WORTH ANOTHER LOOK

Okay, so in my last post I devoted a thousand (plus) words to an encounter that consisted of four glances. Total glance time: 10, maybe 11 seconds. Total time, including moments of stunned ineptitude between said glances: 45, maybe 50 seconds.

 

It was actually 1,380 words. (That’s 27.6 words per second. Must edit better.)

 

Sorry. Maybe the past ten months saying I needed no one and professing to love being single without any possible prospects bore too much bluster. I still don’t think so. I like time on my own. What I’ve learned during various incarnations of lockdown is I miss travel. Men? Meh.

 

But if opportunity knocks…

 

Handsome Man Walking Dog notices me and suddenly I’ve entered Hallmark movie territory. Apologies to Luke Macfarlane as I may have taken one of his roles. (It’s a “sorry, not sorry” from one Canadian to another. How have I missed all eight of adorable Luke’s Hallmark movie appearances?) I decided it was worth considering another glance-fest, maybe even a daring exchange of hellos. (“Hi” sounds more casual, right? “Hey” is too casual, verging on coffee barista indifference.)

 

Over the next week I went back. Same place, same time. Not every day. That would be desperate. (I skipped Monday.) I can’t be sure, but I think he was there every time. I can’t be sure since he now had an extra dog and he didn’t look as good. Do I have that fickle gay gene? 

 

I reminded myself that there were no suitors waiting in the wings. Heck, there are no wings. They got repurposed after lack of use. 

 

My first day back, I was back to my old self. No confidence. Eyes on the pavement, avoiding the cracks that might break my mother’s back. Noble, right? (That should be rewarded.) If he looked, I wouldn’t know. Still, he could’ve approached, said something about the weather, COVID or Meghan and Harry. They’re the standard chitchat topics these days. Clearly, he couldn’t make a choice. I may have made him nervous. He walked on. 

 

The next day, I dared to look. It was the quickest of glances, but long enough for me to see him looking straight ahead, my image registering no more than a one of the dozens of trees in the park. As the days went on, I lengthened my gaze. It’s less gutsy when you know it’s perfectly safe. Still, I focused on the task before me.

 

No doubt, my look remained a work-in-progress. It wasn’t anything in the realm of “Come hither,” but it was a very clear “I see you.” And yet he didn’t see me. 

 

Maybe he’s the one with the fickle gene.

 

Then, it happened. He scowled. It wasn’t directly at me, but I was definitely in range. Message received. Even if it wasn’t intended for me, why would I want to date a random scowler? If he scowls for no reason, what would he do if I put the orange juice carton back with only a few drip-drops left? What if he found a hair of mine in the bathroom sink? What if I didn’t smell Irish Spring-fresh after a run? (These things have been known to happen.) 

 

Bullet dodged.

 

Anything gained? I’ll always have that fifty seconds of four over-the-shoulder glances. The fact he turned out to be The Scowler can’t negate that. So many possibilities never lead to anything. There’s also the chance that The Scowler with Two Dogs is just a case of mistaken identity, that my Handsome Man Walking Dog really and truly only has one dog and is still out there, Fido’s pee schedule too irregular for me to expect such an easy, Hallmark-approved Scene 2. “And cut. Can someone’s get Luke Macfarlane’s agent on the line?” 

 

Wasn’t meant to be. 

 

Doesn’t matter. For a moment, I felt noticed. I extended that moment into a week of what ifs and, dare I say, hope. (Bonus: I blogged that week in half as many words.) That’s enough.

 

 

LOOKING OVER MY SHOULDER

I’ve noticed a shift when I’m out and about, doing my daily walks, runs and bike rides. I’m noticing men again. I suppose I never really stopped noticing them, but there was an extended period time when they mainly registered in a recently renovated part of my brain. (I never used the old frontal scrapbooking space anyway.) Thoughts about men had moved to the COVID police lobe. 

 

That guy isn’t giving me space as he walks toward me on the sidewalk. 

 

Is the dude behind me too close? 

 

Why isn’t that man’s mask covering his nose?! 

 

Brain overload. I may have had an overly active survival instinct or maybe it was just a mutation of my ever-present need to control my environment. Men represented danger, but then, just to make it clear I’m not sexist, so did women, people who are gender-fluid and maybe the occasional statue. Deep into a pandemic, I was anti-bodies.

