SOMETHING OFF ABOUT ONLINE DATING

Am I too picky or is it a case of slim pickings? 

 

After almost two and a half years on Plenty of Fish, the well has run dry. Seems there really is a fish shortage. 

 

Maybe the site name was a bad omen for me. As a vegetarian, I can't even cope with catch-and-release. 

 

I'd say I've gone for coffee with about thirty guys. It's a good thing I like coffee and even better that I have my own environmentally friendly mug. Otherwise, what a waste. 

 

Any shot of dating is pretty much out for the summer. I'm back to living a ferry ride away from Vancouver and, while I have no qualms about zipping back and forth--a date is so much more (potentially) exciting than a trip to work--it seems my location is an instant turnoff. Right up there with bad breath, Crocs and an Ann Coulter Fan Club membership, a residence outside the West End or beyond walking distance to Commercial is an excuse to immediately move on. Other photos, other possibilities. 

 

Even I have my location limits. Last week I received a new message in my inbox. Oh, hooray. The fellah didn't even have a photo. Yes, faceless man, let your words dazzle me. I clicked on the message, a quick, complimentary note about my looks and my profile. Gee, thanks, Cyrano. Still, I'd call it a woeful woo. The guy lived in Fredericton. For those of you with Canadian geography challenges, that's 5,343 kilometers away. I'm afraid the coffee would be cold by the time I got there. I did, however, follow perfect etiquette, replying with a thank you and wishing him the best of luck finding someone on his side of the Great Lakes. Yep, the fish are that scarce these days. 

 

Plenty of Fish, your name deceives. Why not be honest with your moniker. Like Martin Short. Or Snooki. (Okay, I have no idea how to define a "snooki" but it fits, doesn't it?) 

 

Purely for the sake of research, I just logged back in to POF and conducted my standard search: image only, within fifty miles of Vancouver, 40-49...Aside here: oh, how I hate the 46 year olds who indicate they are seeking someone from 18-35. (I'm talking to you, mister "Looking for the Guy Next Door".) My search came up with 343 guys. Jackpot, right? 343 sure beats the zero in my community. For a newbie, that might result in a lot of clicking on profiles with safe titles like "It's in the chemistry" and "Excited for Life". (Poor "HARD-ON Friendly" seems to be on the wrong site.) 

 

I hadn't done a search in a month so, again, purely for the sake of research, I perused the search results. Reminded me of trading hockey cards when I was a kid: seen him, seen him, seen him. It's a rapid browse. I stopped at 250 since the remaining guys hadn't been on the site in the past month. Either they had the wisdom to give up or they're too consumed with the latest iPhone app. 

 

By my count, I came across a dozen guys I'd previously messaged and either never received a response from or blew me off before any talk of coffee. Three past coffee companions popped up. I clicked on three new-to-me profiles and, as a research endeavor, went ahead an messaged two. 

 

I'm not holding my breath. And I'm not deleting my account. Heck, no. The desperate must keep all options open! 

 

But maybe it's time to have a wandering eye on the World Wide Web. Where to next? 

 

Next week, I'll share my first impressions in signing up again on one of the other dating sites, one that surely has a few guys like me but, from past recollection, is more populated with the likes of HARD-ON Friendly. It's difficult to keep an open mind when I'm already cringing. Gotta try. The alternative is static whining into the blogosphere. (Oh, yeah, sorry 'bout that.)

CRUSH OR CRUSHED?

A month ago, I read a post on This Gay Relationship about first crushes. An entertaining read. I moved on.

But something lingered. When was my last crush? Can't recall. I also don't remember the last time I had a case of the hiccups. Maybe some things disappear when you hit manopause.

The ex-gay movement would jump all over the fact that my first crushes were women. There was perky/cutesy/funny "That Girl" Marlo Thomas (with a deep, raspy voice), sweet-voiced Karen Carpenter and all-out sexy Daphne of Scooby Doo fame. (On second thought, I don't think that gives the ex-gays anything to go on.)

The way I blathered on, Olivia Newton-John and I could have been something. (Oh, Sandy, it was me, not Danny, you were hopelessly devoted to, right?)

