WE WANT YOU!

One of the more ludicrous allegations that the Homophobic Front continues to utter is that gays and lesbians are recruiting.  I doubt the people who mention that believe it.  I suspect they are hoping that more gullible people will buy it.  It’s all about the power of suggestion—Happy Meals make kids smile, laughtracks cue us to the uproariously funny parts on reruns of “The Brady Bunch” (Oh, that Alice!) and gay marriage laws make Grandma Hazel consider leaving the ever-flatulent Grandpa Fred for that heretic who wears running shoes to church.  (Should have never let Hazel go to a taping of “Ellen”.  She danced in the aisles right along with that curmudgeonly recruiter posing as a talk show host!) 

Despite Ellen’s solid daytime ratings, there doesn’t seem to be a surge in lesbian numbers.  And that Ryan Murphy with his “Glee” hasn’t converted straight teens to gay any more than his “American Horror Story” has led to creepy neighbors annihilating new residents in the house next door.  Gay marriage laws in Canada (and in Sweden, Spain, South Africa, Norway, Portugal, Iceland, Argentina, Denmark, Belguim, and the Netherlands) haven’t spawned a slew of Tonys defecting from weddings with Tinas and eloping with Tims.

If we are recruiting, we’re doing a really poor job at it.

When I was young and closeted, an oft-cited stat provided comfort:  one in ten.  It was a figure lifted from Alfred Kinsey’s 1953 study, Sexual Behavior in the Human Male, and gays latched on to it as a comforting “fact”.  The statistic helped many of us cope.  Ten percent of the population!  Yep, one in ten...I am not alone. 

I remember sitting in high school classrooms of thirty and wondering who my two cohorts were.  (Please, please let one of them be Randy Weir!)  In college lecture courses with ninety, I had eight Friends of Dorothy.  A potential for friendship, solidarity, maybe something more!  And yet, I could rarely peg anyone else with the gay tag.

I held onto the stat even without proof of its veracity.  Didn’t know the Kinseys, but they must have been highly accurate researchers.  All research is true, right?  Studies never conflict; they are never repudiated.

Within a year of moving to L.A., I bought a white t-shirt with an upside down pink triangle and the names of famous gays and lesbians from history superimposed on it.  Da Vinci!  Michelangelo!  Wilde!  My heroes.  Below the triangle, that familiar phrase:  ONE IN TEN.  I proudly wore that shirt when dusting on Saturday mornings.  (Blinds closed, of course.)

Even before I moved to Nowhereland, I realized that statistic was heavily inflated.  At some point during my time in Los Angeles, I honed my gaydar.  Ten percent of Los Angelinos?  Not a chance.  Vancouverites?  No.  Not even in the West End gay ghetto.  Both cities had a clear presence, but one in twenty felt like a stretch. 

Now I would be thrilled to be immersed in a population where five percent of people identify as G, L, B or T.  Where I live, our numbers—at least for G, B and T—would be deemed statistically insignificant by Kinsey’s academic ancestors. 

I’d say there are about 30,000 people along the sixty kilometres of coastline where I live.  3,000?  Baloney!  1,500?  Someone’s hallucinating.  Gay sightings are extremely rare.  In the seven years I’ve lived here, I’ve known two single gay men under the age of seventy and I dated them both.  No hope for any kind of relationship.  I believe both wisely realized there were no prospects to be had and moved back to Vancouver.

Being as I’m stuck in my current environment—I took my house off the market today—I would like to recruit some of those alleged recruiters.  Bring on the gays.  Stat! 

I’ll settle for one in a thousand.

A “FERRY” TALE WITHOUT THE HAPPY ENDING

There’s so much excitement as they amble down the covered walkway.  No one moos, but I get that particular vision for a moment.  It is quickly altered as I hear the rolling wheels of tightly packed suitcases with all the possible wares for a weekend of hiking, shopping, beachcombing and possible puddle jumping.  Grandparents welcome children who close their electronic games.  Maybe the trees, rocks and water will prove to be a sufficient distraction from the gadget reflex. 

The marine air is crisp this morning.  Still, there parade of cars disembarking the ferry, loaded down with mountain bikes, kayaks and canoes.  Others tow fishing boats and trailers.  Fall is officially here, but summer lovers plead for an extension.  I can spot the tourists just by studying the people riding shotgun.  Their heads bob back and forth, glimpsing the ocean, then the rocky shoreline and the forest beyond.  Oh look, Howard.  Isn’t it beautiful?  Poor Howard must keep his eye on the Buick in front of him as a retiree complies with the 20 kilometer-per-hour signage. 

