WHEN HE WON’T TAKE OBLIVIOUS FOR AN ANSWER

I’d recently written here and here about my puzzlement over a budding friendship with a guy who lives in my building whom I run into often at the gym on the first floor. He’s married to a woman whom he introduced me to a few months ago when we ran into each other on the street, an odd moment seeing each other out of the regular setting, maskless even. A quick hello, a hasty getaway on my part. Chitchat is not my strength. 

 

Damien is a likable guy and we’ve got some things in common so I always said “sure” when he suggested we go for a walk sometime. Still, I’d had some weird vibes, as though Damien might be interested in me. Silly thinking, I kept telling myself. I’m that sort of Guy Next Door who oozes niceness, albeit awkwardly, but doesn’t register to people in a possibly sexualized, I’m-Into-You way. In the past, I’ve wished otherwise, but I have to assume some kids keep fishing out my tossed fountain coins before the aqua-genies can make things happen. (It’s only one of the reasons I’ve gone cashless.) When we finally set up a time to go on that walk, I thought, whew, he’s not gay. After all, most gays I’ve known don’t follow through. At the very least, they’re never on time. He showed up on the dot. 

 

So, it was clear. Not gay. Proceed to possible friendship…with caution, of course, as my chitchat challenges could flub it up. And yet, throughout the walk, he kept dropping gay-leaning hints…a guy’s abs, his love of musical theater, comments over my fitness.

 

Okay, then maybe Damien’s bisexual. I don’t have any bisexual friends. It’s very possible that a bisexual man and a gay man can be just friends, especially when the bi guy is married, right? Even if there was any other sort of interest, I doused them when I explained that my fitness was rooted in an eating disorder. Not sexy. 

 

I know how to repel men; I just don’t know how to attract them. 

 

Since then, I’ve put off Damien’s suggestions we go for another walk or grab coffee. A month has passed. I’ve seen him in the gym a couple of times, but he can’t talk much on the StairMaster and I do my best to look especially focused on chest presses. I maintain that grunting is uncouth, but I can conjure one up the equivalent in one of those cartoon thought bubbles above my head. Damien texts now and then. I never initiate, but I was raised with enough social skills to know that a reply is in order. Keep things cool. Let that bi-gay friendship emerge slowly. 

 

Our second walk is on Friday and I’m concerned based on Damien’s recent texts. I keep telling myself it’s nothing, that I have no grounds for intuiting anything suggestive, but Damien seems intent on breaking down my act at being oblivious. 

 

FIRST RED FLAG: "Hey there. How’s life? We will find some time for that coffee. Gabi goes to Toronto on September 2 for a week."

 

Okay, nothing, right? Coffee when the wife is out of town is just because the guy’s got more free time. Nothing else at play. It’s fine.

 

SECOND RED FLAG: "Hey sweet friend. I have Friday off. You free for some coffee and conversation?"

 

No doubt, guys say “sweet friend” all the time to other guys. Good riddance, “Bro” and “dude.” The only reason I’m not familiar with it as a regular practice is because I’m not up on regular social exchanges between platonic male relationships, especially in platonic bi-gay friendships. It’s just Damien’s way of saying, Thank god we can drop that machismo shit. Should I be flattered (and perplexed) that he thought I had any machismo to drop in the first place? Maybe it’s from not shaving as much during COVID.

 

He’d suggested meeting for coffee and I replied my schedule was open.

 

THIRD RED FLAG: "Looking forward always. I am wide open too. Sans spouse."

 

Um, still okay. I guess. Must not read anything into the “wide open” remark or the reminder that his coffee will be away. Happy couples often look forward to a bit of space. Absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that.

 

I ran into Damien in the gym yesterday. It wasn’t my regular time, but I had to fit in a workout before some dental surgery. 

 

FOURTH RED FLAG: "Happy thoughts with your laughing gas. Let me know if you need anything at all. Heal fast. Bjs."

 

Um…

 

What do I make of the last three letters? Did his phone fail to autocorrect “bye”? The j and y keys are awfully close together. Same for s and e.

 

I Googled “what does bjs mean,” and it turns out there are other possibilities. Sure, I had to scroll down quite a bit, but I found them. Could be the Bureau of Justice Statistics which is the primary source of criminal justice stats in the U.S. Hmm, possible. Could be Beaux Jardins du Soleil, located in what Wikipedia says is a commune in southwestern France, admittedly a random reference, but perhaps Damien was watching a documentary on YouTube. Other plausible options: basic job skills, British Journal of Surgery, a videogame called Battle Just Started, the Beloit Janesville Symphony (established 1954) or the code for an airport in Beijing.

