DATING ODYSSEY, 2021

It’s enough to get myself psyched up for a coffee date in the best of times. I’m way past the age of feeling jitters. Hope doesn’t pop up much anymore either. The self-talk before heading out is, Just be open. Truly, I try.

 

Most of the time, the guy is decent enough. Sitting down to coffee with a stranger is harmless. It’s often no more exciting than a stilted job interview but, fortunately, I’ve always liked job interviews. Weird, I know. Still, it helps keep me resilient after a string of dud dates.

 

The score since COVID is 0-4. I’ve met four guys in the past six weeks or so. Nothing memorable, nothing to build on. That’s not unusual. What is hard to adjust to is how these coffee dates are different due to the coronavirus. I’m really not liking the new parameters.

 

All four dates have taken place outdoors. I’ve been super careful throughout COVID and I’m not about to not put myself in risky situations. I have my inconsistencies, as I think is the case with most of us, but I’m far more cautious than anyone in my family and most people I know. While I’ve had both vaccine shots and my physical health is great, I wonder about possible long-term issues that may come from getting the virus, even in a mild form. Sitting in a café with a dozen or more unmasked strangers seems totally unnecessary.

 

Outdoor meet-and-greets would have been better in the middle of summer, but it took me months after getting double-vaxxed to muster up the motivation to dive back into online dating. Hello, autumn. This being Vancouver, the rainy season tends to extend through the calendar seasons of fall and winter. Yes, this is just the beginning…

 

Two of the four dates have been all wet, one in pouring rain, the other only in steady rain. Yeesh. It’s hard to make your best impression in raincoats and boots. Who are you under that glorified garbage bag? One poor chap showed up in leather shoes that weren’t weather-appropriate. “Are you sure you want to go for a walk?” I asked. Yes, yes. Very well—not your Mom. It was a go-nowhere date and I have no doubt he drove home cursing and muttering, “I ruined my shoes for that?!”

 

Yes, so sorry. Next time, listen to your mother.

 

My next coffee date was another soggy encounter. I trekked a half hour each way in the rain to meet Jorge, a sweet man from Mexico City. He showed up without an umbrella, the hoodie of his jacket covering even more of his appearance. We stood under an awning, a welcome dry spot where we could figure out how to proceed. Jorge proposed grabbing a drink on a sheltered, heated patio at a nearby pub. As it turned out, we couldn’t go because Jorge had not been vaccinated. (In British Columbia, you have to show proof of vaccination to access non-essential indoor settings.) 

 

“I’m sorry, so sorry,” he said. He showed me an appointment card he’d gotten earlier that day to get his first shot. He explained he’s been holed up in his apartment throughout the pandemic, contemplating life and reflecting on himself. The implication was that he hadn’t stepped out at all. 

 

That’s a lot of contemplation and reflection. Had I missed a reference to Buddhist monk in his profile? I asked, “Did you at least set aside time to make banana bread?” He looked at me quizzically, my humor lost in translation or just not funny. Jokes are always a risk, more so when someone doesn’t know you at all.

 

The vaccination issue abruptly ended our chat. Or maybe he despises banana bread. (If he’d only shared a dislike for banana bread, that would have been something we had in common. Maybe something could have grown from that.) Jorge wasn’t up for a walk. He told me he has chronic health issues. (But no urgency to get vaccinated? Um, okay.) 

 

Perhaps I bear some of the blame for the nonstarter date. Prior to meeting the other guys, I’d asked if they were double vaccinated. I’d neglected to do so with Jorge; if I had, we wouldn’t have met at all—not yet, at least. COVID still has implications on dating. While there are obvious differences, dating during COVID reminds me of meeting guys during the AIDS crisis. Here, with someone you barely know, you’re forced to ask about an otherwise private medical condition due to possible implications. Putting hands over your ears, closing your eyes and humming loudly does not remove you from the current times. Raising the subject is part of staying proactive about your health. Asking Have you been vaccinated? is significantly more informative than What’s your sign? 

