WHAT'S IN A NAME?

Marvin.

Parents don't do that to their kids anymore.

It’s not in the Top 100 list of boys’ names; probably wouldn’t make the Top 1000.* It’s on the verge of extinction along with Thaddeus, Engelbert and Floyd. If you’re named any of these, take comfort in having a moniker that’s now “unique” in a world of Bens and Liams.

I had a coffee date with a Marvin last week. And that created a hurdle from the outset. You see, my longest relationship was with a guy named Marvin. It started off blissful, but after nine months, it became abusive…and I stuck with it—and the abuse—for another seven years. So Marvin is a name that gets my back up.

Poor Marvin II. I really wanted to wipe the slate clean and give him a chance. But two days before our coffee, I had a nightmare about Marvin I. Extremely disturbing. And it’s too much of a coincidence that it should occur so close to our meeting. I’m super skilled at repressing so Marvin I hadn’t popped up in years, not even in therapy.

I suppose I could have asked Marvin II his middle name. Or said, “How do you feel about ‘Howard’? It really suits you.” But that would require a whole lot more explanation than a normal, well-adjusted person shares over an introductory coffee.

I’d like to think I could have eventually gotten past the whole thing, dropped the “II” from my mind and accepted The New Improved, Entirely Different Marvin. That would make me evolved. That would have me laugh it off as friends and family (who don’t know about the past abuse) say, “Gosh, you’ve really got a thing for Marvins.”

Perhaps fortunately, Marvin II and I didn’t click. Perhaps I’d subconsciously held back. But then he texted me the next day with a string of compliments. (Did he really think we clicked?!)

Alas, I had to let the text exchange die. If I’m not supposed to dismiss someone because of a name, I’m also not supposed to drag something out because that same name, with some sort of guilt and determination trying to fix what can’t be fixed.

So it’s back to checking for (no) messages on online dating sites and hoping a Ben or a Liam or even a Thaddeus—all safe names—to express an interest. Anyone really. Except maybe Marvin III.

---

     *Okay, I did find Marvin, ranked a lofty #559 on this Top 1000 list, but still… 
       (And, sorry, Thaddeus, Engelbert and Floyd, you didn't make the cut.)

YEP, IT REALLY, REALLY IS ME

A hundred coffee dates. Probably more. And I’m no closer to extending dating—can’t even call it a relationship—into a second month, let alone falling in love. Ninety percent of the encounters end after the last drop of the first latte. Probably before the barista has even finished making it.

I craft this blog. I have full control. So it’s easy for me find fault in the other guy. Too this, not enough that. Clearly there’s too much algae in the single gay pool.

But every so often, I look inward. I actually hear myself. Too this? Not enough that?! When did I get so selective?

There was a time when it would have taken next to nothing to stick with a guy. If he showed the slightest interest, I’d hang on until he finally shooed me away. I was a dating gnat.

"Friend of Dorothy" added another layer of meaning in the '80s.

It’s true. I had terribly low self-esteem. As I’d sip my first Tom Collins with a friend at Rage or Micky’s in West Hollywood, I’d rattle off my list of what I was looking for in a man. It was a two-pager, at least. But then some guy would glance at me a few times and, after bowing to glance at my shoelaces, I’d find the guts to glance back. Eye contact. And that basically meant it was a match.

If we actually talked and he said he liked “The Golden Girls”—or that he’d even heard of it—I was his for life. Or at least until the packed thong go-go boys came back from break and their come-hither gyrations refocused his attention.

He could have had me.

I’d have torn up my list and burned it for good measure. I was a low maintenance guy who thought he was high maintenance.

Now all that’s completely flipped. And I shouldn’t be at all surprised.

The brutal truth is that all relationships have become harder for me. I’m an acutely introverted guy who somehow managed to fake acceptable social mannerisms in my twenties. I laughed frequently and notoriously loudly. Within my group, I could even be outrageous. In my thirties, I took cover in an abusive relationship. Feeling trapped and utterly stupid, I pulled away from everyone. And then in my forties I found my way out and escaped to rural living where all my introverted ways came rushing back, exacerbated further by a diagnosis of Major Depressive Disorder.

