MIND THE GAP

Riding The Tube in London, I love the familiar recording, advising riders to “mind the gap” between the platform and the train. It’s as if the automated voice knows how much of a klutz I am, never mind that the message is repeated even when I’m back home on another continent. A gap can cause a stumble.

And so it goes with dating. This “mind the gap” message plays in my head whenever I have a decent first coffee with a guy and my travel or his travel creates a delay in a follow-up dinner—a real full-fledged date. It’s just as stumble-prone.

I recently had a wonderful introductory coffee with Chris, a soft-spoken, family-oriented gentleman. He showed up in a tank top—hey, it was a warm evening—and it took sustained effort on my part to maintain eye contact. His biceps could have been separately named entities: Hulk and Bulk. I managed. Barely.

I’d like to think that if he’d shown up in an extremely loose fitting turtleneck, I’d have left with the same sense—Let’s get together again. Let’s see where this goes. Yes, a fine man who just happened to have great arms. 

He liked me, too. I could hear it in the nervousness of his voice. I could see it as he was fully invested in the conversation. I could feel it as he apologized for unknowingly choosing a café far closer to his place than mine. Chris, at last, represented promise.

I’m so reserved that I had to push myself to hug him on the sidewalk as we parted. No hand wave or handshake this time. I made it clear that I’d love to see him again and he echoed the sentiment. But then I was leaving the next day for a getaway on Vancouver Island. Dinner would have to wait.

The dreaded gap.

The next day, we exchanged messages, each of us reaffirming how nice the coffee chat had been and expressing an interest in getting together again. I’d email him once I returned from Victoria and then we’d figure out what came next.

Email sent.

Silence.

Chris, like so many men, vanished. Fell through the gap. Ouch.

Of course, I’m the one who felt like he’d fallen. I brushed off the superficial wounds—okay, maybe there was some internal bleeding, too—and did what I tend to do as part of my recovery: I messaged someone new online.

Travis and I met for a drink at a trendy bar in my neighborhood that I’d been wanting to try for a couple of years. It’s always coffee on the first meeting, but I felt I needed to shake up the routine. We each ordered a fancy cocktail, a “cardigan daiquiri” for me, a “cucumber twist” for him. Tasty!

Travis is 40 while I’m 53 so I’d prepared myself for the fact this would be a go-nowhere meet-and-greet. Still wounded from Chris, I made sure my expectations barely registered. And yet Travis and I really seemed to connect. Smiles, laughter, common interests. He commented a few times on my apparent fitness and at one point I totally let my guard down and said, “I’m sorry,…I find you so attractive I’m getting a little distracted.” Truth. I figured he’d either flee instantly or he’d be flattered and not have to second-guess what I thought.

He stayed. A lot longer. When we left the bar, I walked him to his car and the sustained hug he gave me was one of the best I’ve ever had. Text message exchanges that night made it clear that both of us wanted to see each other again. 

Alas, though, another gap. Travis left the next day for Bermuda where he grew up and where much of his business is based. It’s a week. But then I’m away for almost a week thereafter. It’s likely that the gap will be more than two weeks. Despite how great I felt after our bar date, I’m all too aware that a couple of pricey cocktails and one (really, really nice) goodnight hug might be all we ever share.

Damn gap. Sorry, I can’t sound as polite as that lovely London Tube recording. If only the gap could be as inconsequential as the one in transit. For once, let this time be stumble-free!

SHAKING OFF THE FLAKES

It’s getting cold out there and apparently the forecast calls for flakes.

A good friend of mine in Vancouver asserts that gay men are flaky. I’d love to refute the claim, but it’s challenging, at least with regard to single gay men. He says it’s universal and retells a story of being in Prague and hearing a gay man on a rant about wanting to move from Transylvania. “Why?” his café companion asked.

“The gay men there. They’re all flakes.”

Gay friends in L.A. say the same thing. (Okay, some of my L.A. friends don’t say it; instead, they show clear signs of flakiness.) Same with my friend in Boise and a fellow my cousin connected me with in Ottawa.

If it’s not universal, it seems to be common enough.

Or maybe the reality is that single gay men become increasingly bitter and fail to recognize their own contribution to being chronically single, deflecting any accountability with a convenient everyone else is flaky shrug.

As for myself, I think I do a commendable job of pointing out my flaws. There are plenty of reasons for men to reject me. Even so, it does get bewildering how so many promising starts fizzle so fast. (Last weekend’s disappearing act by the guy in Seattle is the latest case in point.) The Flaky Hypothesis does seem to have some merit.

And I have to admit that it is somewhat satisfying—even vindicating—when a flake resurfaces, suddenly expressing renewed interest. In the past week, a couple of them have made their presence known. Both are guys with whom I had decent first dates. I expressed interest in another date with each of them. One shot me down—something along the “no chemistry” (aka no attraction) line of thought. The other sent me some flattering texts before he became a lovely but doomed assistant for a Houdini wannabe—vanished and never reappeared.

Michael started viewing my profile multiple times on Plenty of Fish and OkCupid. He upped his passive expression of interest on one site by starring my profile, which officially means “He Likes You.” On the other site, he clicked a “Yes” button for “Wants to Meet You.” I knew this meant one of two things: (A) I was so utterly forgettable that he fails to recall our first date from a few years ago; or (B) The fool has reconsidered after seeing a shirtless shot on my profile. When I failed to Like him back, he viewed my profile several more times before finally sending a message.