 

A couple of days ago, I grabbed coffee with a guy in Whistler. First impression: Nice black mask! Sleek, industrial quality. In the year 2021, is that the basis for physical attraction? 

 

Nice dresser…just look at that mask! 

 

Gosh, I wonder what he’d look like if I got him 

out of his mask! So naughty.  

 

After grabbing our coffees, he chose for us to go for a walk instead of sitting on the patio. (It’s interesting that, on my three dates with vaccinated guys, each of them seemed even more cautious than me.) Rain was in the forecast. My phone indicated a 100% chance at that hour. Still, we walked…and stayed dry! 

 

The masks came off, without any foreplay. Nonetheless, it’s hard to get a feel for whether I was attracted to him with his heavy coat and a baseball cap that he kept on. (He wore a cap in both his profile pics, too.) 

 

Part of a first date is checking the guy out. Really, it was hard to get any impression. I wonder if my shoulder-to-knee coat left much of me cloaked in secrecy, too.

 

Each of these four outings ended with “It was nice meeting you.” (Three out of four, at least. Not sure about Jorge. We stood at a street corner with me hoping he’d stop telling me about his health condition so that he could get back home, warm up and be well.) 

 

I sent no follow-messages; I received none.

 

I’m rather certain the outcome would have been the same even if we’d taken off our coats and sat in a café, gingerly sipping lattes. These were not matches. Still, each of the four dates was shorter than my average indoor coffee date, pre-COVID. I suppose we saved ourselves at least a half hour or an hour’s time meeting in a less cozy environment. It felt less personal, more transactional. There seemed to be a timer running. There was less incentive than ever to share an extended one-off conversation with a stranger. Venturing out is possible again, but connecting continues to have its limits. 

 

The rainy season will only get rainier. The temperatures will drop. I’ve often lamented all the coffee dates I’ve had. I’ve joked that I might have to swear off caffeine. I don’t know if dating in parkas, hoodies, baseball caps and rolling sheets of Plexiglass is my thing. (Okay, no Plexiglass, but that’s probably temporary, supply shortage and all.) 

 

Maybe I can figure out a Plan B. Apparently, I could emulate Jorge and spend more time contemplating and reflecting. 

 

Plan C: If you know anyone in Vancouver that would love MORE banana bread, shoot me an email. With extra time on my hands, I suppose I could become their banana bread dealer.

SHAKING THE DUST OFF OF DATING

I’ve joked many times that I’ve met so many guys for coffee from online dating sites, that I might have to switch to tea. At what point does coffee leave such a bitter aftertaste that it can’t be sweetened by a dozen packets of sugar? (Or stevia, if that’s your thing.)

 

I’ve gone on two post-vaccination meet-and-greets with guys from Plenty of Fish. No coffee. For the first one, everything was perfectly pleasant, but I knew we weren’t a match, not as boyfriends, not as friends. 

 

On Friday evening, I met John under a strange art installation that looks to me like a bicycle seat. (Vancouver’s public art is hit and miss, mostly miss.) If nothing else, the thing offered shelter. It had poured rain all day and things hadn’t let up by 6 p.m. The plan had been to maybe grab a drink—John had suggested tea—and walk part of the seawall. What Vancouver lacks in art, it more than makes up for in natural beauty. There was a café still open right by the bike seat thingy, plenty of covered outdoor seating. John didn’t want to sit or grab a drink. Instead, we would walk in the rain. All good. I had my umbrella, my Rains jacket and my waterproof Vessa shoes. (No, I’m not getting paid for product placement.) John’s shoes were definitely not water resistant, but he said he was fine. His mother would not have been pleased but okey dokey.

 

This was a date I knew we’d both been looking forward to. Sometimes you just get a good sense of things through the messages exchanged leading up to meeting. His profile had full paragraphs. (That’s not so hard, guys. Make the effort!) He’d included a quote above his profile and said, “Bonus points if you can identify its source.” In the Google world, that seemed too easy. I felt it was more fun to go old-school and use my imagination so my guess was Grover from “Sesame Street” and, if not him, then his Muppet colleague, Animal.