 

Okay then, Damien likes a symphony in Wisconsin. There is so much to learn in the early stages of a friendship.  

 

If “Bjs” meant something sexual, it would have fit better before “Heal fast,” right? Maybe “bjs” means something else. Maybe Damien’s into K-pop and mistyped BTS, even if I can’t figure out why he’d end a text with an announcement about musical fandom. I replied with, “Everything went well, thanks. Glad it’s over.” Should I have tacked on “abba”? Maybe “sarabareilles”?

 

Good god, life taunts me. Social situations with people I don’t know well are awkward enough. I don’t need them spiked with additionally awkward elements. I’m bracing for a possible Friday morning text in which he says, “Hey, I just brewed a fresh pot of coffee. Come on down.”

 

No, no. I’m way past the days of someone saying, “Wanna come in for a drink?” Okay, the only time I ever heard that was while watching TV but, jeez, I’ve spent my entire life being cast as the harmless Guy Next Door with the genitalia of a department store mannequin. For once, let me land the role when I actually want it. This is one week when I don’t think I’ll be saying TGIF. 

 

 

 

PLEASE DON'T LIKE ME (Part Two)

In my prior post, I wrote about Damien, a resident in the building I’ve been living in since the start of the pandemic. We run into each other often at the small gym on the ground floor and, despite the fact he has a wife, I’ve gotten strange vibes he might be into me.

 

 

Damien mentioned we should go for a walk sometime. That made me somewhat apprehensive. What if he actually meant it? How could I sustain more than just three-minute chunks of chatter, especially after having not met anyone new since COVID came around? What if there was something to that still-nagging sense that maybe he was interested in me? I went out of town for a week, in part, to put off the possibility. Yeah, my social anxiety is that strong. Surely, he’d move on to other interests by the time I returned. 

 

Back at the gym, he brought up the walk idea again, but noted he’d be away for ten days, visiting the grandkids. “Okay, sure.” More delay, more hope this walking thing would go away.

 

Last week we walked. After we met outside the building and decided which direction to go, we headed off. There was immediately a silence that may have lasted beyond a full second. This activated the emergency warning system in my brain: 

 

MISTAKE! 

Must feign sudden ankle twist!

Feign fainting if necessary! 

Stop walking!

 

COVID saved us. Can’t we all fall into corona moaning at the snap of the fingers? Damned anti-vaxxers. Are you still masking in stores? When do you think we’ll be able to stop signing up for gym times and just show up? 

 

On steady ground. Maybe we could survive a walk around the block.   

 

Turns out we walked for two hours and had plenty to talk about. It was enjoyable. I’m glad we went. I went through the usual post-interaction self-evaluation, beating myself up for mentioning some anecdotes that I never finished, sharing too many embarrassing moments, not bothering to follow up on how he learned to speak Portuguese as the conversation drifted elsewhere and generally lambasting myself for talking way too much.  

 

In between bouts of critiquing my social incompetence, I went over all of Damien’s comments that had me continuing to wonder, “Is this guy gay?” Let’s look at the evidence, shall we?

 

·      He was in the seminary for a year with the intention of becoming a Catholic priest. (Such a classic hiding place.)

·      As a teacher, he taught drama.

·      His specialty was musical theatre. (Worth repeating: Musical theatre!)

·      He commented on the abs of a shirtless man who walked past us. (To be fair, they were as finely sculpted as one sees in magazines, the kind I tell myself are obviously photoshopped and cannot possibly exist in real life.)

·      He then proceeded to talk about a younger guy in our building with amazing abs who works out in our gym. (Why have I never seen him?)

·      He mentioned having parties in the tiny town where he lived, saying, “You find your people. Small towns have an underground, you know?” Actually, no. (This should have been a point to seek clarification, but I think I didn’t want to know more.)

 

I managed to bring the conversation around to his wife several times and, to be clear, Damien talked freely about her. I’m certain he loves her. He spoke of her as if they’re newlyweds which I thought was entirely possibly since I knew his children were from a first wife. Turns out, Damien’s been with his current wife for about thirty years. Still, If Damien’s not bi or gay, I need to Google where I can take my gaydar for a tune-up.

