THE FLASHER

There’s a time and place for nudity. Stepping into the shower after a morning jog. Yep, soap up all those sweaty bits. At the doctor’s office when that dreaded part of the physical comes up where he has to check for lumps on the testicles and give the “all clear” regarding the prostate (while I ramble on about a hike I did near Whistler—not that he’s interested; I just need to normalize an awkward situation). Sex, I suppose…if keeping a shirt on feels stuffy and the belly isn’t still showing off last night’s dinner. (Why did I eat the entire loaf of sourdough?)

 

For me, that’s it. I’m out of nudity scenarios. I don’t vacuum naked. I don’t plop my bare ass on the sofa while watching Jeopardy. I don’t skinny dip in the river at the cottage. (Lurking somewhere near the bottom are really big fish called muskies with countless teeth. I don’t want them mistaking anything for a worm.) 

 

I like clothes. 

 

Not long after arriving at the family cottage in Ontario, I got a message from Farmer Luc on the only dating-or-whatever app I still have on my phone. A polite, if say-nothing note: “Good morning.” Farmer Luc was the same age as me and apparently eleven kilometers away. That’s basically next door when you’re in rural surroundings. I noticed he’d actually bothered to fill out parts of his profile with words—sentences! Sounded like a normal guy. I’m done with dating, but I thought I should be neighborly. I good morning-ed back.

 

Your move, Farmer Luc. Now maybe you’ll really have to say something.

 

He fired off three thousand words. Or the equivalent if you ascribe to that notion that a picture is worth a thousand. 

 

Farmer Luc doesn’t like clothes as much as I do.

 

The fly buzzing around in the cottage may have noticed my eye roll. I had deleted Grindr. I thought I’d put an end to unsolicited nude shots. Clearly, Farmer Luc was intent on bucking that stereotypical image of farmers in overalls, a strand of hay dangling between front teeth. (It’s true. The hay thing would have been a turn off. I’m not a dentist so no bonus points are awarded for creative flossing.)

 

Farmer Luc had nothing to be embarrassed about. Apparently he could resist whole loaves of bread on one go and something about the daily tasks in tending to cows and chickens had flattered his biceps. Maybe it was all that manure shoveling.

 

I am rather certain Farmer Luc hadn’t wanted me to visualize manure shoveling when he sent me three thousand words. 

 

After making sure my eye roll registered with the fly—a genuine protest—I messaged back: “Happy to meet for a coffee in town if you’re interested.”

 

Like a GPS recalibrating after going too far, he replied. “So sorry if I was too forward. Yes, coffee would be nice.”

 

All right then. We met a few days later at a café. He showed up fully clothed—shorts and a polo shirt that still showed off his biceps which still made me think of shoveling manure. (I can fixate on things…often the wrong things.)

 

The conversation was fine. Nothing kinetic. I’d mentioned I was dog-sitting while my aunt and uncle were on a cruise and he shared about his first cruise last year. 

 

A gay cruise. My nightmare, being stuck at sea with too many attention-seekers. 

 

A nudist gay cruise. Okay, my worst nightmare. 

 

I withheld judgment. I conjured Lady Gaga and maintained my best Poker Face. I nonchalantly asked him about food and ports of call. 

 

Presumably, he poker faced it too instead of revealing what a prude he may have thought I was. Why hadn’t I asked any titillating questions? In my twenties and early thirties, I went to many coffees—and yogurt shops when in L.A.—to hear other gay guys offer retellings of their sexcapades. (No surprise, I had none.) The whole kiss and tell thing just feels passé. 

 

Yes, I know. Prude. Once and always.

 

Ten minutes into my ride back to the cottage, I had a message from Farmer Luc. I did not check it while driving. The non-cruise part of the coffee conversation had revealed a sense that he might feel somewhat isolated as a gay man in rural Ontario. I presumed the message would be about arranging another coffee, maybe dinner. I figured I’d be fine with that. Since I come here every year, it would be nice to develop a new friendship.

 

Once back at the cottage, I checked Farmer Luc’s message. Five thousand “words” this time. A different kind of invitation. 

 

Maybe the poker face response had been a bad call. Somehow none of my prudishness came through or, if it did, all his isolation made him rusty on social cues (and non-cues). 

 

I countered with another offer of coffee. He responded with a day that looked glitchy for me. He must have viewed this as playing too hard to get…not that I was ever to be gotten. I didn’t hear back again. Lots of tasks to tend to on the farm, I’m sure. 

 

Just as well. My biggest work-around during our single coffee outing had been avoiding a certain conversation-killing question: “What are all the cows for?” As someone who has been a vegetarian for forty years for humane reasons, I could have accepted “dairy” as part of the response but he’d mentioned “selling the cows.” That had been an answer, hadn’t it? 

 

Farmer Luc and I were never going to be anything regardless of the size of his biceps or anything else, no matter if we found common ground for ongoing conversation. Eleven kilometers between us…so close in one context but still worlds away. I will most definitely be keeping my clothes on.