 

I should mention that John’s profile also mentioned he was an elementary school teacher and one of his photos was a crayon portrait drawn by a student.

 

John LOVED my reference. Incidentally, the quote was from “Gentlemen Prefer Blondes,” a 1953 movie starring Jane Russell and Marilyn Monroe. I know I’m supposed to have seen this flick since it’s the one in which Marilyn sings “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend” that’s scene Madonna pays homage to in “Material Girl.” I’m a bad gay. Lance Bass and a drag queen named Benny Boop just came to my door and took away my Pride flag. (What? You really think Lance had anything else to do? He was very apologetic—a gig’s a gig—and politely asked that I sign the online petition for an NSYNC reunion.)

 

I figured John and I would have plenty to talk about since we’d both spent many years working in elementary schools. With the school year just starting, he would have some amusing and precious stories about the kids and I could be a sympathetic ear to listen about how exhausted he felt getting back into it. (The first month is always rewarding but also somewhat painful as the pace is so sloooow, introducing all the routines and fielding kids’ questions about whether they can use their brand-new back-to-school purple pens and glitter glue for all assignments.)

 

We walked. We talked. Both of us had our jeans soaked through from below the knee. John’s shoes reached that sad level of sogginess unbecoming to even an abandoned bowl of Cheerios.

 

Nothing connected. 

 

He’d ask a question. I’d answer. I’d ask a question. He’d answer. There were obvious follow-up questions, but neither of us went there. There was nothing terrible about it. No friction. No coldness. Altogether, it was a forty-five-minute shrug. 

 

Maybe caffeine matters.

 

I had a very nice coffee the next morning. No bitterness, no sugar added. My drink of choice remains unspoiled, my favorite cafés remain unharmed. 

 

I’m hoping that, on my next meet-and-greet, I feel something…like when I view that giant bicycle seat (or whatever it is) art piece. Feeling good would be great, but bad wouldn’t be so awful at this point. Something needs to register or why bother? 

 

Maybe some of us are rusty at the dating game after all those months masked and locked down. Maybe that long, long pause offered new perspective. Maybe we realized that dating isn’t that much of a need anymore.  

 

I just logged in again to Plenty of Fish. No message from John. (Whew. That would have been awkward.) I noticed there’s a guy with “bomber” in his profile name—um, what?—and I have a message from chase_booty (Full text: “Hello Handsom”). 

 

Yeah, lockdown wasn’t all that bad.

 

 

THE SHAKY FOUNDATION

I’ve gone on so many coffee dates. 

You’d think by now I’d switch to tea. Or vodka. 

But I still like my coffee. The dates? Not so much.

Many guys don’t call them dates. In the past, I’ve referred to them as “go-sees”, like the models who make the rounds on “America’s Next Top Model”. Show up, even though most of them aren’t going anywhere. It’s what you gotta do.

So, yeah, another coffee interaction a few days ago. For some reason, I woke up feeling exhausted and especially anxious. Part of it, no doubt, had to do with the fact my mouth throbbed for hours in the night. My dentist did some work recently and noted that I might have nerve damage that might require a root canal. I don’t like the sound of that. Particularly because, when he did the most recent dental procedure, the freezing didn’t work. Well, it froze my lip but not much else. I squirmed and flopped about like a fish on the deck of a boat. I’m pretending my teeth are fine, eating on one side of my mouth, hoping the pain will get bored and go away. Because that’s how dentistry works, right?

Okay, I’ve meandered from the main topic. The coffee date. It’s sad when a possible root canal is more exciting. As I was saying, I woke up with high anxiety. Possible root canal and coffee go-see notwithstanding, I’ve been experiencing lots of anxiety in recent months. It ambushes me and sweeps over me every time. 