I try to soak in all the anticipation, the eagerness, the hope for a weekend or a week of memories.  Just think of all the photos we can post on Facebook!  I still see the beauty of this place.  Indeed, I will never tire of gazing at the silhouette of the mountains edging the water, especially at dawn and dusk.  But I have overstayed my own adventure by thirty-four months.  This land is a Siren that lured me and won’t let me go.

Before moving here, I explored this coastline, coming over for weekend and weeklong visits.  The brouhahas from work and the stresses of navigating through city traffic vanished from my mind as soon as the ferry set sail.  I always said just going by ferry made me feel like going to a foreign country, as though heading to some place more exotic than the matching coastline on the Vancouver side of the water.

Now, instead of feeling at ease, I get a sinking feeling each time I board.  The boat may be afloat, but I am fighting to keep my head above water.  I cannot cope with the two-hour stoplight I so often face on my commute home from work.  The ferry schedule takes away all joy I once felt about my home and my surroundings. 

This week has been brutal, but it is not atypical.  The ferry ran late all five days.  I try to slip out of work by 4:30 so I can be home by 7:00, but I had a meeting go until a perfectly reasonable 5:10 p.m. and then got home at 9:00.  I had another work event last until 7:15 which meant I didn’t get home until 11 p.m.  My work team skipped lunch on Friday to start an early weekend at 2:30 p.m.  I had a 150-minute wait at the ferry terminal and got in at 7 p.m.  I don’t know how I can rationalize these experiences as normal.

As this is Saturday, I normally have a break from ferry travel.  I crave the downtime.  I require the weekends to attempt to recover.  The social isolation becomes greater as I avoid ferry trips to the city and turn down the few social invitations I continue to receive.  However, I signed up for a screenwriting course in Vancouver, something I looked forward to attending.  The eagerness became tainted during my prolonged stay at the ferry terminal yesterday as I figured out my schedule for the day.  To attend a three-hour workshop takes nine hours of my weekend.  Just.  Plain.  Brutal.

Later today, I will call my realtor and lower the price of my house once more.  I did not think I could go lower as the loss I am taking is already hard to swallow.  But I’ve taken in too much water as it is.  It is time to bail myself out and start life over again.

THE CATCH

This is Part Two of a first date I had last week.  To read the first post, click here.


All great dates must come to an end.  It’s just unfortunate when that end happens at the halfway point. Should have parted with a coffee buzz and an excitement about next time. 

But I’d suggested a walk and he’d accepted.  Date on...

We walked along riverside pathways and through new subdivisions, continuing to chat without pretense.  It was a Goldilocks night—not too hot, not too cold.  Everything just right.  Everything.

Every time we reached a logical point to turn back, he’d nod at the next path or sidewalk.  Yes, walk on.  I sensed he would have walked with me all night.  Each time I looked at him, I got a stronger feeling that he was quite the catch.  At last.

And then he revealed THE CATCH. 

I’d asked him if he was out to his family in Mexico.  He replied, “You should know,...I’m married.  To a woman.  And I have kids.” 

I smiled.  Nodded.  Yes, everything is okay.  He said something else, but “I’m married” echoed in my hollow head.  I kept smiling and nodding. 

Somehow I managed a quick recovery and asked all sorts of questions about the wife and kids.  This is not a case of him being divorced.  Still married.  This is not a case of the wife being in Mexico.  She’s here.  Not in Vancouver.  Not down the street.  Living in the same home.

It’s a complicated scenario, that has been playing out for more than a year.  How long exactly?  I missed that detail.  The “I’m married” echo kept bouncing off the lovely exteriors in the trendy subdivision and hitting me anew.  The kids—two of them—are tweens.  The wife knows Javier is gay.  The kids don’t.  Some gay guy—me?!—is going to be “the other woman”, the one blamed by the boys for bringing down the marriage and destroying the family.

Red flags!  An objective outsider would be yelling for me to run.  Game over!