Turns out he does remember me…and my dogs..and my career…and where I live. So he doesn’t have a flaky memory. But to tell me he wasn’t interested and now change his mind? Forget it. Apparently I carry a grudge. Call it self-preservation. Call it dignity. I’ve sworn I don’t need to convince someone I’m worth it.

The second guy has been less assertive. He has just tried to Friend me on Facebook. This is a guy who was very sexy, very charming before and during our date a couple of years ago. I clearly remember the long, warm bear hug from when we said goodbye. I thought for sure there was a mutual attraction. He confirmed as much, texting about how kind, intelligent and sexy I was. And then absolutely nothing. A big tease? Maybe. A flake? Certainly. It’s easy for me to ignore Friend requests. I keep my Facebook group to family and friends with whom I go way back.

It seems I’ve weathered the flakes just fine. Now bring on the real winter weather. I’ve got my new ski outfit and I’m anxious to look forward instead of backward.

 

  

CLEAR AS MUD

Coffee can be so confusing.

The uncertainty started with the last sentence of Daniel’s message, confirming the meeting time and place:  “Looking forward to this long anticipated intercourse.”

Okay,…what?

These are not words to drop on a sexually frustrated single guy. Yeah, I get that “intercourse” can refer to a conversation, but why not choose its less provocative cousin, discourse, or something plain and simple? Chat. Talk. Hell, how about “conversation”?

Intercourse?!

I had to go through the whole manscaping routine. Just in case.

Actually, I should rewind. There was some earlier confusion as well—just not as scintillating. When Daniel suggested we correspond off match.com and use our personal emails, I had his full name right there in the email address. How could I not Google him? By golly, he even came up in Google Images. His online dating images appeared but so did a photo of an older Daniel bearing a remarkable resemblance. Still, it was the kind of older image that indicated his best days were a generation ago. Instant disappointment. Why do people post dated photos of themselves? It creates a certain letdown upon actual meeting. Aren’t there enough in-person letdowns as it is?

I refused to look again at the Google evidence. Maybe, just maybe, these were entirely different people who coincidentally had the same name, eyes and nose. After so many go-nowhere dates, I deserved a solid maybe.

A solid maybe with a possible alternate definition of intercourse.

Trekking to Vancouver for the coffee encounter, I tried to repress the nagging thought that I’d be meeting Old Daniel. I refused to brainstorm possible excuses for an early exit. As well, I tempered any notion that the impressively articulate and handsome Younger Daniel would walk in the café and be instantly smitten by me—dark rings under the eyes and all. (FYI, none of those miracle eye creams work. Still, I keep slathering them on just like I continue to make my weekly donation to the provincial lottery. Sometimes I can be hopelessly hopeful.)

Just go and see. No expectations. Be in the moment.

I arrived early so I could stake out a table and shed all the wintery layers that make me look like a rejected defensive end for the B squad of a minor college team in Lichtenstein (which I am assuming is not a football hub). Nice to shed the appearance of fifty extra pounds with a few zipper pull-downs. I pulled out my iPhone and pretended I was socially connected to gazillions of people sending me texts and tweets. In truth, I checked the weather.

Daniel walked in after I’d surveyed the present conditions in Montreal, Honolulu and Boise. (Yeah, Boise. Why not?)

Younger Daniel! Whew. He charmed me in an instant with a “hello” that revealed his Scottish accent remained intact despite having moved to Vancouver twenty years ago. I wonder if my Canadian accent would be as alluring if I moved to the United Kingdom. I suppose it would be trying too hard if I moved there and packed four “eh”s into every sentence.

Over the next three hours—which included a walk along the Stanley Park seawall—we connected, at least from my perspective. Lots in common in terms of experiences and ways of viewing the world. Still, as I have learned from so many coffees that failed to lead to a second date, a lively chitchat means diddly squat if there is no physical connection. I found Daniel attractive with his slim build and enticing blue eyes, but what did he think of me?

I decided to be bold. Why sit around a day waiting for an email and blaming the lack of any message on what must surely be an overzealous spam filter? Why let confusion linger?

I put it out there. “I’ve enjoyed this afternoon. I find the physical attraction hard to come by, but I feel that with you. Do you have any interest in another date?”

Perhaps I caught him off guard. Daniel gave the desired response—or some semblance of it: “I’d like to get to know you more.” And then the conversation died. Suddenly, the wintery air felt even cooler. (Oh, to be in Honolulu!) Daniel walked me halfway to my car, then escaped up a side street.

End of intercourse.

What happened? In a flash, everything became clear as mud. Sure, it was sludge dredged up from a charming, wee loch, but mud is mud.

Boldness is overrated. As it turns out, being meek and left to check email forty times the day after isn’t such a bad thing after all.

While writing this, I received a text message from Daniel. While the last pre-date message referred to some “long anticipated intercourse” this one veered down a much different path, ending with “Hope your week goes well, my friend.”

Ouch.

No more mud. Add clarity to the overrated heap as well.