I still had three hours before meeting Mick. I tried to fall back asleep. Not a chance. I got up, showered and walked to the store to get The New York Times. Figured a few articles about how messed up things are with U.S. politics would settle me. (Ha! And I think I’ve got it bad!)Alas, I mainly read headlines and flipped pages. I could have just done that with USA Today. 

I scrubbed the tub. And the toilet. Swept, mopped, checked the expiry dates on the items in the back of my refrigerator. (Sorry, red pepper hummus.) 

Still anxious. I thought of canceling, but I didn’t want to be a flake. I checked online, hoping he’d flake first. Nothing. I mindlessly surfed the web. (Yes, sometimes Facebook has a purpose.) I changed clothes three times. Anxiety produces pit stains.

Now let me clarify, there was nothing about Mick’s profile that had me in some state of heightened expectations. There was no he-could-be-The-One spark toying with my brain. A guy. A coffee. Go. See. Go home. Nothing to be anxious about. But still anxious.

I arrived a little early, with The New York Times in hand. Figured I could give reading another try. I had already browsed any and every possible site and app on my phone. As I read about Wimbledon, a body slid into the seat across from me. I looked up.

“Mick?”

Yep. The nod said so, even if the face and body didn’t. Dammit. I blogged about this last month. The mathematical deceivers. He was at least a dozen years older than what he stated on his profile. The photos? Well, I don’t even know if they were of him. Not from this decade, maybe not from this century.

Normally on these coffee “dates”—yeah, now I really need to throw quotes around the word—I can have a pleasant enough conversation with a guy, even if it’s clear from the start that we’re not a match. Be civil, maybe even enjoy meeting someone before we wish one another a pleasant life. It often goes on for forty-five minutes to an hour and before the best wishes, take care and all that.

I couldn’t do it this time. I was peeved. I’d gotten all anxious for this?! He’d misrepresented himself. Lied! Pinocchio! Pants on fire! When he said he needed to re-park the car in a free parking lot instead of at a meter, I stuttered and lowered my head, unable to be frank. But it worked. “I think I’m going to go now,” he said, and he slipped away as stealthily as he’d arrived. 

Phew!

I forced myself to sip my coffee and finish reading the article. Yes, I can have my own experience at this café. I’m fine with the empty seat across from me.

But still, as I walked home, I felt like the bad guy. He was the one with the dishonest dating profile and yet I felt shallow to dismiss him so quickly. 

My anxiety skyrocketed anew and rattled me for the rest of the day to the point where my heart seemed to race, I developed a fever and got chills. Summertime and I was wrapped in a blanket whenever I wasn’t flopped out on my bed, wishing to sleep off the agitation. I tried crosswords, TV and more cleaning (there’s always more!). I cooked (but didn’t eat). I bargained with myself to go exercise, but I couldn’t leave my condo. It took almost eleven hours to calm down. (Thank you, Amy Schumer’s “Trainwreck”. You had me at, well,…the title.)

This morning, I went back on the dating site. I clicked on a few profiles. Two out of three had photos that seemed to span two decades of the guy’s life, the amount of hair decreasing as the body weight increased. What’s going on, guys? Save your “Throwback Thursday” pics for Facebook. Please, oh please, just show your current photos. From the last year or two. Keep it updated. It’ll make coffee so much more palatable.

MORE & LESS

It's still a few hours until the coffee date. Another one. Not with Brad. This is a first. There have been loads of firsts. Enough for baristas to start mocking me.

"Grande Nonfat Latte's back. The other guy keeps checking his phone. I give them eighteen minutes."

"Should've just ordered a tall."

I ought to have the conversational routine down by now. Funny anecdotes. An obscure literary reference to feign intelligence. Neck stretch warm ups to prepare for generous head nodding. But I'm always unprepared. I'm determined to be authentic. Let each conversation unfold--and unravel--on its own demerits.