But we kept walking and talking.  We talked a lot about his children and his pride featured prominently in everything he shared.  I asked many questions about the wife, her process in accepting his coming out and his process for moving out.  Yes, that is the plan.  No, there is no specific timeline.  My jaded self, listening to someone else spout off these circumstances, would say, “Of course there isn’t a timeline.  There never is!”

As we finally stopped and stood on Fort Langley’s main street, I said the unthinkable.  “I’ve enjoyed this.  I would be interested in meeting you again.”

He said the same, as I knew he would.  Oh, what a time for me to finally find a greater confidence.

Once back in my car, all the rational thoughts against further interaction patiently queued before establishing a compelling case.  Defeatism seeped in as well.  They’re all deeply flawed.  Yes, there’s always a catch. 

So there you have it...two dates in one.  Outstanding, then utterly confusing.  What now?

A CATCH!

It’s been a dozen years since I visited the village of Fort Langley.  In fact, I’d forgotten that the bookstore/café where I’d suggested we meet for tonight’s date was a place I’d gone to before.  (I wanted to go after discovering a site that recommended some unique coffeehouses in the Vancouver area.) I arrived early, browsed the books and then ordered a latte and a bowl of cobbler and had a seat.  Through the window, I saw an attractive, clean-cut man standing at the street corner.  He looked expectantly down the intersecting sidewalks.  Was this the man whose profile I viewed online?  Not possible.

He moved down one of the sidewalks, still gazing about.  If by chance he was my date, I didn’t want some passing stranger picking him up so I stepped out and approached. 

Javier? 

Javier!

I sat back down while he ordered.  It allowed me to check him out.  (Thanks to the lady ahead of him who had a slew of questions about filtered water!)  Javier wore casual, conservative summer gear, freshly ironed.  The garb flattered his trim build. 

He joined me with his own bowl of cobbler.  Considering the extensive menu, the chances of us choosing the same item for noshing seemed remote.  A sign?  Kismet?  Serendipity?  Nah.  I don’t go there anymore. 

We chatted about our jobs and online experiences for almost an hour.  He spoke refreshingly candidly.  His comments weren’t calculated to make a positive first impression.  This was a real human talking, perfectly comfortable with himself.  He also came off as a soft spoken gentleman.  Javier was quite the catch!

I asked if he wanted to go for a walk and he welcomed the opportunity to extend the conversation.  I felt completely relaxed with him, even confident.  After all, he’d messaged me.  I am worthy!

What a wonderful beginning...

But that was only the first half of the date.  Let’s just savor that before I post anything more.

THE DRY SEASON

In this area of British Columbia, we learn to live with rain.  Sometimes it seems that it never stops between November and March.  I expect one day to see someone building an ark.  Just in case.

Sunshine flirts with us from April to June, but rain still seems to have the upper hand.  All the wetness can dampen people with the sunniest of dispositions.  I must admit that the weather wore me down over the past year, particularly since one hour of my daily commute involves walking with my dog while toting all the extras I need to bring to and from home.  The Bag Lady look is neither fashionable nor comfortable.

All is forgiven when summer finally arrives, usually later than the date written on the calendar.  Heat waves are infrequent, but warmth and sun help the fair-weather set (myself included) enjoy the outdoors:  kayaking, cycling, jogging, mud-free hiking,...or just drinking margaritas on the back deck.

To be sure, I have made the most of the good weather.  I stayed home for most of the summer and enjoyed the natural beauty of my coastal surroundings.  But staying put also isolates me from all things gay.  Despite all the talk of my area being an artsy hub, the gays stay away.  I welcomed the separation.  I knew there would be no dating, no chance encounter with Mr. Right as we reached for the same bunch of bananas at the local grocery store, no need to fret over a bad hair day.

The only time I hopped on the ferry to head into Vancouver was during Gay Pride weekend.  But I was drawn to tie-dye instead of rainbows.  Rather than having lewdly gyrating wannabe go-go boys make me question my sexuality—this is gay?!—I proudly meandered around a single block on downtown’s Granville Street to experience Vegan Fest.  (Thankfully, it wasn’t a bunch of nose-pierced disciples in Birkenstocks singing “Kumbaya”.  I ate a vegan donut, ordered a vegan bacon cheeseburger from a food cart and that was the extent of it.  Not a single gay sighting.)

I drank plenty of coffee in local cafés, but I didn’t have to invest in meaningless banter; instead, I got busy on several writing projects.  The time proved productive and immensely satisfying.

