HOLOGRAMS, SNEERS & DEAD FISH

The city just ran out of men.

That’s right,...Vancouver.

The whole “raining men” thing was just a strange phenomenon from the ‘80s. The eighties, for god’s sake. And here I’d spent all but the last four months of that decade in the closet with my tossed-on-the-floor acid-washed jean shorts, collar-less Girbaud shirts and pleated baggy pants.

Doesn’t matter now. The men are gone. I’ve stepped into some Wonder Woman land. She may be fierce but frankly she doesn’t do a thing for me.

I should be like that guy who married a hologram. 

Of course, then I’d have to decide between Fred Jones from “Scooby Doo” and Hermey the Elf. Longstanding crushes. I used to be partial to blonds. I guess I’d pick Hermey. He’s got to be a dentist by now, right? My mom would be so happy. “Oh, son, you picked such a sweet, well-mannered hologram groom. And successful, too.”

Seriously, how did thirty-nine people show up to a hologram wedding? Did they miss Barbie and Ken’s big event? Did they actually buy gifts from the registry? Yeah, I should definitely marry Hermey the Elf. But first I’d have to propose and, well, he’d likely say no. He’s probably more the Big Daddy type, all that time spent around Yukon Cornelius.

Fred would turn me down, too. Nothing personal. I just don’t get the sense he’d want to share his cravat drawer.

Dammit. I can’t even get myself a decent hologram.

There’s some urban legend going around about some gay man meeting some other gay man by happenstance, out in public, in person, a random encounter in a rom-com come-to-life. I don’t see that happening for real. I sit and write in cafes and in libraries, looking up every now and then in case someone wants to make eye contact. Nothing. Just some guy one floor below me at the central library, constantly clipping his toenails. (Eye contact?! How could I compete with foot care? And I’m not the foot fetish type. Nothing romantic about what goes in a sweaty sock.)

I go to the grocery store. Not a look there. I have to decide if the avocados are ripe on my own. (By the way, here’s how.) Even when I try to cruise the Mr. Clean bottle. Worst kind of gay. He’d go home with anybody.

I go to the gym, too. There is ZERO eye contact there. Everyone wears earbuds and stares down at their phone screen during the long (LONG!) delay between sets. I’m not my best self at the gym. If anyone glanced my way, I’d make a bad impression. Part of it is the gym t-shirt and shorts which show off, well...nothing, but it’s mostly the cranky face that would put people off. I get impatient waiting to use the leg press machine. Not that it does anything for me. But it’s part of my routine and it stands between me and going home. Can’t you step aside while you scroll Facebook, check out a Kardashian Instagram account or text Aunt Rue?

So, yeah, that notion about meeting a real guy in a regular setting has been put to rest. Pure myth. That then leaves online dating options. I say that as if any are truly viable. Plenty of Fish is dead water. Same tiny pool, exact same profile photos I saw ten years ago. As if we’re all ageless wonders. OKCupid is an even smaller collection and Match.com isn’t even a blip in the Vancouver market. That leaves the penis and ass pic sites. Call me old-fashioned, but I just don’t feel comfortable messaging a penis. I can’t imagine a relationship growing from “Nice scrotum.”

So that brings me back to holograms, Wonder Woman and cruising that floozy stud, Mr. Clean. Please say yes, Hermey.

EX FACTOR

Sometimes it is who you know.

After a solid first coffee with Craig, even a guarded guy like me had to conclude that it was one of the more promising starts. The conversation revealed more in common than I can recall with, well, anyone. I didn’t for a moment doubt that there would be a second date.

Sure enough, Craig texted at 8 a.m. the next day to say, “Thanks so much for hanging out yesterday. I enjoyed it, and would like to do it again.” We both have busy schedules but I always go with a while-the-fire’s-hot mindset. Two days later, we grabbed another coffee and walked the seawall.

Nothing questionable in Craig’s attire this time. He wore a blue zippered hoodie, jeans and sneakers. For the next hour and a half, we walked in the morning sun and the conversation went smoothly. At least it did for the first seventy-five minutes. That’s when I said something I shouldn’t have.

It’s not like I said something inappropriate. I’m careful with my words. Perhaps too much so. I sometimes wonder if I wear my reserved nature on my sleeve. So, no, I did not proclaim something ludicrous about an encounter with a UFO or that I wanted to plan a weekend getaway to attend Trump rallies. I did not say something controversial about religion. I did not even cuss. But what I said was worse.