There is more at stake as years pass and I continue to have coffee experiences with an indistinct aftertaste. Hints of lemon and oak and casual rejection. Time ticks. I’m 51. The wrinkles will become more prominent. The belly won’t stay tucked in forever. I’m past prime and still searching. Am I stuck in the discount bin with a pile of irregulars? The “As Is” sign sends passersby into a quick jog.

A year back in Vancouver and I’ve already worn out my welcome. Plenty of Fish has a “Meet Me” page where a stream of profiles pop up and you click Yes, No or Maybe. When I checked today, the message said, “Sorry—our Meet Me list shows you users we’ve specifically chosen for you! Sometimes, this list runs out.” This was a hunch I didn’t want confirmed.

It’s all up to this one coffee with Brad. Guy with a new pup. I’m hoping he’ll bring him. Dogs always like me. At least that’ll be something.

There’s less at stake, too. With rejection comes restraint and resignation. Any newness to dating has worn away. The nerves aren’t there either. If I get that it’s-been-nice-meeting-you vibe, I can shrug it off on the way home. I got to pat a dog. Hurrah.

There’s still time to work myself up into a positive, hopeful state. That will come on the half-hour walk to his local Starbucks. Haven’t had a first coffee at that location in ages. With all the hope I stir up, some of it will be channeled into hoping the baristas don’t recognize me. Presumably, I could confuse them and order a Grande Decaf Iced Americano instead.

A fresh start.

Maybe a different outcome.  

REBRANDING THE COFFEE DATE

I suppose it's because I've been doing it so long, this coffee dating thing, that I need to rebrand it. If I keep calling them coffee dates, the time will surely come when I will hate coffee. And I need my coffee. I love my coffee. Coffee cannot--shall not!--symbolize ambivalence, rejection and failure.

So I'm digging back to my days of watching "America's Next Top Model". No, I am not looking in front of a mirror and practicing smizing. And I am not silently sizing up my dates and thinking, "Congratulations. You are still in the running..." Instead, I am likening my dates to that episode in each season of ANTM when the models go on go-sees.

That's what these dates are. I go. I practice my strut into the café. (Really, the only thing I’m thinking is, Don’t slouch. The thought comes in my mother’s voice, not Miss J’s.) I share some of my portfolio. This is me, all happy in the job that I do. And this is me, even happier that I left Texas while my family stayed behind. And here I am, readjusting to beautiful but hard-to-connect Vancouver. I do my best to stay focused, even if lose the link between his monologue about someone named Luke’s flooded basement and the guy across the table from me losing a camera while getting in a gondola on the Grand Canal in Venice. Water! The link is water! (Though I still don’t understand why either monologue needed to be shared. Sometimes I can work through the small stuff; the bigger questions continue to confound.) I correct the frown I’m certain overtook my face. I’m rather certain I’m smiling. I second-guess myself about not practicing that smizing thing. (It’s too aggressive, I remind myself. Stick to the plan: cool and carefree.)

He stands and I realize he must’ve said something about leaving. So I stand, too. We exchange perfectly civil nice-to-meet-yous and then we’re on the sidewalk. He goes one way, I go the other, even if it means a more roundabout route home. Never prolong the dismissal. As I walk home, I’m thinking, “You are no longer in the running. You must immediately pack your bags and leave." This time it’s in Tyra’s voice. I’m just glad there are no cameras to capture the aftermath. I have no reality show rejection tears to shed, but I’m sure the camera would add ten pounds and ten years to my look.

I keep busy the rest of the day, only checking my phone and my emails a few times—a dozen at most—to see if I get a call back. Chances are slim. But it’s okay. There will be another go-see.

Maybe next time I’ll try to smize. Seems I’ve got to do something differently.

ALL TOO FAMILIAR

Sometimes you can tell from the first three seconds that this is not just a "No" date but a bad date. And sometimes a bad date can become even worse than anticipated.