But then I started to become a little too fixated on The Hardy Boys. Not the books (okay reads, but no need to read the whole series), but the TV show. And not Shaun "Hey Deanie" Cassidy, but Parker Stevenson. Oh, that hair! (Justin Bieber, this is how you work a brush and a dryer!) Around that time Andy Gibb just wanted to be my everything. Yep, more hair. Later, I later crushed on Billy Campbell, Timothy Daly and that guy from "The Nanny" You can see why I'm so excited that big hair is back.

Celebrity crushes are always amusing...and harmless. Sure, I'd suffered through too many half hours of listening to Fran Drescher's grating voice but it was surface irritation at best. Real life crushes can be more exhilarating and more, well, crushing.

One reason I may be single is that I cannot communicate with someone to whom I'm attracted. That may be chuckle-smile funny in the sitcom world, but it's rather stupid and completely nonproductive in life. Can I flirt? No. Can I make eye contact? Not a chance. To look and be spurned or entirely ignored,...I've rarely allowed myself to risk it. Apparently, a guy must read my telepathic messages.

In the last two weeks, I've glimpsed two crushes I had from when I moved to Vancouver in the mid-'90s. The first was a hairdresser--go figure--who worked at a trendy salon on Granville. I went to him for months, sweating in the swivel chair and pretending it was the cut I was sneaking glimpses of in the mirror. Finally, I called him at work one day, keeping a towel by my side to blot the outpouring of nervousness. I did it. I asked him out. And he sweetly shot me down. I was absolutely crushed. I had to switch hairstylists. The humiliation was too great.

As I passed him on the street on my way to IGA, I could tell he remembered me. Probably not my name, but recognition enough. His mouth dropped oh so slightly. Yes, he hasn't aged well and I still frequently get "you look the same" (big hair and all). It was a satisfying moment.

The second crush was a guy who worked out at Denman Fitness, my old gym. For six months, I dared to try making sneak peeks. While I had nothing to show for all my reps on the bicep curls, I managed to build up my glancing stamina, enough so to catch him smiling that gorgeous smile my way. I think my return smiles hit my shoes most of the time.

On the evening before I was to head off on an extended six-week vacation, a mutual friend, tired of all my drooling and pining, stopped the guy on the street and asked if he'd go out with me. Embarrassing, yes. But it worked! Too bad the date couldn't happen right away. I had more time to dream unrealistically about my potential soulmate.

We did go out upon my return on the Thursday before Labor Day. And the date went well. We agreed to meet up for tennis on Labor Day Monday. Alas, he never called. I checked that phone dozens of times. Yes, it was plugged in. Yes, there was a dial tone. I later learned that my Prince Charming went to a circuit party that weekend and fell in lust with a party boy from Chicago.

All that time. All that hoping. I could only take solace with the aid of an old crush.

I'd long forgotten my circuit-boy-tainted man, but then a guy on this season of "The Bachelorette" held an uncanny resemblance. I knew that smile, that hair, those eyes. And I gasped when a photo of my big gay crush appeared in the business section of The Vancouver Sun. He'd been promoted to vice president of something or other. Alas, he still looked fine. Another slap from a crush from the past.

No more crushes? Maybe that's a good thing. (Maybe I should've stuck with Daphne.)

HOW OUT IS OUT--PART 2

At various times, I've subscribed to Out magazine and The Advocate. I've read the columns imploring all of us to come out, come out, wherever you are. Easy for a writer at a liberal (gay) magazine to say.

In sports, very few men come out and, if they do, it's typically after retirement. Even gay figure skaters play coy until the lucrative dollars from ice shows dry up. Sure, there are exceptions, but let's remember they are just that: exceptions. There are many (hetero) male-dominated businesses where being openly gay remains taboo, all "not that there's anything wrong with that" banter aside. 

I'm successful in my career. I've climbed as high as I want (and, really, I never planned to get where I'm at now--flukes happen). But there are times when I feel I am suffocating from my job. At work, I can chat about my dog, the Canucks, my run-in with the crazed lady who lifted the cauliflower from my grocery cart (a case where, indeed, size matters). But the boss doesn't have a dating life. (Even if I did in theoretical sense, the boss doesn't have a dating life.) 