 

Think I’ve (mostly) worked my way through that. Now it’s back to seeing men as humans, some of them aesthetically pleasing to this gay guy’s eyes, some of them possibly even being gay. (My gaydar has always had reliability issues. Now it’s rusty and further hindered by mask coverings. It’s as if everyone’s being coy with me.) 

 

Possibilities? Nah. Pre-COVID, it wasn’t like I ever caught other men glancing back at me with that Hey-he’s-aesthetically-pleasing-and-possibly-gay-like-me kind of look. There was a brief window of time for a few months before I turned fifty when that kind of thing may have happened, but never ever at any other point in my life. Most certainly not after I hit the half-century milestone. Hello, pasture. Let me graze on hay and the occasional sugar cube.

 

Today, a man looked my way. I contacted a skywriter to assist with the big announcement, but his fee was astronomical. (If I’d said “sky-high” it would have been too on the nose, yes?)

 

SPOILER ALERT: Don’t get your hopes up, dear reader. This isn’t going to lead to anything.

 

Vancouver is enjoying a string of days of sunshine, with temperatures getting warmer each day. We’re in that weird spot in the calendar year where some people step outside in shorts and t-shirts while others continue to wear puffy winter coats and gloves although I think many in the latter group do so out after establishing a months-long habit, much like I see people carrying umbrellas on days with no chance of rain in the forecast. They’re locked in with, This is my outdoor look. Change is hard. I wore jeans and a sleek, form-fitting navy sweatshirt with a thin horizontal ribbon of hunter green across the chest. It’s the kind of understated, clean garment I see a lot in Stockholm; indeed, I bought it at a trendy men’s boutique in the city’s hip Södermalm neighborhood during my most recent visit. (I just Googled the tag to learn it’s a German label.) The item comforts me, reminding me of my geographical happy place, while also giving me the cool confidence of a faux Swede in North America. 

 

I loaded my backpack with my laptop and headed out for a midday walk to do some errands and to do some writing outdoors, a rare treat I’ve only done a couple of times in this year (plus) of lockdown. Between errands, I stopped in a favorite café, ordered my go-to drink, an oat milk latte which I first “discovered” in, yes, Stockholm several years ago during my first visit. (I was an oat milk convert before it became a thing in North America.) Drink in hand, I walked two blocks to a waterside park, sat on a shaded bench and fit in a half hour of writing, a decent chunk of time given that it had been a while writing in a different venue than my windowless home office/recycling nook. (I'm so glad Zoom isn’t part of my life. Eyes off my sad space, people!)

 

As I packed up and began to walk out of the park, I spotted a nice-looking man about my age walking a small dog on the sidewalk across the street. Our eyes met. Normally, such a moment prompts me to do a lower my head and conduct a safety check. Are my shoelaces securely tied? Could that knot be a little tighter? But, on this occasion, I didn’t look away and neither did he. In fact, I got the distinct feeling my presence startled and pleased him, much like his pooch might respond upon seeing an approaching Pomeranian. (Ghastly breed, but then dogs aren’t very discerning.) In all, the look may have lasted two seconds, but that’s a long time to hold a gaze on someone, enough time to feel one’s personal space has been invaded. Naturally, I came to my senses and looked away. My double-knotted shoelaces were indeed securely intact. 

 

History proves that I am a complete failure in executing The Second Look. On that rare occasion when I attempt such a move, degree of difficulty 4.8[1], it’s a belly flop. My timing is all off. I wait until it’s safe. I don’t turn around until I feel certain that the moment has passed. It’s absolutely counterproductive. But I like feeling safe. I turn and, sure enough, the guy is a full block away, looking forward, getting on with the ordinary thoughts of his day. Did he turn back moments earlier? I’ll never know. Yeah, safety kinda sucks.

 

This time was different. Maybe it was my swanky sweatshirt. Maybe it was a radical move, brought on by months of being cooped up. Maybe the past ten months being dateless produced temporary amnesia regarding the sting of dismissive rejection. Whatever the reason, I pivoted my head slightly—subtly?—and glanced back. 

 

By god, he was doing the same thing.