I headed to Breka Cafe for the second time in as many weeks. Not a place of my choosing. The stakes in Vancouver's coffee wars are rising as upstart roasters introduce better, bolder, stronger beans. Starbucks, Blenz, Tim Hortons and, yes, this heretofore-unknown Breka are now Why Bother hubs. But Richard suggested it as a halfway point. Fine. Better than my last date there where Mr. Meet-Me-My-Way suggested it since it was across the street from his place. (These are the "normal" dates, springing from the very polite Plenty of Fish site, not hookup-minded men from my Manhunt "studies".)

As I arrived ten minutes early, I received a text from Richard, giving his location and saying he was on his way. I knew it was twenty minutes away. Simple math word problem. If Person A arrives 10 min early and Person B is 20 min away, that equals a late start. "Take your time," I texted.  My laptop was malfunctioning but I figured I could text-type some work on my phone's Notes app. There is never an excuse not to write.

The first red flag arose before Richard's entrance. He texted again to let me know he'd hopped on a bus. From two blocks away! I'd already given him a Late Pass. This smacked of desperation. "Silly man," I texted and left it at that.

When Richard arrived seconds later, he sat down and commented about how much he loved reading my profile. "You don't know it, but I learned extra things about you." O...Kay. Perhaps Richard possessed uncanny inferential skills. I tried not to be creeped out. But there was an intensity in his stare. I had to look away.

And in so doing, I spotted my previous date, Mr. Meet-Me-My-Way, entering the cafe. Yes, awkward became awkwarder. (I'm aware that's not a word; it just fits.) I tried to focus on a conversation I was ready to end. I needed Last Date to get his coffee and go. You see, I'd thought that date had been a decent one, with pleasant conversation, laughter and common interests. When we stood on the the sidewalk and I said, "Message me if you'd like to meet again", I saw that look of horror register for a nanosecond before a skilled recalibration. Oops. Not interested. Totally misread the situation. But then a full week later, Mr. Last Date messaged the equivalent to a grunt: "How was your week?"

I replied. He replied. I scratched my head and then dared to ask, "Do you want to meet again?"

And...silence. End of conversation. Never more.

But then this. And as I waited and waited to spot Last Date leaving, I saw him take a seat. Two tables away. With another guy. And, yes, it sure looked like another first date.

So I had no choice. I guzzled the latte I'd been gently sipping and announced to Richard--still staring ever so intently--that I needed to head out and get on with the errands of the day.  As Richard and I exited, I made sure not to catch Last Date's eye. And for the umpteenth time, I wondered why I even bother with any of this. My dating history is an endless series of mismatches.

At least I got my errands done early.

KEEPING MY OPTIONS OPEN

Last I'd written about dating, well, I wasn't really dating at all. I was hooking up, only hooking up felt a lot like dating. Here, I try to settle in and figure out how to hook up properly.

When a relationship is undefined--does an encore hookup constitute any kind of relationship?--it is best to keep one's options open. And so after two dates/hookups with Clive, I continued to "cruise" the Manhunt website.

I must admit, I found the site fascinating. Look at all these men! Or, at least, all these select body parts of men. Patterns emerged. People didn't write about a love for walks on the beach. Really, they didn’t write much at all. They skipped all the extreme sports photos that predominated conventional dating sites. (Seriously, how can every single gay man be a bungee jumper?!) And, if someone chose a penis pic as their main profile photo, they had no facial image. (Did that sort of thing work? What if it's an imposter penis, lifted from some porn site? By the time the fraud was discovered, could you back out? I think I was overthinking, well, everything.)

I was clear with myself that I would not fall for a dick pic. But that didn't mean I couldn't swoon over a man's chest. Indeed, one such photo caught my eye. Pecs apparent but not too defined. And when I clicked to see the full profile, I ogled an image of a man reclining in a chair with a starched white shirt and black dress pants. Yowsah! I've always been a sucker for a simple business attire. Unfortunately, the photo lacked a head. (Selfies can be tricky.) I knew I should be suspicious. To be honest, the only photo that included a face didn't appeal to me, but I reminded myself that this wasn't about finding a match or playing Cupid. This was about some quick fun.