As Craig works in human resources, we were talking about employees who say and post things they shouldn’t on Twitter and Facebook. He offered lots of examples he’d come across and I guess I figured I needed to contribute something instead of simply nodding and reacting. I mentioned a friend of mine I’d met on Plenty of Fish a year ago. This guy hadn’t seen dating potential in us but we’d become tennis buddies. This guy works for BC Ferries but had just been accepted to become an RCMP officer. I thought his Facebook posts—

Craig suddenly stopped walking. “Wait. What’s your friend’s name?” I gave the name. “That’s my ex.”

Oh.

Craig was clearly rattled. I’d opened a deep wound. He muttered, “So Jay plays tennis now.”

It felt like we were suddenly on a sinking ship and I only had a coffee cup to bail water. I tried to quickly finish the Facebook anecdote and move on. The equivalent to an emphatic, “Anyway…”

But Craig was distracted by his own thoughts. About Jay. And perhaps about the fact I was friends with Jay.

If only I had more friends—especially ones who posted inappropriate things—Jay’s name might never have come up. At least not this early on.

As I tried to shift the conversation, I flashed back to that first coffee date with Jay. We’d walked the seawall too, although on the other side of False Creek. That was late June and Jay had gone where you’re not supposed to go on first dates. He’d brought up his ex, a guy named—yes, that’s right—Craig. They’d officially broken up four months prior as I recall. And it had been under sad circumstances. Odd, in fact. Jay felt some guilt for ending a ten-year relationship, but there hadn’t been sex in the last two years and there wasn’t any hope of things turning around. His partner had started dressing, first androgynously, and then in “man dresses”. The change had the effect of neutering attraction and Jay had felt guilty, even shallow. But it was what it was. I remember thinking at the time that I may very well have done the same thing as Jay. At the very least, I could not judge.

Maybe this explained Craig’s odd attire on our first coffee date. Once we’d gotten into conversation, I’d completely lost sight of what he wore. But now I had this extra piece of information. I knew too much too soon. Still, I told myself to focus on the Craig I was with at that moment and not the Craig that Jay spoke of.

So Craig and I finished the walk, continuing to talk but I felt the momentum was gone. I was still game but I wondered if Craig was out. We reached Craig’s turnoff point and Craig noted that he had a busy week ahead and a full weekend but he’d be in touch. We hugged and I offered my most hopeful smile before we walked in different directions. It’s still good, I told myself. I still enjoyed his company and I wanted to know him better. Surely we could work through the fact I was friends with his ex. And, yes, if Craig’s clothing choices and perhaps his identity became an issue, we’d talk about that In due course. If we weren’t hopelessly off-course already. Yes, it’s still good. If I thought it enough, it was possible. Someone coined the phrase, “the power of positive thinking”. Here I am, a guarded, perhaps even pessimistic, person putting it to the test.

SIZE ISN'T EVERYTHING

The countdown is on. In five weeks, I leave my rural incarnation of solitary confinement and return to Vancouver. And one sudden thought rushes to mind:

Maybe I should have rented.

Yes, I bought a teeny, tiny condo. It’s all I can afford in the Vancouver market. It’s one reason I left the city ten years ago.

I’d given Vancouver an eleven-year run. It hadn’t been the right fit. I have always been a big believer in “no regrets” and in never taking a step backwards. But, in truth, there weren’t many options. I am about five years away from my earliest possible retirement and moving to another province (and another pension system) seemed utterly impractical. I have applied to return to the U.S. where I earned two degrees and lived for sixteen years, but U.S. Immigration has my application sitting in a giant slush pile in some basement of some decaying government building. I’ll likely be retired—maybe even dead—before my number comes up.

It was Vancouver by default. Not exactly a rousing endorsement. I’ll make do. Hopefully, I can even thrive. But my current state of All Quiet on the Dating Front has led me to believe that there remains an ambivalence imbalance. The breathtakingly beautiful city is more indifferent to me than I am to it.

In the dating realm, the conventional thinking is there will be more opportunities in Vancouver. Really, how could there not be? But, as anyone will tell you, size isn’t everything. An emphatic “meh” from a significant metropolis can sting more than nonexistent shoulder shrugs from nonexistent gay men in the boonies. I stand to be rejected for me rather than for my home. That’s a scary prospect.