 

No way. This was too much. I felt embarrassed. Caught! I quickly came to my senses and looked forward. Safety again. I wouldn’t want to risk walking into a tree. Again, a counterproductive stance. Come on, man. What are you doing? You looked and he looked. Somewhere pigs were taking flight. (Hopefully from a factory farm. Fly, Porky, fly!)

 

Doing something daring once—this was like parachute jumping for me—feels less so if you do it again immediately thereafter. I turned back again. Alas, all I saw was the back of his head. But then…he looked back again, directly at me.

 

A bit thrilling, but I panicked and pulled the parachute, looking forward. 

 

Another jump—er, look. Same from his end.

 

Um…now what?

 

I didn’t have a clue. Another mutual glance occurred before I looked forward again in case some prankster tree had snuck up on me. I walked on, a building now blocking any possible view of Handsome Man Walking Dog. Whew! That was quite a ride. A little “Weee!” in my day. Time to hit the grocery store. (Oat milk on sale!) 

 

Perhaps I blew an opportunity. Somehow, I was supposed to make something out of that exchange. How? I need a dating tutor. Maybe I should start with Flirting 101 or enrol in a campy retro course: Cruising for Love. (My luck, it would be all about Captain Stubing and “The Love Boat.” Incidentally, did Lauren Tewes ever get back on track? Must Google.)

 

A quick reflection two blocks away told me the dog was the conversation starter. Duh. Apparently, I can’t think and execute over-the-shoulder glances at the same time. Still, it would have looked odd, the two us of walking on separate sidewalks, heading in different directions and me suddenly changing course, feigning an urgent need to shake a Yorkie’s paw. Too obvious. 

 

Sigh. Sometimes obvious IS the objective! It’s good to know I’m fifty-six and I still have things to learn. I just wish it was something else—baking bread or top five metropolitan areas in Siberia. 

 

Heading home, canvas bag of groceries in hand, I’d already worked past feeling incredulous over my ineptitude. I was smiling, the day felt a little brighter. I’d been acknowledged. Ain’t that something.   

---

[1] This, according to a 2017 answer to a query on technologyreview.com, is currently the highest degree of difficulty for any existing dive thus far attempted in competition, a reverse 4 ½ somersault in the pike position. Truly comparable.

IN THE BLIND SPOT

I learned early. Don’t stare, it’s rude. I was probably four or five and I’m sure I wasn’t actually looking at a person. Just the ice cream cone they held while my mother gripped my hand. For decades I followed established social etiquette. It was easy. I was far more challenged by occasions in which eye contact was required.

When I first started going to gay bars in West Hollywood—it was the only place to meet back then—I mastered totally ineffective cruising techniques. I had a knack for stealing sneak peeks when I sensed a guy I was interested in was looking away. Of course, it got me nothing. I’d often heard of people meeting while passing on the sidewalk, both men looking back at the same time. I liked the idea of that but my shyness made the maneuver feel too risky. Good god, if our eyes met, then what?! I’d pass a guy after leaving the clubs and wait ten seconds before going through the motions and looking back when I knew full well that any possible moment had safely passed. Then I’d drive home alone, bemoaning the fact I couldn’t meet a guy.

But that was then.

I stare all the time now. Ice cream remains an attention grabber but I stare at people too. Men.

I tested it out this fall while I spent close to a month in Stockholm. I figured I was in a different country and Swedes were known for being non-confrontational. Besides, I was spellbound by what seemed to be a clean Swedish look: well-coiffed hair, combed back and parted on the side, and classic, understated clothing, every garment warming a closet hanger for six months at most. I told myself my watchful eye was about picking up a few style tips.

At least that’s how it started. Quick looks and then that necessary look away. But then I dared to gaze a fraction of a second longer, then an entire second. No one glared. At first, I attributed it to consummate politeness—on their part, not mine.