 

I figured that, if my conversational skills were as woeful as I thought upon (over)reflection, any liking Damien may have had would have been extinguished, stomped with army boots and hosed down for good measure. Let me be the impetus for Damien talking his wife into a ceremony to renew their vows. Glad I could help.

 

If, however, this had only been about a budding friendship, the fact it fizzled offered some relief, too. Sure, I could probably use more real friends instead of chatting up my Christmas cactus and the hosta I sometimes remember to water, but all the unknowns and uncertainties during the beginning stages are difficult for me. Really? You want to meet for coffee? Why? What the hell’s in it for you? Oh, self-esteem, you are an elusive one. Sorry, Christmas cactus, it’s still you and me.

 

A few hours after our walk, Damien texted: “What a lovely walk and talk. You are very funny! I had a good time. You make me laugh and our stories are worth sharing. See you soon.”

 

Hmm. I use lovely all the time, but it’s not in the straight guy word bank, is it? 

 

My reply: “I enjoyed the walk as well. Maybe next time your wife can join us.”

 

I glanced at my phone screen until “Delivered” appeared beneath my text bubble. Yep. Message received. I’d made things as clear as I could considering that nothing was actually out in the open.

 

The next morning, I got another message from Damien: “I rather enjoyed your company. A repeat soon. Xxo”

 

Um. What? First “lovely” and then “Xxo”?

 

Not clear at all. This is feeling even more awkward.

 

PLEASE DON'T LIKE ME (Part One)

If awkwardness were viewed as a skill, I’ve reached mastery. Top of the résumé.

 

I’ve spent a lifetime wishing certain guys were gay. Now I’m hoping one isn’t. It’s a guy I met at the gym. Not some big, cruisy fitness sweatshop where guys take videos of themselves bench pressing the equivalent to a minibus and where guys nonchalantly linger in the locker room, wrapped in a towel, needing other patrons to notice them. (Oddly, this seems to be a straight guy thing.) I ran into Damien in the convenient little gym in my building, max three users at a time during COVID. 

 

I regularly sign up for the 2:00 p.m. slot, handing off the relay baton to him at 3. Due to the time of day, each of us typically gets the space to himself. (I suppose that would make it easier for me to take regular pics of me doing bicep curls and whatnot in hopes of three or so “likes” on Instagram but, even with no one else present, I’d feel selfie-self-conscious, three-quarters of that sweaty sheen on my body coming from embarrassment rather than exertion. Besides, my whatnots are performed with weights more the mass of a minibus of the Matchbox sort.)

 

The first relay pass was a clear failure. I dropped the baton. I’d said hello and he said nothing. A total shunning. It may have had to do with his earbuds, but I took it as attitude, the kind I got so much of at those cruisy gyms. Why are you even here? He was very fit for his age and it felt like I was being dismissed by one of those older gay men I used to see gathered around little round bar tables, sipping martinis and holding on to superiority so that irrelevance didn’t slip in. No room for me at a regular gym and a misfit at this boutique training room. I wiped down the exercise bike, took my water bottle and left. 

 

For weeks, we’d encounter one another, a silent shift change. He’d stride straight for the StairMaster and I wouldn’t look his way. Ha! Now who’s shunning who? As I sprayed down gym equipment, I’d glance at the TV screen in front of him and be glad not to have to make small talk with a guy who always changed the channel to “Gunsmoke.” Or “Ponderosa.” Or “Bonanza.” Or one of those old Western series where the colors seem to have faded and be a hue or two off what their supposed to be, rust instead of red, skies an unrealistic robin’s egg blue. Really, who the hell books their gym time to coincide with “Bonanza” reruns? This was not someone I needed to know.

 

Then one time as I surrendered the gym to him, he introduced himself and said something innocuous like, “I guess we both like our afternoon gym times.” That made for an awkward pause where I was supposed to say something even though he didn’t give me much to go on. I suppose I could have said, “My endorphins love a post-lunch release” or “This is the one time of day when I’m not Zooming with incredibly important people.” Instead, I’m sure I said, “I like it when no one’s here.” And, due to that patented awkwardness of mine, it would have come off with the tone of, I’m no good at sharing. I basically hate people. I’d really settled into our not-talking thing. 

 

As I left, I managed to recover and say, “Nice to meet you” and “Have a good workout,” but Damien had his earbuds in, not listening to BTS or Chance the Rapper, but some ominous dialogue between Lorne Greene and James Arness about how the cattle needed more hay (or whatever they eat). Riveting stuff, you know.