And so we exchanged some naughty messages and agreed to meet. That's when Mr. Starched Shirt got a little stuffy. The conversation veered from my-place-or-your-place to let’s meet for coffee. Fine. A café near my place. In a to-go cup, I figured.

I’ve had far too many coffee dates. I didn’t join a hookup site just to engage more awkward chitchat.  

How's it going? What do you do? Uh,…who photographed your chest?

Someone’s got to move things along.

I arrived early, as I always do. Prado Café. Ordered the pumpkin space latte, a recommendation from my physiotherapist. (You’ve got to talk about something as a guy tries to pull and twist your finger back into place.) Not the syrupy sugar-coma blast you get at Starbucks; made with actual pumpkin puree. The verdict? Yum.

And then Jerry walked in. Okay, not so yum. Nothing wrong, just not my type. Had the clean-cut look of an Oklahoma preacher. Unfortunately, I don’t have any creepy clergy fantasies. After hello, he got in line to order. It gave me (too much) time to sit and think. What now? This was supposed to be a hookup. Can you back out? And how?

I decided stop questioning things. Isn’t that why I’m a single man? Hadn’t I passed on perfectly decent men? And this wasn’t ever going to be a relationship, right? Wasn’t this about keeping busy before Clive deliberated and realized he wants a real relationship?

Ahem,…stop questioning!

And so Jerry sat down and we fell right into that comfortable discomfort of a regular coffee date. We searched for common ground. Found some. But there were too-soon pauses when we seemed to be in freefall (without even a bungee cord). This was work. I’d thought hookups were supposed to be anything but.

Twenty minutes in, Jerry abruptly called time. “Sorry, I don’t see this happening.” I knew he was right. I felt relief. But I also felt like I’d failed. I got the hook instead of the hookup. Jerry rambled something about being friends and I nodded even though I knew neither of us wanted that. And then, as I lifted our coffee mugs to load them in the dirty dishes cart, Jerry bolted. Exit, stage left. It was the first time I’d ever seen a “date” literally run away.

As I stepped onto the sidewalk, the man had vanished. I was simultaneously humored and humiliated. No-strings-attached became an emphatic no-thank-you. I tried to smile as I made an unexpected kind of Walk of Shame home. As I neared a traffic light, a woman walked alongside me. “How’s it going?” she asked.

“Fine,” I lied. I continued to walk but she kept pace.

She added, “You look good, by the way.” We shared a smile before going separate ways at the corner.

And there it was. Perfect timing. A prostitute, sure—I live in a sketchy neighborhood—but why consider the source? These were the words I needed to hear after being abruptly rejected on a hookup coffee date. He’d said no.

It's good to know she would have said yes.

For a price.

Details, details.

CONFLICTING SIGNALS

Now I’m getting dating advice from traffic signals. Everyone—everything!—has an opinion.

I pressed the knob to trigger the pedestrian WALK message and Mr. Button blurted, “Wait! Wait!” 

It was stating the obvious, but this was a traffic signal after all. In real life, we can’t expect to go deep like the electronic freeway billboard that sagely supported Steve Martin in “L.A. Story”. (I’ve tried but the electronic sign closest to me is one-track minded: BUCKLE UP. IT’S THE LAW.)

At least Mr. Button was on point. It’s true. I absolutely should wait. In two months, I’ll be back in Vancouver. There will be other single gay men. I may be interested in a few. And there’s always a chance that one might be interested in me.

It could happen. And that’s a thought I’ve never been able to reasonably think in the ten years I’ve been under rural arrest.

But I was still feeling the sting from a recent Seattle coffee date that went bust. Yeah, yeah. It should not have been a surprise. I’ve been going on these meet-and-greets for years, with no lasting luck. Seattle men, Vancouver men. It’s getting to the point where I can’t keep blaming them. I’m starting to think it must be the coffee. Yeah, that’s it. I should switch to tea.

