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.

CATALOG SHOPPING

I remember being excited as a boy when the Sears catalog arrived. Sure, it had some cool toys to add to my birthday/Christmas wish list—ooh, Lite-Brite!—, but the main attraction was the pages of women in bras. The section didn’t arouse me as it might have for most boys, but it appealed to my sparkly mind. Who were these women, letting themselves be photographed before they put their blouses (or muumuus) on? Why were they all smiling? Where was the embarrassment? How did Sears get away with this year after year? Didn’t they know children would be taking peeks?

Yeah, it doesn’t seem like much now, but I was a young, sheltered kid and this was pre-Britney, pre-Madonna, even pre-Farrah poster. Once I got over the initial shock in seeing the lingerie spread, I’d look at the women and decide which was the prettiest.

In my teens, I subscribed to GQ. That was before they had movie star actors or naked Rihannas on the cover. (At the airport this week, I was too embarrassed to buy the Rihanna issue. Felt more like an issue of Maxim or Penthouse.) Back then, GQ was all about fashion, male models with incredibly chiseled faces mocking my pimply complexion and my desire to generate something more than a snicker when I ran out and bought an Izod or a pair of Jordache jeans. (Gosh, what's the male vocal equivalent to Janis Ian's "At Seventeen"?)

I think it was my GQ subscription that led to my receiving the International Male catalog in the mail on a regular basis. Goodbye, Sears! I had pages and pages of tanned, buff male models with no body hair sporting brightly colored underwear. If there were boxers, I don’t recall them. It was all about the briefs. Again, it led to same old routine, ogling the pictures and deciding who was the prettiest.

I was reminded of this catalog shopping ritual yesterday as I browsed portfolios of men seeking men on PlentyOfFish.com. I have tried a couple of other sites like Manhunt and Gay.com, but they seemed particularly sleazy, with so many guys choosing to post penis pics. When it comes down to just dating a penis, I think I’ll have hit rock bottom. Not there yet, thank goodness. PlentyOfFish, by contrast, has always seemed more reputable with most of the guys claiming to be looking for something more than a quickie. But things seem to be slowly evolving. More and more men are posting photos of themselves with their shirts off. It’s still tame compared to the other sites, even more modest than International Male, but it still feels wrong.

Shirtless or shirted, there are so many profiles to peruse. It’s a shallow way to look for a boyfriend, but I suppose it’s no worse than cruising in a gay bar. As I still live in a rural area, I don’t have a lot of choices. I can’t join a gay running group or a gay tennis league or even go see “A Single Man” in a theater (not when Alvin and the Chipmunks: The Squeakquel is playing). Fishing is the only option. And I must confess that I get sucked in to gazing at the shirtless guys. Can I blame Sears for creating this shopping ritual? The whole thing does feel like catalog shopping.

Something tells me I need to update my photos.

FIREWORKS? AT STARBUCKS?!

Rejection sucks.

Amidst a generally sucky atmosphere of a month of rain and unknowingly stepping in my dog’s vomit this morning, I read a follow-up email after having gone for coffee in Vancouver with an Abbotsford realtor I’ll call Ron. (If I were bitter I’d call him Dick or Doofus. But, of course, I’m not bitter.)

He said he didn’t feel any fireworks during our first meeting, but would really like to be friends. Yeah, that “friend” tag always seems lame. People go on Plenty of Fish and other dating sites to gain a bud to watch the Canucks with on Pay Per View. (Again, to clarify, I’m not bitter.)

This is a guy who contacted me first, indirectly, by adding me as a “favourite”, an odd junior high feature on POF that I guess is the equivalent to “Hey, I think you’re neat. Hee hee. But I’m afraid so send a message so I’ll just ‘favourite’ you. Hee hee.” Being as my profile is entirely accurate and I have several photos to negate that One Miracle Photo Effect, I figured he wasn’t physically repulsed by me. Heck, I was neat.

Coffee then. I don’t like exchanging messages for weeks on end. Get together in person and see if there’s a spark. Not fireworks,…a spark, for frickin’ sake. Who expects fireworks from a midday meeting at Starbucks?! I was just pleased to sit across from a guy who dressed nicely instead of some dude who’d just thrown on a 1999 Sun Run t-shirt with holes in it. (Yeah, that was another coffee experience. Not. Going. There.)

I have felt fireworks before on a first meeting. But that was probably the Bacardi talking. And aided by the fact my gym god date wore a vest with nothing underneath. Shallow, yes. I was in my twenties playing in the shallow end with all the other young ’uns. Of course, Ron didn’t have that opportunity. He got married (to a woman) at a young age and had a family. (Okay, maybe a little bitter. I’m really wanting to change his fictional name to Doofus.) The divorce will be finalized “any month now” and Ron has recently had a three-month gay relationship, long distance no less. Three months. Remember those? Shall we go to dinner again at that place where we celebrated our two-and-a-half week anniversary? Oh, and by the way, I haven’t told you lately (i.e, in the past two hours): You’re really neat.

Are fireworks really something to expect on a first date in a coffee shop? Am I the one whose expectations are out of whack? Is hoping for some a pleasant conversation with a few interesting tangential comments beyond the lifetime resumé too low a standard? Honestly, I’d love to hear from someone who actually saw fireworks while sipping a latté on a first meeting.

OK, Ron, go find your fireworks. Never really my thing. They don’t last. And even in the midst of them, the oohs and aahs start to feel a little forced. (Maybe I’m still scarred from that Unfortunate Sparkler Incident when I was six. Can’t find the mark. Maybe it’s just bad lighting. Or maybe it’s on the other hand.)

Plenty of Fish, eh? What the hell am I doing fishing at forty-five? I’m a vegetarian! And even before I saw the light (or whatever), I hated fishing. You sit forever waiting and waiting and waiting for a bite and lose your lure on a rock. Or pull up seaweed.

Fishing sucks.