 

Over time, we got into a groove of sticking to script with our baton-passing exchange. Sometimes he’d get my name right, sometimes he’d have the nerve to shorten it, sometimes he’d be completely off. Perhaps Gordon is the name of a cowboy on “Gunsmoke.” Hard to stick to real-life conversation when a chance to view some jaw-dropping lasso maneuvering awaits. My lines were always, “Hi Damien” (with an occasional “Hey” subbed in to prove I could ad-lib a bit). Then, after he’d acknowledge me with some sort of name, I’d say, “See ya. Enjoy your workout.” It got so I didn’t even feel awkward. Like everything, practice makes perfect.

 

But then one day, Damien said, “If it weren’t for COVID, I’d have you over for coffee.” Um, well. Welcome back, awkwardness. Coffee at a stranger’s home? No, no, no. That would require a whole lot more conversation. Out of desperation, I might ask something stupid like., “Don’t you ever get bored on that StairMaster?”  I wouldn’t mean to be rude. I’d just blurt it to fill a fraction of a second of dead air in order to quell a rush of panic and self-loathing. Man, I’m pathetic. Why can’t I have a simple chat? Why is it that, knowing basically nothing about this person and knowing, therefore, that there is a completely wide-open slate of topics to choose from, I can’t think of anything? 

 

“I guess you like ‘Gunsmoke,’ huh?” Dear God, no. There could be no coffee. Saved by COVID!

 

Over time, there was more to talk about at the gym. It was nice to have time parameters on it. I noticed that if he arrived a couple of minutes early, it was an opportunity to comment on that chitchat go-to, the weather, or that newer addition to Chitchat 101, the coronavirus. These masks make me sweatier. I wonder when we’ll ever go back to letting more than two people on the elevator. Have you gotten your shot yet? If Damien didn’t enter until three or a minute after, our exchange was pared down to a simple “Hi” and maybe a wave with his back to me as he went straight for the StairMaster. “Gunsmoke” was calling and how does anyone compete with that?

 

At some point, a couple signed up for the two o’clock spot and that had me fretting so

I signed up for Damien’s three o’clock time, guessing—correctly—that he wouldn’t be doing weights after the StairMaster. He did lots of stretching instead. He was chattier while getting into stretchy, yoga-ish positions…hang dogs or camels or frozen chickens. (Apologies to yoga devotees. I know nothing about it. I respect your choice of activity even though I’m certain I will never try a session since of have the flexibility of a cement pillar. I might stay for the warmup if the instructor played “Vogue,” but I’m guessing they don’t take requests. Please continue striking your animal poses.) Damien and I exchanged basic information: where we’re from, the importance of keeping in shape, what our wives do. 

 

Wait. What? You’re married? To a woman?! Please, mask, cover my shock. Please, eyes, focus on blankness…like Keanu Reeves in every movie role. 

 

Seriously, a wife? Shock. And relief. 

 

I’d gotten some vibes that maybe Damien was into me. There was never anything vague about me being gay. Generally, I figure, Just look at me, people. What could possibly make you unsure whether I’m queer? At the gym, my face mask highlights the statement, in bold and underlined, all caps, 24-point font. I wear the same face mask every time because it’s the most breathable. I bought it at what used to be Vancouver’s gay bookstore and now, sadly, is where you browse for sex toys. My mask has rainbow hearts all over it and the message, LOVE IS LOVE. Yep, I’m gay. Despite this whole wife revelation, I still couldn’t shake a suspicion Damien was gay and I couldn’t dismiss a sense he might kinda sorta maybe like me in that most implausible of ways. He’d mentioned my fitness and my toned body a few times. Nice to hear for a deeply insecure guy like me, but I’m not used to people noticing things like that. My exes certainly didn’t. 

 

I did my best to accept this husband-wife thing as totally legitimate and not some immigration scheme. I talked more freely after convincing myself Damien couldn’t possibly be interested in me. Turns out our backgrounds are in teaching, both of us becoming principals. When teaching is the topic, I don’t even have to think about what I say. It comes naturally. He talked about his children and grandchildren. I made sure

to always ask about his wife. It seemed like she really and truly existed…from South America. Hmm. Nope, not a scheme; all perfectly legitimate, right?

 

My little COVID-approved life was intact, safely single, completely unencumbered. How nice to begin getting to know a clearly attached straight man.