And then it became a game. While still intent on picking up a sense of Swedish style, I wanted to be caught staring. I wanted there to be a silent exchange: I see you looking at me. It wasn’t long before the experiment stopped being fun. The sense of daring evaporated. Reality set in. I had an epiphany. It came while having fika, a sort of afternoon coffee and cinnamon bun break, but with a sense of something more—the fact that I don’t know what that “something more” is only proves I’m no Swede. What I got out of fika was utter amazement that all these people could indulge in sugary pastries on a daily basis and be markedly slimmer as a society than Canadians and Americans. But that’s not the epiphany (although I too lost weight while wholly embracing fika. Maybe it’s just something in the northern air). As I sipped my oat milk latte and noshed on a cardamom bun, a close cousin to the beloved Swedish cinnamon bun, I looked at the good-looking man at the table across from me for more than a couple of seconds. I did it again and again, extending my gaze to five, then ten seconds. As fika is not a rushed thing, I got a lot of looks in. Yep, that blond hair was natural. That sweater was navy, not black as I’d initially thought. How did he get that tiny sliver of a scar on his chin?

Thinking that perhaps my eyes had fallen on one particularly oblivious (or focused) blond Swede, I picked a new target at fika the next afternoon. Brown hair, neatly groomed beard, lovely smile, thick wool navy sweater. (Sweden seemed to be having a navy moment.) This forty-something chap chatted with two women as an open notebook balanced in his lap, never once written in. Empty dessert plates and coffee mugs filled the small round table between them. As luck would have it, I had a head-on view of him. I noshed on my blueberry bun—a lovely variant on the cinnamon bun that I only found at this particular spot—as the cursor on my open laptop blinked in place for twenty minutes. I took in the bustle of the bakery but mostly I studied him, creating a story of his life and daydreaming about how I would fit into it. He looked up several times, his gaze in my direction, but not once did he notice me noticing him. I simply did not exist.

By the time I’d finished the trip, my Swedish experiment had been thoroughly tested, leading to one solid conclusion: as an aging gay guy, I can stare all I want.

I repeated the experiment in Seattle and several times in Vancouver. Cafes, the gym, the art gallery. Always the same result. My looks don’t register.

I’m not sure it’s in my repertoire, but I could ogle if I wanted to. Leer even. I could cast my squinty-eyed approximation of conveying lust and it wouldn’t even cause someone to say, “Excuse me, sir. Do you have something in your eye?”

There’s nothing exhilarating about this newfound freedom. There is a sense of loss instead of a gain. Before, when casting my eyes upon someone, there was always a bit of a thrill. Would I get caught? In a flash, I could mold my stare into a look of pensiveness, a writer with an open laptop, searching the air for a precise word or phrase. Better yet, would the guy return my gaze? There was always the possibility, however remote, that that single daring peep would lead to a conversation, a date and then somewhere down the line a ceremony along with a blurb in the Vows section of the New York Times, including the statement, “The two met in 2019 while sitting at neighboring tables at a cafe in Vancouver.”

That just spilled out of me. Total randomness. It’s not like I’ve ever thought of such a thing.

Now, with unchecked staring privileges, it’s clear that will never happen. I don’t rejoice in realizing I’ve become the human equivalent to the color beige. Present, at least in a technical sense.

Alas, gone are the days of an interventionist admonishing me: “Don’t stare!” Society has come up with a colder approach: Just ignore it and it will go away.

Well played, guys,...well played. I think this is about the time when I’m supposed to make the transition to sandals with knee-high brown socks, all-weather shorts that ride up above my navel and sweatshirts with permanent stains (mustard?). It’s freedom, yes, but it does come with a price.

HAS THE LINE MOVED?

Never thought Kevin Spacey coming out would have people talking. But, from what I’m seeing online, there is some division on sideline sentencing and whether there is any guilt at all.

I don’t think anyone can convince me that he didn’t cross the line in making the moves on a fourteen-year-old actor. Some people offer the vague defense that many minors go to bars and lie about their age. Not the case here. Spacey knew Anthony Rapp and he knew the guy was a boy. It wasn’t at a bar; it was at Spacey’s space. Could alcohol have played a role? Sure. I just don’t know how drunk you have to be to think it’s okay to come on to someone who is fourteen.

The bigger debate centers around those gay bars between men, not minors. One man says he was groped by Spacey at a bar and suffered Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome as a result. That’s where many seem to side with #TeamSpacey. Some say the other guy must have been homophobic to have such a strong, lingering reaction. Others say groping is a normal act in gay bars. There is no history of gays asserting power over gays, like the advantage men have had over women. Men can be cavemen and, without a woman in the mix, one can expect caveman actions. There’s never been a social check to tell gay men that groping is not okay in a gay environment like gay bars.