It's not solely brought on by others. I perpetuate the notion that I must be the asexual one. Right or wrong, I can't break the established standard. Again, I'm suffocating. A career that I once adored and spoke passionately about for endless hours now seems to drag me down. Am I out? No. At least not enough. 

A career change would be prudent, but also foolish. At thirty, it was easy to deep-six the law career. I moved out of state to resist any temptation to change my mind, but my way of life wasn't tied to my salary. Sure, I took a huge pay cut, but my car was paid for and I didn't mind sleeping on sheets of cardboard on the floor of a rented bedroom. (Friends eventually pitied me and purchased an inflatable camping mattress at Canadian Tire.) I could "afford" to be young and stupid. Yes, Mick Jagger, time was on my side. 

I should try to get in with an arts organization, a charity or a publishing house. Of course, I'd be the middle-aged apprentice. I could take the coffee orders, stuff the envelopes, at least temporarily. I'd be out again. Free. 

But, alas, my mortgage isn't free. And my house won't sell. (It doesn't help that the flooring guy I had in last week spotted a leak in the ceiling. Curse him! Keep your eye on the ground, floor man.) 

At thirty, I thought my career change and country change constituted a premature midlife crisis. But now I can see that this is that moment. It's about feeling stuck. Quicksand stuck. 

I still smile, I continue to be amused by my blunders, but even my laugh has begun to sound more throaty, more muffled in the past year. 

Being out matters. Despite the fact that I cannot identify much that is gay in my current existence, it is part of an identity that I struggled for a dozen years to realize. For now, I have to restart the coming out process that I hated so much all those years ago. 

I swore in the mid-'90s that I was done with the drama. Let them ask. Why was it always on me? But they don't ask. Not my generation anyway. Never will. Despite how much I loved the message of "It Gets Better", I don't think it does when you remain passive. Happiness is about more than being away from the bullies. So for now I am not going to come out at work. I don't see that happening. And I'm not quitting. Can't. 

But I do have friends from prior work settings who still meet me for coffee and still only chat with me about dogs, hockey and large vegetables. I know they know; it's just never spoken. My next trip to Starbucks will be more substantial. Another big reveal awaits!

It's a start...

HOW OUT IS OUT?

I thought I officially came out twenty-six years ago. In the living room of my unlit Dallas apartment, I told--er, "confessed" may be the better word since it felt like a crime in Texas--my best friend that I was, deep breath, a homosexual. (Homosexual was more dramatic than gay, less abrasive than the Larry Kramer-adopted faggot.) 

It went well. She listened and we continued talking for at least another hour. 

Then I didn't hear from her for three weeks. And we never really talked about it again over the next seven years. The friendship suffered to the point where I even missed her wedding. 

Four years later, I felt compelled to come out to my sister when she asked me to be her daughter's godfather. Knowing there would be a ceremony in a Catholic church, I again confessed. She politely informed me a week later that she'd talked to a priest and made a decision to find a different person (rather than a "different" person) to fill the role. My parents, not knowing the reason for the switcheroo, assumed it was another case of me being difficult. 

It took four more years before I flew to my parents' beachside condo on the Gulf of Mexico for a coming out weekend. By then, I was in love and I was tired of spending Sunday dinners with his family in L.A. while keeping mum about his existence to my mom and dad. 

My mother's reaction? "Can't you just abstain?" My father, a doctor, went into a clinical spiel about condom usage. 

Coming out is awkward. It should be unnecessary. Friends and family should feel free to ask and the question shouldn't feel like a putdown. "Are you gay?" Just a point of clarification, not incrimination. 

Would have been so welcome two months before senior prom at my Texas high school. Back then, the cause wouldn't have been my right to go to the prom, but my right not to. Lori Baker would have had such a better time. (She wisely dumped me midway through prom night, sneaking off with uberbrain Jeff Hull. I'm guessing they snuggled while pondering the long-term impact of Reaganomics.) 

Leaving Dallas and heading to Los Angeles was the smartest move I ever made, Northridge earthquake and getting shot at during the Rodney King riots notwithstanding. Sure, I made the mistake of attending one of the most conservative law schools in the United States, but I found my way into West Hollywood and discovered another world. My day and my night were radically different. It was like my own "Looking for Mr. Goodbar" but without the drugs and violence. Or the Richard Gere. (Sigh.) 

