited. Waited a little longer. No response. I looked at the app. The message was gone. So was Louis. Familiarity breeds contempt, I guess.

 

Later in the day, a message from Xaio, another very handsome Asian man—model-caliber. A single photo. A barebones profile. Thirty-four. Seven kilometers away. 

 

Wasn’t feeling as validated. 

Wasn’t feeling young for my age. 

Felt like I was being played because of my age.

 

Scams can attempt to dupe anyone but older people are prime targets and, on a gay dating app that isn’t niche like Silver Singles (been there; nothing but crickets), I’m about as old as it gets. Prime target.

 

                  Hello, what are you looking for?

 

Still hadn’t figured that out myself, but I had a hunch what Xaio was looking for. A sucker…and not in any sexual sense. I cut to the chase. “Hey! Thanks for the message. What part of the city are you living in?”

 

Xaio vanished. Abracadabra! Profile gone. Message gone. 

 

I always sensed I had a talent for making men disappear but it was becoming my super power on Grindr. While I didn’t know what I was looking for, I was certain this was not the place I wanted to hone my magic act…unless I could pull coins from behind my ear. Gold ones. Lots of ’em. Not to be.

 

More Asian models with just one pic and barebones profiles appeared, each reaching out with a bland, respectful opening message. It was like Whac-A-Mole. One would pop up, I’d “hit it” with a question and—BAM—back down the hole, the mole-bot tunneling toward a new possible opening on someone else’s game player…er, cell phone.

 

I extended the chat with one—Lin—to see what would happen. I answered as vaguely as him. I’d ask where he lived in the city. I tried to get something specific. What’s your favorite spot to grab a coffee? And then I turned the tables, so to speak. “I’m considerably older than you. What are you looking for?” 

 

He said he was new on the app—duh…VERY new—and was going to be leaving it. Because that’s what new folks do. 

 

Exit Lin.

 

Maybe Grindr will get wind of me. These aren’t bots. I’m scaring off hot young men, real profiles people actually want to view. Maybe my account will be suspended. Maybe I am the one who has to disappear.

 

Maybe not.

 

Louis became Mark.

Louis showed up again when I was in Washington, D.C. Same image. Different name though. Is this what younger people were doing these days? This week call me…

 

I’m thinking of trying out Bartholomew. Seven days, that’s all. Fun! I’ll switch before people started getting too familiar, calling me Bart. I have never aspired to share my name with an animated Simpson. Next nametag: Hello, My Name Is Scooby. Animated dogs are cooler. In general, I like dogs better than people anyway. So loyal! They don’t break up with you. They don’t ghost you.

 

I went so far as to contact Grindr, a challenge in and of itself. I kept landing on pages where I could pay for upgrades or pay to have my profile boosted, but report something? Complain?! Grindr didn’t want to encourage that sort of thing. I abandoned my efforts the first two days I tried but then I’d get another message—

                   Hello, how are you doing today?

 

Bots kept pushing my buttons so I kept pushing Grindr’s. Finally found a spot to report a problem. An open text box! I told them what I presume they already know. But, just as old folks are targeted more for scams, where known to get cranky and air our grievances. Another stereotype. I’m becoming the truth behind that one. 

 

That was two weeks ago. No response from Grindr even though I mentioned I wouldn’t be renewing my subscription. (I’d paid for some sort of upgrade. I still haven’t figured out what I got for what I shelled out since I am invited every time I’m on the app to pay more. Is it a symbol of Pride or shame to be a Gold Member on Grindr? Platinum? Kryptonite?) 

 

My term ends soon. I will vanish, too. No one will miss me. Not even the bots.