Now in my fifties, I’m trying to start over. It’s like going back to junior year in high school, the time when I began to get a clue over How to Be Social. I once again remind myself to smile. I try to carry on the chitchat initiated by the barista or the bank teller or the store clerk. Invariably, I’m the one who shuts it down. The talk is trivial and I can’t sustain it.

I’ve been back in Vancouver for over a year and I’m not sure I’ve made any progress. Weekends come and go. I have no desire to phone anyone. A text takes at least an hour of contemplation or even the whole bloody weekend.

When I do meet with an old friend, it’s hard for me to stay interested after thirty minutes. In my mind, I get critical. I tire of this conversation too and my thoughts wander as I long to get back to the book I was reading or go on a three-hour bike ride. Solo, of course. I don’t want anyone else to slow me down.

It should come as no surprise then that date after date is a failure. As a concept, I’m keen to date. And yet when I actually sit down with another guy, I’m looking forward to getting away. As my psychiatrist noted, “Social interaction takes a lot of energy out of you.” The mysterious piece is that I’m skilled at the conversation. The other person cannot see that I’m drained. That’s why it is rare for a coffee date to end before an hour. Ninety minutes is typical. I continue to listen well enough and to encourage the other guy to talk about himself. I can’t recall ever being the one who says, “I have to go.”

So is every coffee doomed? Is dating pointless? Is it time for me to download solitaire apps on my phone? Or whatever happened to macramé? It was the only thing in sixth-grade art that I was moderately good at. Maybe the world needs more macramé. And I shall find fulfillment.

I know I have my own work to do, but I also know it is possible to find the right guy. All this reflection has helped me realize I still do have a type, only now the list is short. He’s sexy, gentle, flirty, affectionate and funny. These are the qualities that both make me invested and keep me relaxed. With this type of man, I easily shrug off the flaws and I don’t care what we do. It’s just about being together.

I know this because I’ve met this kind of man three, maybe four times, in the past two years. I’d have stuck with any of these men, but alas, I didn’t fit the other guy’s list or there were insurmountable obstacles. I can find encouragement in this. I’m not looking for something unattainable. My kind of mate does exist.

So I’ll continue to squint and skim through the algae. If I keep my eyes open, something surprising may rise to the surface.

IT’S NOT YOU, IT’S ME…REALLY

It’s the copout line for dumping someone. There’s a reason—maybe a list of reasons—to reject the guy, but honesty can hurt or prolong things with denial and an argument. The easy way out is to say, It’s me.

I’m at a bad place in my 
              life right now.

I’m not a good enough person.

I’ve got to spend all my spare time   

cleaning the closet in the den.

(Something may have died there.)

In my last blog post, I turned down a guy after a second date that was no better than the first. Initially, I’d found his opinions too harsh. In his profile and on both dates, he’d acknowledged this as a common perception but dismissed the criticism with a Fuck that. Everyone is too intent on being politically correct. Maybe, maybe not. All I know is political correctness keeps my blood pressure on an even keel.

My gut had been to decline the second date. I’d had enough…heard enough. But occasionally—and, indeed, after the last post—a blog reader has the guts to raise an uncomfortable I Wonder.

I wonder if you’re being too picky.

Oh, how I brace at the comment. (It’s probably why only readers posit this while face-to-face friends and acquaintances keep mum.)

I’m not too picky. I’m not too picky. I’m not too picky.

As if repeating it makes it true. A three-year-old’s approach.

And then I hear Harry’s voice. Harry, aka Billy Crystal, talking to Sally, aka Meg Ryan in my favorite move, giftedly penned by the late great Nora Ephron:

                        HARRY:          There are two kinds of 

                                                 women: high maintenance

                                                 and low maintenance.

                        SALLY:            And Ingrid Bergman [in 

                                                 Casablanca] is low

                                                 maintenance?

                        HARRY:          …Definitely.

                        SALLY:            Which am I?

                        HARRY:          You’re the worst kind. 
                                                 You’re high maintenance,

                                                 but you think you’re low maintenance.

I would contend that I’m a low maintenance date. I have no list. All I ask is that a guy show up on time, dress in something slightly more fashion-forward than a favorite sports team jersey, put away his phone and engage in a genuine back-and-forth conversation. Okay, there’s a physical attraction piece, too, but that’s mostly out of our control. I’d say I’ve been passed over on looks just as many times as I’ve passed. Few of us are objectively, universally hot and by “us” I definitely, conclusively do not include myself.