When I worked as a research attorney for a couple of judges, my colleagues knew I was gay. The judges didn't officially know, but the earring gave it away. 

Both my partners in L.A. were openly gay. Their jobs made it easy: the first worked for AIDS Project Los Angeles, the second for a liberal Jewish charity. It was the latter guy who convinced me to pierce my ear; he also inspired me to slap a pink triangle on the bumper of my conservative Honda Accord. I was out. Maybe not so loud, but proud. I volunteered for APLA, attended AIDS Walks and marched for days in protest of California Governor Pete Wilson's veto of AB101, a bill to outlaw workplace discrimination against gays and lesbians. 

But things changed when I moved to British Columbia. I got a job working with kids and peeled off the bumper sticker. Insecurity? Sure. That gay=pedophile equation from my eleven years in Texas crept back in. Amongst colleagues, I remained openly gay. It was easy as all the other men were gay, too.

Then I took a job transfer. No more gay work buds. I worked most closely with a devout Mennonite woman. I never pretended to be straight, but I was the asexual single guy (despite the fact I had a partner). 

More transfers and promotions and my gayness washed away completely. I am now the asexual single guy with no parenthetical. Despite my exhilarating L.A. days, I am not a trailblazer. I am not in a profession where being an out gay man is common. There are some lesbians who are more open but, to my knowledge lesbian=pedophile never took, not even in the Bible Belt. 

So now I'm out in pockets. Most of my family knows, except for my evangelical Baptist brother and his family. Friends scattered about North America know. At work, well, there's that one co-worker who figured it out and tried to set me up with a straight single guy in her neighborhood. (She's better as a teacher than as a matchmaker.) That's it though. In my rural community, not a chance. There are well-settled lesbians, but the gays stick to the cities. The single ones, at least. 

Given my current situation, am I out at all? Do I need to be? I know the answers, but I don't know what to do anymore. More on that in my next blog posting.

MAKING THE COFFEE ROUNDS

Twenty years ago when I was first trying to figure out the dating scene, I might have agonized all day waiting for a phone call that never came and then scrawled my desperaton and despair in a journal that I stored underneath a stack of t-shirts in the closet. God forbid anyone should read it. Now I blog. That only makes it slightly more public--people have to want to read what you post--, but it's still odd. At least I'm not killing a tree. 

I have been single now for seven years. It's my longest streak since I first walked into a Dallas gay bar at the age of twenty-four. That night, I abruptly left, frazzled and perplexed, after an inebriated guy skillfully spelled his name (D-A-R-R-E-L-L) and kissed me on the nose. My first thought at the time: "Huh?!" 

Since then, I've fallen in and out of love three times. The first time, I was too closeted, too insecure. The second time, I got involved with someone I knew was wrong for me from the first date. The third guy seemed perfect for the first nine months before the cracks started to show. I stupidly remained committed for another six plus years. I was relieved, even exhilarated to finally regain my freedom. Now I'm just bored, restless, impatient. And I continue to walk away from every dating episode with the same thought: "Huh?!" 

I've had three coffee dates in the past month. Dud, dud and double-huh. First came Ward, an earnest TV documentary producer. At 53, he was seven years my senior. Not a big deal, except I noticed age spots on his tanned hand as we introduced ourselves at his local Starbucks. I should recall more about his line of work, but what stands out from that meeting was him taking and explaining frequent pee breaks because he drinks eight liters--yes, liters, not glasses--of water a day. He texted me before I got home, eager to meet up again. My work and his work made the next two weeks an impossibility. He agreed to contact me after returning from a business trip in Banff. Never heard from him again. I'll assume he got maimed by a moose while refilling his water bottle at one of those pristine freshwater springs. 

Next was Darius, a 25-year-old law student. I should never have responded to his first message, but curiosity got the better of me. No, it was not ego. I don't need to feel some sense of affirmation by having a guy twenty-one years younger than me by my side. I wanted to know why in the world he'd contacted me. Daddy issues? Looking for a financial supporter? It turned out that he desperately wanted to connect with someone he perceived as educated. My three degrees, including one in law, fit the bill. I showed up at a downtown Blenz, thinking I'd at least have something to write about. 