I was offended the first times I was groped. What just happened?! Often, the contact came on a crowded dance floor or as a friend and I circulated through the swarms of men packed into a West Hollywood club at midnight on a Saturday night. It was like that grade school “prank” where someone taps you on the shoulder, you turn around and no one claims responsibility. It would happen over and over as classmates laughed. Annoying until you figured out who did it. Then you laughed along with the group, relieved to finally be in on the joke.

In the crowded gay bar, anonymous groping happened. One friend or another would say, “I just got my ass grabbed.” Depending on the groper and or the gropee, the reaction was “Ewwww” or “Congratulations!”

I was always incensed. To be sure, I wanted to be noticed. I wanted a boyfriend and, in the late ‘80s/early ‘90s, the gay bar seemed like the best option. (Seems sad when I type that.) An ex of mine in L.A. said I had a perpetual deer-in-the-headlights look to everything. And he meant everything, gay or otherwise. Like I was some country bumpkin when I was actually a nice, naïve Canadian boy who happened upon Los Angeles by way of Texas. (It stunned me that everything about that self-description was considered a turnoff to most guys I met.)

For the record, I never took my shirt off in a gay bar either.

Part shyness, part body image issue, part common sense.

As long as I didn’t share anything about myself, I remained grope-worthy, at least to a few. Some weren’t even all that drunk. I never suffered PTSD. Groping was part of the gay bar ambience, along with all that smoke that seeped into my clothes, skin and lungs. The fact I found groping offensive made me feel like a bad gay. If it was someone I wasn’t into which was almost always the case—friends said I was too picky (Uh,…thanks?)—the grope was too forward, too creepy. On the rare occasion, I thought the guy was hot, the act left me confused. Is that like a bad pickup line? What am I supposed to do now? Grope back? Why couldn’t he have just said hi?

“You just need to get laid,” a peripheral friend would say. But then he’d disappear for the rest of the night to,…you know.

To be sure, I wanted to be noticed. I wanted a boyfriend and, in the late ‘80s/early ‘90s, the gay bar seemed like the best option. (Seems sad when I type it.)

“You can’t be so sensitive,” a closer friend said. “And don’t you think he’s kinda cute?”

Miss you, Mary.

The answer was usually “No” and occasionally “Not anymore.” And then ten or fifteen minutes later, I’d say goodbye to whoever was still present in my little group of barflies, walk back alone to my parking spot, closer to The Beverly Center than the bars, and drive home, wondering, What’s wrong with me? Is this what gay is all about? Wasn’t the theme from the “The Mary Tyler Moore Show” supposed to be my song? What if I don’t make it after all? (Maybe I should’ve been more literal with my inspiration and followed Mary Richards to Minneapolis.)

My indignation made me a fuddy-duddy. I was out but still an outsider. Frequently I’d ask, “Is this all there is?” although I learned to keep the question in my head after the fuddy-duddy label. (I gave it to myself. People would just hear me rant, put their drink down and say, “Yeah, I think I’m going to check out the scene at Micky’s.”)

Basically, the feedback I got—expressly or otherwise—was that groping was just part of the gay bar scene. It’s what gays do along with drinking too much, taking Ecstasy and staring at the crotches of go-go boys. Too much real conversation was overrated, a buzz killer.

I revisited L.A. a few months before I turned fifty (I’m still pretending that was just yesterday) and some of the same friends and I found ourselves back in the same West Hollywood Clubs. There was a déjà-vu as the peripheral friend dumped us within the first forty-five minutes, leaving with a muscled twenty-something as though nothing had changed. At Rage, we danced and I got groped by a sexy man two decades younger than me. Instead of outrage, I was flattered, a sad reaction to what I’d always shunned. I knew all too well that I’d reached pasture-grazing status in the gay world. I didn’t have a beach home in Huntington Beach or drive a Mercedes or have personal trainer sessions three times a week like my ageless, never-worked-a-day-in-his-life peripheral friend. This ass grab made me feel noticed and younger. The guy didn’t even flee the bar when I turned and he saw my face in the admittedly dim lighting. Later, my group drifted to Revolver and yet again I got groped by another attractive younger guy. Still no indignation. Still flattered. I was a hypocrite. I was that desperate to feel young again, to feel looked at—even with a leer—instead of being looked past.