It’s the conversation piece where things froth or fizzle. And based on all I’ve sat through, eighty percent of fizzled chats come from too much talking, not enough listening. A first date may feel like an interview but it’s not. You’re not trying to cram everything great about you—every trip, every detail of your last dinner party and every itty-bitty dimension of your job—into a roughly forty-minute sit-down.

Don’t forget there’s another guy who showed up, hoping to share an anecdote or a factoid about himself. If you don’t have Barbara Walters’ interviewing skills—for the record, I’d be an arbutus tree—then pause every two or three minutes and simply say, “And what about you?” Order a scone with your coffee so you have to stop and chew once in a while. (You don’t talk with your mouthful, do you? Maybe that’s another of my conditions.)

I should wrap up this post.

If I keep writing, I fear that more conditions will surface.

Too picky.

Am I more Sally than Ilsa? Does my blog leave a trail of damning evidence concerning my unrealistic expectations? Am I too quick to dismiss?

                        SALLY:            I don’t see that.

  

What if there are grounds for a class-action lawsuit against me, brought by the masses of single gay men in Vancouver who have been disparaged and dismissed in this blog without any counterpoint? Am I guilty of a pattern and practice of dating defamation?

Too picky? Me?! I have no reason to be, no right to be. But then I hear a certain movie character again.

SALLY:            Well, I just want it the way I want it.

And, as much as I could pick that apart, it sounds about right.

GAYS AND THEIR DOGS

Even with its middling reviews, I had to see “Must Love Dogs” when it premiered in theaters. I’ve always been a fan of the underused Elizabeth Perkins, Diane Lane does adorable effortlessly and John Cusack’s acting typically fascinates, but this movie about dating had me at the title. Must Love Dogs, indeed. My kind of flick.

Really, any guy who wants to connect with me—there is a hypothetical such guy isn’t there?!—has to have an affection for canines. Must love dogs is right up there with non-smoker and single as the non-negotiables.

Or so I thought.

But these are desperate times. I haven’t had a second date in two years. The last (semi-)passionate kiss came six years ago. And sex? I blogged that once. I shan’t repeat that embarrassing disclosure. Go back and search my prior posts if you must. (Okay, I know you won’t. You’ve got better things to do. Like vacuuming behind the sofa. But this ought to make you feel better about your own sex life. Always know, it could be worse.)

And so as my recent brunch date wound down, the guy sitting across from me threw caution to the wind, bemoaning the lack of appealing single men our age. Yes, yes, I thought. I can relate. “Almost all of them are out of shape,” he said. True. And I had just lost ten pounds I didn’t need to lose. Surely, I came across as fit. Yippee.

He didn’t stop there. You know where this is going. “And some men are way too attached to their dogs.” Hmm. I forced a smile. Surely, he’d seen that older photo on my profile with me and my two schnauzers. He qualified things: “All they talk about is their dogs.” Okay, nice back-pedaling. I had not made a canine comment during the entire meal. I was safe. I still had a shot. But why would I want one?

Well, this guy was unquestionably attractive. Another wannabe writer. Like me. And, yeah, fit. As you read this, you’re thinking I am a fool. What next? Would I light up a cigar if he offered one?! May I remind you of that embarrassing blog post about my sex life? If you are still judging me, perhaps you should give the link a click. It’s the entry with nuns as the main photo. ‘Nuff said?

Truth is I am dog obsessive. I remember a line the wonderful Janeane Garofalo spouts in another must-see dating movie, “The Truth about Cats and Dogs”: “You can love your dog. Just don’t love your dog.” Not a problem. It’s not like I am single and have seventeen cats. Keepin’ things normal.  

When I drove to Boise in March, I chose not to fly because of my dog. He had to be with me. We were off on a road adventure, like Thelma and Louise. (Hey, “normal” has a huge spectrum. It’s not like I’m that guy on Dr. Phil.) Once there, my friend Robert and I booked grooming appointments for my dog Hoover and his bitch, Lisa Marie. (Yep. His previous dog was Elvis. Before Hoover, I had Lincoln. Maybe this is what happens when gays don’t have kids. Standard dog names like Rex and Max won’t do.) Robert and I had a great time exploring Downtown Boise, but everything stopped when the call came that the dogs were done. I’m just glad Boise doesn’t have major traffic issues.