I am starting to wonder if I am simply not a Vancouver kind of man. I’m not outdoorsy enough. Heck, I don’t even own a pair of hiking boots. I have never gone to a yoga class. (No doubt, I’d be a terrible distraction to the instructor. I am stretching. I swear.) And I can’t even name the current coach of the Canucks. Maybe the Vancouver shunning is justified. If only it could be remedied by stocking up on Lululemon gear and traipsing through mud.

On the dating site OkCupid, I rarely get a sniff from a Vancouver guy, even though I state that I live close to the city. In fact, of the last dozen men to “Like” me, not one is from Vancouver. Instead, I’ve piqued some interest in two small towns in Florida, Brooklyn, Palm Springs, a place I’ve never heard of in the U.K., a tiny dot on the map in Missouri, Singapore, Portland, Seattle, Pasadena, Toronto and Panama City. The last ten guys to send a message were from the Philippines, Singapore, Redhill (UK), Calgary, Washington, D.C., two from London and three from Seattle.

Typically, people run dating searches within their geographical area. My results show that either they really don’t like me in Vancouver or I am more attractive when viewed from far, far away. Maybe both. Not very encouraging. I suppose there is that other possibility that single gay men in Vancouver aren’t terribly serious about finding someone. Maybe solo hikes up the North Shore Mountains are all they need to satisfy the endorphins. Perhaps the whole lot is a passive posse. That’s not helpful either for an awkward, shy guy like me.

Yep, I bought in Vancouver. It’s a grand gesture. Do you hear me, Vancouver? This is called commitment. I’m settling in. And already I feel unsettled.

Just what is the immigration policy for Panama anyway?

CAUTION: COOKIE

Sometimes when you’re too excited about a fresh cookie, one that is still piping hot from the oven, you burn your tongue. One must exercise a little willpower. Let things cool.

The same goes for dates.

I had another very good first date. (This is becoming very familiar. Why aren’t they asking for seconds?!) Saul has only been in Vancouver four days, having just moved from Victoria. He messaged me on Plenty of Fish. He’s eight years older, but in his profile pics, he appeared fit, younger than his age and endearingly smiley. Yeah, yeah. Photos can be so deceptive. I decided to hop on a ferry and meet him in Gastown. I needed to take a bunch of photos of older Vancouver buildings to give me a feel for a historical piece I’m writing so I figured now would be a good time to do that groundwork and cross off another online possibility. And I set my favorite bakery as our meeting place so, even if the date fizzled, I’d still have a sweet aftertaste.

Saul walked in and looked as young and smiley in person as in his pics. Well, hurrah. At first, I wasn’t terribly invested in the conversation. He talked too fast, too long and with too much detail about technical things. (He had listed science as an interest on his profile. Not my forte at all.) I figured, okay, this will be a pleasant coffee and that will be the end of it.

But there was a geeky charm to him as he caught a breath and said, “I’m talking too fast, aren’t I? I had caffeine already. Normally I only drink decaf.” Blame it on the joe. He then opened up about already having a bad coffee date only hours earlier. It comes with being the New Kid in Town. Fresh cookies always draw that initial surge of salivating suitors. That date lasted ten minutes with the other guy declaring, “Everything you would ever want is right here in me. But you’re not making enough eye contact. You’re obviously not interested.” Exit tightly wound single guy.

Somehow the story made me warm to Saul. Most men don’t open up about a same-day date, particularly one that ends so badly.

I knew Saul was interested in me. Maybe any guy would look good after that morning date. Maybe Saul spent the time in between practicing his eye contact. But he also showed interest in the way he’d touch me as we talked—naturally leaning into me as he joked and holding my hands to see if they were cold from this sudden spell of winter weather.

When the bakery closed, I still wanted to take some more photos so he walked his bike and strolled with me as we sauntered along Hastings, the worst blocks in Canada. As we casually meandered through a mixed crowd of mentally ill/homeless/addicted people, I realized that this was neither a romantic walk nor a proper “Welcome to Vancouver” excursion. I should have taken us on a less direct route to Chinatown. But I’m not used to thinking about travel for more than one. Saul gamely acted nonchalant. Even better, he went on a political tangent about the rights of the least fortunate and the failings of the Harper government. “Please tell me you’re not Conservative,” he said. “I’d have to end it right here.” I’m not. But he wouldn’t have.