I needed the break.  My last internet-generated date back in June was a snoozer that, looking back, I only half-heartedly showed up for.  I initiated the online communication, I clung to faint hope, but I quickly tossed it aside within the first few minutes of meeting face-to-face.

For the past two months, I have not messaged anyone.  In early July, I received a few messages from some persistent men in their sixties and I wondered if forty-seven-year-olds qualified for sugar daddies.  What was it about me that appealed to an older demographic?  The pendulum shifted In recent weeks as a twenty-year-old and a twenty-two-year-old have sought replies.  One put a lot of thought into his message.  “Hey.”  That’s all.  Is this what the texting generation considers communication?  The other guy sent two messages, two minutes apart.  The first message was fine, but the follow-up fretted, “I do hope you won’t ignore me.”  Oh, I might have shown my own neurotic stalker persona at that age.  Mercifully, communication wasn’t so instantaneous!

I started commuting back to work midway through last week and things have returned to full-time this week.  However, I do not plan to initiate any dating feelers until I get a solid bite on my house.  I have lowered the price three times this summer and I am determined to do what it takes to be gone by December 1.  I want to regain a semblance of balance during the months when I work long hours.  I want to avoid the return of raccoon eyes. 

I do have a date set for tomorrow with a guy that messaged me who is only eight years younger.  I trust that he will not refer to a Jonas brother or The Andrews Sisters during coffee so that’s a solid start.  He lives in Langley—another place out of the gay way—so I decided to meet him at a charming bookstore in historic Fort Langley.  If nothing else, it will be a lovely destination.  Am I ready to chitchat with a stranger again?  Not sure, but this is a chance to get my feet wet again before the rains return me to a soggy state once more.

THE RATIONALE FOR RURAL LIFE: PART TWO

There is a folksy charm in the coastal area where I’ve spent the past seven years.  I appreciate it most in summer when I have time to linger.  While there are almost no homes on the scenic bike or jog toward themill, I go through town whenever I choose to go in the other direction.  One of the routes takes me takes me past small, family-owned farms that sell their crops at roadside stands where there is an honor system to paying for what you take.  I love that sense of trust. 

As I venture into a rural area on the other side of town, remnants of a hippie lifestyle remain even as people from Vancouver and Alberta move in and build luxurious waterfront homes.  A few flower stands keep the quaintness intact.

I reach a small jetty where I take in the sea air and sometimes spot a seal before turning around and heading for home.  On my bike, it’s a restorative 30-40 kilometer excursion without interruption from a single stoplight.  I can think about everything that’s been on my mind, but more often, I clear my mind and enjoy the sights and sounds.

THE WHISTLER SOLOIST

Okay, so I had a good time in Whistler last week.  I want to make that clear.  I also want to make clear that I like traveling alone.  Sure, a trip with a boyfriend would be nice, but that’s not an option.  And, it’s not always, in fact, nice. 

I have a few wonderful destinations in mind that I cannot imagine going to without a partner.  A romantic holiday for one is just pathetic.

I’ve never felt I needed a companion to go to Whistler.  But I kept getting surprised looks when people realized I’d shown up solo.  Oh, there are plenty of singles in the village.  They’re all twentysomethings and they travel in packs, talking about how drunk they got last night and how drunk they’re going to get tonight.  I know,..it’s a phase.  Have fun, kiddos.

Single gay man in his mid (er, late) forties?  A true novelty.  Uh, excuse me, sir.  Gay Ski Week was, like, so six months ago.  And the bird watching tour biz went bust.  Seems the old, single gay man contingent never materialized.  Have you tried Palm Springs?     

Now I will admit that I may be a wee bit touchy on this issue.  Let’s do a quick math review.  I have been single for all of my forties.  Yep.  I broke up with my last partner in March, 2004.  Since then, I have had plenty of coffee with gay single men, but there hasn’t been a Love Connection, not even a Strongly Like Connection.  (Point of clarification:  a “connection” means the feeling must be mutual.)  Sigh.  I would like to believe it is perfectly fine to be on my own.  In fact, most of the time, I feel that way.  I don’t blog about it.  “Perfectly fine” makes for a boring read.