Gays and their dogs.

After my date, with Mr. Anti-Dog, I messaged the guy and indicated that I’d be interested in seeing him again. Gasp! It is true. I should be ashamed. Oh, what the desperate will do! If you read that post, you know he declined. “No sparks.” He’d done everything to shoo me away. Clearly, he didn’t give a damn or he wouldn’t have said, “Hey, I like animals. I just don’t think they should be in someone’s home.”

I really should learn to read the signs. But then I’d never get to the point on a date where we ordered food.

Hello, goodbye.

 

I’d spend life eating alone. Or alongside a dog.

Let me refill your water bowl. Does my wittle doggy want three or four ice cubes?

It’s okay. I’ve come to the conclusion there are a lot more good dogs than good men. I should follow a few simple commands: Roll over. Sit. Stay. And now it’s treat time. I’m craving an oversized bowl of ice cream. What’s so great about being in shape anyway?

LOSS OF ATTRACTION

During my sophomore year in college, my roommate liked to interrupt his Abnormal Psychology readings to pepper me with questions. (I’d like to think there was no link with the subject matter.) He was fascinated with my complete lack of a dating life. What in the world was I looking for?

I was seventeen and still hadn’t fully worked through my sexuality so every week I’d have to offer something new, something to appease him so he would go back to reading about psychopaths. The “I’m younger than everyone else” failed when he kept naming freshman girls within our social circle. The “too picky” stance never stuck as I clearly had no reason to be—not as long as I remained muscle-free, zit-faced and hopelessly big-haired. (Ginger ‘fros never caught on in Texas. Or, I’m guessing, anywhere.)

What finally stuck was “I’m voluntarily celibate.” Why not choose to be asexual for awhile? We could all have more empathy toward earthworms. And from then on, I became more fascinating to David than all the deviants they could cram into his textbook. Voluntarily celibate?! I held firm during all subsequent grillings.

Years passed, I came to terms with being gay and tossed the shtick. Well, actually, it evolved. For long periods of my adult life, I’ve been involuntarily celibate. Sigh. Is it a curse that goes back to deceiving a pesky roommate? Or am I just that easy to overlook, even after the acne and hair became tamed? Given the options, I think it is healthier for me to believe in curses.

I’ve been solidly single for nine years now and the longing for a partner has subsided. I remain open to the possibility, sometimes even hopeful, but life is not on hold until Mr. Right finally ends an unhealthy relationship and wanders my way.

My most recent date played out as all of them have over the past eighteen months. No spark, no match, just a prolonged ho hum. Thomas is 53, a new Vancouverite having moved from Los Angeles. He began messaging me before the move, surely hoping to connect with a potential friend or boyfriend to make the transition to a new city pain-free.

We exchanged reminiscences of L.A., me recalling my five-year stint in the ‘90s while he reflected on winding down his eight-year stay. It was common ground. Thomas and I also connected based on being obsessive over fitness. In fact, he surpasses me as an open-water ocean swimmer, a marathoner and a triathlete. Standing 6’4”, his pics revealed none of that middle-aged flab that causes us to avoid glimpsing in mirrors, pre and post shower. (Or am I just speaking for myself?!)

The conversation was pleasant, the evening perfect as we strolled Vancouver’s scenic seawall, with the sun finally popping out after snoozing all day. Two hours ended with an awkward, prolonged goodbye with the two of us standing beside my car on busy Denman Street as a steady stream of pedestrians detoured around us. Finally, a hug and I made by getaway.

Yes, I was relieved to be alone once again in my car as it had become evident that Thomas was interested in me and, despite efforts to convince myself this pairing might be worth pursuing, I did not feel the same.

Friend potential? Sure. Dating potential? A clear no. (And living a ferry ride away, the friendship thing won’t happen. Besides, my experience is that guys don’t go on dating sites hoping to find a friend.)