Maybe it is time for a new etiquette in what few gay bars remain. Before my time, I’d heard about sex in dark corners and backrooms but, at least to my knowledge, those things were the lore of an earlier generation. And, thankfully, I never had to figure out the colored hanky codes. We’ve done away with smoking in clubs. Perhaps it’s time for kamikaze groping to be retired, too. Should be easy to do away with. Anyone who wants random contact can hookup online or at some outdoor site that’s widely talked about on other internet sites. Maybe the clubs can turn up the lights a notch and people can actually get to know one another through sustained conversation. If we go retro, let us “Vogue” without that extra hand movement. Can we stop the anonymous groping in bars or is this still the wishful thinking of a (hypocritical) old fogy?

TAKING A BITE OF THE FORBIDDEN BIG APPLE

I hear the stories. Gay guy goes on vacation, imbibes in a margarita or four, hooks up with a hot local guy and returns home with a scandalous story to tell for the next week.

How Steven got his groove back.

Apparently the chances are good. Barflies get tired of the same filler material. They keep their eyes open, waiting for the first “Say, you’re not from around here” guy to walk in the club. Well, maybe not the first. It takes a while for their own liquid relaxants to kick in.

New guy + barfly. It’s a potent combination. Two men with low/no expectations. One night. Maybe just one hour. It’s practically anonymous. Go in with a new name, the one you wish your parents had given you. Remember when “Dick” was acceptable? Try it on if you can say it with a straight face. If not, there are other studly names. Dirk. Gunnar. Just not Rolfe. (He turned out bad in “The Sound of Music”.)

Go wild. What happens in Vegas and all that. So what if your holiday is in Acapulco. Or Cleveland. Conjure up your own Vegas state of mind.

And, yes, I could stand to have a Vegas moment. I’m in New York City and there are so many attractive men. Men with a fashion sense. Men who clearly seem to be gay. Especially when I’m spending all my time in art galleries and in line for Broadway shows. Of course, the boys of Broadway march two by two. I wind up eavesdropping on two old Jewish women in front of me as they kvetch about all the stars of “Glee”. (They catch me nodding as one of them says Jonathan Groff and Darren Criss make a cuter couple than Kurt and Blaine.)

On my third night in Manhattan, I should be going to a gay bar. Perhaps even a bathhouse if I don’t feel like margaritas. But I get bored looking up gay bars on Yelp. I dash out with the clear intention of picking up Steve. I cruise the aisles of Whole Foods on 7^th Avenue until I spot him: a pint of Steve’s Mexican Chili Chocolate ice cream, the perfect way to end the night after a Broadway show. Yes, that’s the kind of Steve from Brooklyn that truly whets my appetite. I'm thinking I'd love another go at Steve. He’s my sure thing.

On my final day, I decide to walk through Greenwich Village and to check out the Stonewall Inn. For a Saturday afternoon, the streets seem quiet. I don’t get any sense of a Bohemian culture. Neither do I get a sense that this is a gay area. The Stonewall Inn appears to be a teeny establishment, a big surprise since everything in Manhattan seems so big. I had told myself I’d pop in for a beer but I see no one coming or going and, frankly, I have no desire for any kind of alcohol. I move on, stopping for a moment to gaze at a subpar all-white sculpture to commemorate the Stonewall Riots. The historical milestone deserves better.

If I’m going to stumble on a fling or at least a moment of flirtation, I figure my best chances are just off Christopher Street. I stroll into Big Gay Ice Cream.

Yes, this is my kind of cruising bar.

But, alas, the stereotypes must be true. Gays don’t do ice cream. Not in broad daylight, at least. There are twenty people in the shop. All families and straight couples. I no longer feel inspired to order the Bea Arthur. The camp factor would be fruitless. I settle on the Pumpkin Gobbler instead. I get it to-go.

Two days in a row of self-soothing with ice cream. I’m definitely staying in tonight. And I’ll be doing penance when I get back home—longer jogs, harder swims, heavier weights. It’s not the kind of penance I’d hoped for.