“Traveling on your own, sir?” the hotel clerk asked as he confirmed my reservation.  Yes.  I only asked for one room key card.  (It’s a weird prudish quirk of mine.  If I say I need two, I get the idea that they think I am a slut or an unrealistic optimist, expecting to pick up some single wanderer.)  The clerk gave me two cards anyway.  Seems he couldn’t figure out what to do with the spare.  Whatever. 

One of my vacation indulgences is ice cream.  Not frozen yogurt.  Not sorbet.  Not low fat.  Definitely not ice milk.  It was a hot evening so the line at Cows meandered out of the store.  I tuned out the kids running wild, begging for cow magnets, cow shirts and cow stuffies.  I squinted and focused on the flavor board.  Must choose the perfect two-scoop combo.  At last, I reached the counter where I could gaze at all the tubs of frozen wonder.  The moment neared.  When it was my turn to order, the girl behind the counter didn’t know what to do with me.  Motioning to the family ahead of me, she asked, “Are you with them?”  No.  Naturally, she concluded I was with the woman behind me.  I had to spell it out for her:  “No, it’s just me.” 

That’s right.  I am a big boy now.  I can go to the ice cream store all by myself.

The next night I went to the movie theater.  This is another treat for me.  The single-screen theater in the town near me typically shows only action movies and family movies.  Not my fare.  I chose a mature movie with no special effects, “Hope Springs” starring acting marvel Meryl and the equally able Tommy Lee Jones (and featuring a too brief scene with the lovely Elisabeth Shue—Please, get this woman a starring role again).  Three older people lined up ahead of me to pay.  The cashier mistakenly charged them for four people.  “No,” the gentleman explained.  “He’s not with us.”  My face reddened and I confirmed:  “Just one.”  The movie didn’t exactly boost my spirits.  A long-married couple that hasn’t had sex in years.  All too relatable.  ‘Nuf said. 

I was most aware of my Lonesome Traveler designation on the last evening when I showed up for ziplining.  There were two tour guides and nine participants.  Odd number.  Figure it out.  One guide tried to lump me with others as he geared us up.  “No.  It’s just me,” I said.  Maybe I should have a t-shirt made.  Still, he inquired further.  “Someone else chicken out?”  No.  He sort of backpedaled, saying, “I traveled on my own here from England.  But I’ve got a girlfriend now.” 

In truth, I was not the only soloist.  The other guide noted to the photographer.  “We have three going alone.”  She said it like it was a rarity.  Like a sasquatch sighting.  Turns out one woman’s husband had a fear of heights.  And then there was the other veritable single person.  I’d noticed her strolling the village half an hour before the start of our tour.  She stood out.  About my age, she appeared twenty years older, looking totally out of place amongst the grungy mountain bikers with her wide-brimmed sun hat, frumpy blouse with its lace collar, khaki shorts and sensible shoes.

Sun Hat Lady—she kept the hat on under her helmet—made her presence known.  As we waited for the group ahead of us at the first zipline, she asked about the contents of the guide’s first aid kit.  “Is there bug spray in there.  I just got bit.”  She offered an audible “tsk” when the kit didn’t measure up.  What’s more, she tried to instruct the guides:  “It looks like that group is done.  Shouldn’t we get going?”  She continued to correct and direct the guides during the entire adventure.

 Yes, this is the type of person who vacations alone.

 Is this how I come across?!  Suddenly, “Hope Springs” seemed cheery by comparison.

Aware that I am not the most social individual, I decided I had nothing to lose on vacation.  What happens in Whistler... I chatted with everyone in our group during the first half hour.  They guardedly replied.  No one attempted to extend the conversation.  The couples (boyfriend/girlfriend, father/daughter and mother/son) stuck closely to one another, speaking in whispers.  I didn’t take the social shutdown personally.  I don’t think anyone could have broken through with these people.

During our five zipline runs, the couples remained inseparable.  Even though only one person can go at a time, the couples had to follow one another every single time.  God forbid that they should be more than five minutes apart.  I assumed my place as the last person for each run since it didn’t matter to me.  We all went up the mountain.  We were all going down the mountain.  Let the others jockey for whatever sense of order they needed.  I pulled back and enjoyed the silence, peacefully feeling the breeze and gazing up and down at the massive firs.

My trip wound down the next morning with a solo lengths swim in the pool, coffee for one in the village and a scrumptious bakery haul that didn’t need to be shared.  Just me.  And, really, just fine.