What went wrong? Nothing. If he’d done something repulsive, that would have been great. I wouldn’t be feeling shallow. I wouldn’t feel awkward over his “had a great time” text message that came an hour later as I waited to board the final ferry home.

I simply was not attracted to him. Objectively, he is fine. As we sat on a bench and chatted, I took many sneak peeks, trying to find a physical draw. Nothing. Like trying to jam a circle in a square in one of those preschool toys, the fit just wasn’t there.

And that brings cause for concern. Coffee after coffee, I leave feeling meh at best. At worst, I lapse into too picky critiques about manscaping issues and sorely mismatched clothing choices. These are first impressions, best foot forward, right? If this is “best”, then I don’t want to see the other foot.

I have no problem spotting attractive men in various media and even in passing once or twice a day, but they seem to be never available for a coffee date. I wonder what would happen if one of them did chat with me over venti decaf non-fat lattés. Would I pick them apart too for donning the wrong color of Chuck Taylors and excessive arm hair? Maybe the sneakers would be just right, but the shoelaces would be too frayed, the aglets worn down. Maybe the earlobes would be woefully asymmetrical. It seems I’m drowning in a cesspool of maybes that ultimately lead to no. Ah, yes, maybe there really is a page devoted to me in that Ab Psych tome.

Have I lost all feeling of attraction when it actually matters? Yes, it is possible that I continue to meet guys who just aren’t right for me. I’d like to believe that. A glimmer of hope would remain. But maybe the lame excuses from thirty years ago have taken root. Maybe I am too picky and, as a result, (in)voluntarily celibate?

It only takes one man to break a curse. Yoo-hoo! I’m right here.

And I promise not to say “yoo-hoo”. That, of course, would be Instant attraction buzzkill.

THE MISSING LINK

We came close.

If I had a list of what I hoped for in a partner, Jim would meet most of the criteria.  Unfortunately, lists are for grocery shopping, not a boyfriend search.  Although Jim is highly educated, politically active (in admirable causes), stylish, an arts supporter and a vegetarian, I am just not feeling it.  It is SO frustrating.  I am tempted to criticize myself, saying I am too picky, I am avoiding intimacy or I am a dating pretender who would rather live as a hermit.  What’s wrong with me?! 

In my heart, I know there is nothing wrong with me...at least not with regard to rejecting Jim.  And, truly, I cannot say there is anything wrong with Jim.  He’s a nice guy.  Still, after a month of dating and wishing for a spark to surface, I know it isn’t going to happen.  Poor Jim is utterly perplexed.  I know he is smitten with me.  He dares to call me “sexy” and “handsome”.  (By contrast, a work colleague today said I look haggard and stressed.)  Yes, love lust mild infatuation is blind.

Despite Jim’s amazing dating résumé, something is missing.  Too often, we engage in parallel rather than intersecting lines of conversation.  I feel that I follow up on things he mentions, but my own words seem to evaporate before they reach his ears.  When he does respond, it is to say something about himself.  I feel my teeth clenching.  That’s surely not a sign of attraction.

As I’ve mentioned before, Jim was born and raised in Los Angeles, a city I am hoping to return to if U.S. immigration would be a little more cooperative.  While I miss much about L.A., Jim’s way of speaking reminds of something that did annoy me.  He is big on name dropping and one-upping every story.  It is intended to impress.  I, however, am not looking to be impressed.  I seek to connect in an honest, authentic way. 

Tonight we met for the last supper.  I am going through a traumatic work situation that has left me feeling vulnerable and questioning my career options.  I dared to share.  He listened and nodded appropriately.  No comments, no questions.  And so we moved on to his training plans for a half marathon coming up in August.  More teeth clenching.  A heaping plate of nachos arrived just on time to give my jaw a suitable outlet.

If anything, the meal affirmed that I was making the right decision.  I walked him to his car and said I wasn’t feeling any chemistry even though I wished it existed.  For a moment, there was a look of shock on his face, but we parted with a quick hug and I strolled back to my vehicle feeling no sense of regret, no pang of despair over being single again. 

It doesn’t mean I’m destined to be a hermit though that wouldn’t be so bad if I could keep all my teeth and avoid wearing flannel.  I have plenty of other things to think about for now.  I can ask and answer my own questions.  Dating is not a priority.