He was clearly freezing—visibly shivering—but he waited patiently as I snapped pictures of historical buildings that were on my list. As the skies darkened, we ambled along the seawall, heading back towards his place. “Can I make you dinner?” he asked. I politely declined. I’m too finicky an eater. Can’t divulge all my quirks on the first date. “Can we go out for dinner?” Sure. Persistence, when it’s the right guy, can be sexy.

All this time, we’d sat and walked side by side. Now at dinner we faced each other. And the connection seemed stronger. I reached my hand across the table and held his. “I like this,” I said. Simple, yet significant.

“Me, too.”

I had to walk fifteen minutes from the restaurant to catch a bus to make the last ferry home. “I’ll walk you there,” he insisted. “And it wouldn’t be so bad if you missed it.”

Maybe not. But the evening ended at the bus stop with several hugs and a quick kiss. Fresh cook out of the oven. I’ve got a tongue to protect. Everything feels comfortable and I hope a second date does happen. I’ve learned that there’s a vast unknown between first date and what may or may not come next. He is a fresh cookie and I still have a couple other first dates pending. It’s a promising beginning. We’ll see if there’s a next.

SAME TIME, DIFFERENT SPEEDS

“How did that hour go so fast?” he exclaimed. Just seconds earlier, my thought was, Thank God for parking meters.

Yeah, you know it’s bad when you see a coin-sucking parking meter as your friend. It was my Get Out of Coffee For a Small Fee card. Why monopolize this guy’s evening?

I should back up. There’s a fine line between Faint Hope and Realistically Negative. When Benny sent me a message a week and a half ago, I had reservations. Sure, I’d recognized the photo. I’d even clicked it to skim his profile. But I did not linger and I did not contemplate ever initiating an online message. Benny’s main photo was a beach shot of his buff body in a swimsuit. It was a fine body, to be sure. But my guard goes up when a fifty-two-year-old man picks a Sports Illustrated cover shot that to say, “This is me!” (My own selection is dubious as well. It’s a windblown image of me riding the Mad Hatter tea cup ride at Disneyland. I blame my own poor choice on the fact I don’t collect photos of myself. Delete is a wonderful option on digital cameras.)

Back to Beach Boy Benny, he did have several other photos online. He wore gym gear in each shot, one even taken mid dumbbell curl.

Benny is proud of his body. As he should be. He has successfully repelled the middle age beer belly. Kudos. I just prefer a little subtlety. Let the muscle show in a nicely fitted (not tightly fitted) shirt.

His listed interests consisted solely of physical activities: weightlifting, going to the gym, rollerblading, skiing. Each item seemed redundant. (See aforementioned photos.)

But Benny messaged me, referring to my thoughtful profile. Faint Hope beat out Realistically Negative. You have to put yourself out there. You just need one match. There’s no harm in a quick reply. If it leads to coffee, your dog will appreciate the downtime.

So I replied. Short exchanges went back and forth. We were in the same profession. He grew up in Atlantic Canada. (That is almost always a positive.) I even pushed for depth in my third message:
“It’s great that you treat fitness seriously. What other interests do you have?” He replied with a vague beauty pageant answer: “I also enjoy travel and reading.” I was a little disappointed he left off world peace and finding a cure for athlete’s foot.

I overlooked the fact that each successive message from him contained more spelling and grammatical errors. Are we really in the same profession? I cut to the chase. Let’s do coffee before your inability to distinguish between your and you’re completely repulses me.

As soon as he sat down, Realistically Negative showed up. I needn’t get into specifics. I just knew this was not a match. For an hour, I politely conversed. I followed up on his remarks and went through the motions. When I asked how he’d spent his day, he said he started out as he always does—wait for it—going to the gym...until noon. That must impress someone.

For his part, he asked nothing about my dog or my writing, key topics I raised. His most animated response to anything I mentioned came five minutes in, after I said I’d lived in Los Angeles. He practically screamed, “How did you ever live there?! I’ve traveled all over the world and it is without a doubt the most hideous place!” I could have been mean and embarrassed him by saying I hoped to move back there, but I sat quietly, satisfied that Realistically Negative got it right.

It’s all okay. Sixty incredibly slow minutes, but it is over. I have another date on Friday with a guy who kept his shirt on in all six of his photos. He has a variety of interests, most of which complement mine. I plan on bringing Faint Hope along for dinner. Fingers crossed. After all, the restaurant is in a Vancouver neighborhood not yet adorned by friendly parking meters.