Turns out Darius only gets two paragraphs. For an hour, he knocked the Canadian education system and everyone his age. They were all beneath him. I am guessing (and hoping) they surpass him in the area of social skills. He messaged me the next day and I didn't for a moment feel the urge or the social obligation to reply. 

And then there's Ross. Of the three, he's the only one I initiated contact with online. Our date was only two days ago and I'm still feeling raw from the experience. He was the date that mattered. I felt uncharacteristically nervous driving to Delany's coffeehouse on Denman. As he'd included a "must love dogs" line in his profile, we'd agreed to grab a coffee and walk along the seawall with my dog in tow. 

At first glance, I thought it was another mismatch, but then he took off his sunglasses, smiled and I knew something was possible. Beautiful day, fairly smooth conversation. It was a Fourth of July without fireworks, but something to build on. The only sticking point I could detect was the fact I had unexpectedly moved out of the West End a week ago. Yep, I'm a ferry ride away for the next two months. 

I didn't sense it was too big of a deal as Ross is from Victoria and is accustomed to ferry travel a couple of times a month. He did say that the last guy he dated was from Surrey and his friends questioned that distance. I know the type. Life beyond the West End? Unthinkable! 

As we parted, Ross mentioned "next time" and said that he would program my number into his cell, a rather daring statement I thought. I keep numbers on Post-its since deleting a cell phone contact would require me to upgrade my tech skills. As I headed home, I felt relieved, even elated. At last I'd get another chance at the Holy Grail of gay online experiences: a second date. I sent him a message later that evening, indicating I'd enjoyed the walk and suggesting a bike ride or meal should he want to meet again. 

No response. 

I don't know how many times I checked my email yesterday. Damn you, Air Canada! Don't tell me about your 10% off offer. Curses to the string of emails from my writing group listserve! My inbox was filled with clutter. No new messages from Plenty of Fish. 

So I'm right back where I started from. "Huh?!" At this point, maybe I'd even welcome a misguided kiss on the nose. 

Something is amiss. So far, I've coped by wondering What's wrong with online dating? and What's wrong with Vancouver guys? At some point, I may, however, have to regress to wallowing in What's wrong with me? Oh, don't make me go there!

CATCHING UP...

One common piece of advice I read about attracting an audience to a blog is that you have to post regularly. I read it, but I don't follow it.

I could post more frequently. Perhaps you'd be amused over my (unsuccessful) attempt to tame the beastly hedges on my side yard. Maybe you'd join me in scorning my neighbors who allow their children to deposit their sun-faded Fisher Price toys for weeks on end in front of my house. I'm sure I could rant for several hundred words about that. (A Tweet won't do.)

But this is a blog about being a foolish single gay guy who moved to a rural area (not rural enough--see neighbor comment, above) and naively thought a soulmate would miraculously appear on a hiking trail. Alas, all I have to show for my wilderness walks are scratches on my legs from blackberry branches and an almost recovered twisted ankle. My gayness goes into hibernation for extended periods; hence, no posts.

I did rent a condo in Vancouver from my ex for the past ten months. (Troubling words in preceding sentence: from my ex. More on that in a moment.) With a foot in the city, I planned to reconnect with old friends, dine at the hip restaurants du jour and mingle during intermissions at the theater. Shine that spotlight on my naivite once more. Old talk with old friends proved stale, French bistros are all the rage (this vegetarian cannot live on a baguette and Chardonnay alone) and I passed on Carol Channing reading "The Vagina Monologues". Missed opportunity?

Truth is Gay in the City gave way to Slave to Work. At the end of a long day, I didn't feel like trekking to 4th Avenue to wait forty-five minutes for a table and a bland, twenty-dollar pasta primavera. It was easier to stay in and whip up my own mediocre meal, cutting down on dishwashing by eating from the pot. There, I admitted it. I have not grown much from my college slacker ways. At least the utensils aren't plastic anymore.