I tried not to get too excited in anticipation of meeting Steve. Sure, his online profile was impressive, as were his messages. The guy could communicate in whole sentences, even paragraphs. Such a rare find! And, on a shallow note, his photos revealed a handsome, fit 52-year-old man—most notably in his shirtless selfie. Woof!

He did not disappoint when I met him in person. If anything, he dazzled more. I’m not a beard guy but the look suited him. And his blue eyes hooked me every time I gazed at him. Simply put, Steve was stunning. Even better, he could carry on a conversation. My profile jokes, “Save your monologues for Letterman” and he took it to heart. It was a very natural back-and-forth. I laughed and smiled without force. He made me feel completely at ease. Without a doubt, I knew this had been a great first meeting.

Early in the conversation, Steve startled me, saying I was “genetically blessed”. As we hugged and went on with our separate plans for a Sunday afternoon, he referred again to my biceps and my chest. I shrugged it off. “I’m a late bloomer. The bulk has only come in recent years.” He ogled away. Flattering, not creepy.

And yet I left and formed an adversarial relationship with a traffic signal. Something went wrong. Really, nothing.

Except for one fundamental, immutable factor. Steve had made it clear that he wanted to pursue a relationship with a local guy. In his messages, he’d mentioned passing on a man who lived but an hour away. Vancouver, with a border wait, well, it was never going to be.

Too far. And I knew this was as far as it would go. Within an hour after coffee, he sent me the crushing confirmation:

It was so nice to meet you. Sincerely, I enjoyed my conversation with you and my time. You are a beautiful man and I mean that both inside and out...nice to come across and yes, if you were in Seattle, I would definitely have gone out with you. ;-)

If.

Location, location, location. Steve is all too rational. Somehow I’d hoped. If I were somehow dazzling, he’d be border blind. Whatever happened to Anything for You? Alas, one coffee cannot dazzle, no matter how buzzed one might get.

No dazzle; just fizzle. This is a hard one to take. I’ve had many a coffee date where I thought I clicked with a guy and then he vanished. And I’ve had many more where the lack of clicking was indisputable. But here we did click. It was not a twisted figment of my imagination. It was real. It was mutual. And it was not enough.

And so, as Mr. Button advises, I must, “Wait! Wait!” Not for Steve. My visa application with U.S. Immigration will not be processed for years. Instead, I have two months to go until I move back to civilization. Maybe there’s a guy in Vancouver.

I wait because I have to. It’s already been eleven years since I’ve been in a relationship of any significance. What’s two more months? I should be accustomed to the loneliness and the complete lack of affection or intimacy. Of course, I’m not.

For now, I’ll head back home to the land of solitude. There are no pedestrian traffic buttons to offer further advice. I shall appreciate that silence at least.

And I shall spend the next day or two ruing what might have been if I lived in Seattle.

If only.

POUR ME ANOTHER COFFEE

Okay, maybe it should be tequila. Here I am, hopping on the ferry again to meet someone for coffee. (I kept things a bit cryptic with my talented but gossipy hairstylist this morning. “We have coffee in town, you know,” she said. Yes, I thought. We just don’t have the gay men.)

It has been almost four months since my last meet-and-greet over a grande dark. That one didn’t go well. It didn’t even really register. I didn’t blog about it. In truth, I suspect I was the one who blew the date, too tired after a hectic day at work, too closed in my answers to his questions, too disinterested to get him to talk about himself. Actually, it was the opposite of disinterest, but that’s how it came across. I clam up when I am really attracted to a guy. Yep, that might have something to do with me being single.

I am not sure if it is the gap in time or if it is a gut feeling that the guy I am meeting might be a quality individual, but I am feeling nervous for the first time in ages. When coffee dates were coming once or twice a month, it became routine. Did I get blasé? Not sure, but I think a little nervousness can be a good thing.