I have more time in the summer. My ex knows that. Why shouldn't he rain on the emerging sunshine? A minor "disagreement"--I was choosing to take my dog to work the next day instead of dropping him off at my ex's mother's--led to a flurry (and fury) of text messages demanding that I vacate the condo ASAP. Oh, he recanted the next day, but I'd already loaded the car and begun hauling my stuff back to the boonies. Exes don't change. Naive again? No. Plain stupid. Lesson learned.

So my big gay renaissance never materialized. Not much to blog about. Maybe later today I'll take the dog for a walk through the local trails and look on the bright side. In another month, the blackberries will be ripe. In the meantime, I can surf the internet and figure out how to make jam. No more leftover pasta in the pot for brekky. Progress.

BELLY FLOP

Curse you, Ryan. I'm talking to all three of you: Gosling, Kesler and Reynolds. You've set the bar too high. How am I supposed to have abs like that and hold down a day job?

I know, I know,...I shouldn't compare myself to world class athletes and actors with personal trainers and personal chefs. The Ryans do not belong in the realm of reality. And yet they taunt me. Ryan Reynolds has some new superhero movie due out this summer and he will once again put the rest of us to shame as he graces more magazine covers.

I tell myself that the extra weight in the middle region is natural for guys in their forties. We've earned it. That gut should represent contentment before our appetites diminish and we choke down a glass of prune chose every morning. Let the gut push beyond the pecs. The Ryans will be puffier too when the time comes.

And then there's that damn Rob Lowe to blow my rationalization. Stupid Vanity Fair cover. Forty-seven years old. The man needs a super-sized bag of Cheetos. Every day. And a puppy that chews up his sneakers. He's not a Ryan, but his name begins with the same cursed letter.

I avoid the mirror, but I caught a glimpse by mistake this evening. How can I have a beer belly when I don't drink beer? Not even during Canuck games! To be fair, I'm pretty sure the tummy has not inflated to beer belly proportions just yet. I've always been hypersensitive about my weight. People continue to say I'm thin but I worry I'm one Timbit away from a total body shift.

If I had a partner, he'd reassure me. He'd lie and tell me a little bit more weight just means there's that much more of me to love. And then he'd go back to "reading" his Vanity Fair.

Being single, I have to remain vigilant about my weight. Forties contentment must wait. For my online dating profile, I have indicate one of the following as my body type: thin, athletic, average, a few extra pounds, big and tall/BBW or prefer not to say. I don't even know what "BBW" stands for and I am fairly certain that most people will not admire my moral stance in opting for "prefer not to say". People may infer in the same way I do when someone chooses that language for the "Smoker?" line. I am athletic, but lately it's more like Kyle-Wellwood-after-summer-vacation athletic. Not outrageous, but not a draw either.

I know, I know,...I should get back to swimming 2-3 times a week. It's a catch 22. Swimming has always been the best way for me to stay slim, but I won't wear a swimsuit in a public setting until I shed a few pounds.

And, yes, I should content just to be healthy. However, I am not wired that way. I have dieted officially or unofficially as much as Oprah. I have never been considerably overweight; instead, I have ventured the other way...to the point where friends had an intervention with me in university after I discovered that eating only one (large) meal a day helped me shed the pounds to the point where I was fifty-five pounds lighter than I am now. All my fretting and Ryan hating is about 5-8 pounds. But I know see the difference. I feel the difference.

And, yes, I know that an easy place to start getting back on track is to change my Rewards Program. My job is intense and so I build in a couple of perks as the end of the week approaches. Thursday after work, I pick up a Blizzard from DQ. Friday on the way to work, I savor a Solly's cinnamon bun. (I do exercise restraint. I get it without the icing.) I am well aware that I should not reward myself with food, but soft ice cream with crushed mint Oreos mixed in holds so much more appeal than a whole sheet of scratch n sniff stickers or a pat on the back or a whispered, "Way to go."

I slogged away at the gym today and I'll do the same tomorrow...if all that syrup on my weekend reward pancake platter doesn't knock me out for the afternoon (as it usually does). At the very least, I'll walk my dog an extra block. Yep, that'll work off a chew or two.

I don't just curse the Ryans. Aunt Jemima, I curse you, too!