Saturday, Sept. 21, 2002 - 2:11 p.m.
Coming and Going Around

I had talked with the older gent during the half-time smoke break at last night's AA meeting, but I was unprepared, showing up at the coffee house afterwards and sitting down at a table with he and two other guys, for his greeting: "Hi gorgeous!"

I panicked. He's not my type; approximately four decades too old. I forced out a good-natured chortle at his flirtation, then couldn't meet his eyes, chatting instead with the other two men.

My discomfort gradually dissipated. It was no big deal. He hadn't done anything wrong. I glanced at him; he was blushing, looking everywhere but at me. He probably felt foolish.

So I made an effort to draw him into conversation. That worked. His complexion returned to normal. It was all okay.

And then much later in the evening, stiff-crotched from online porn, I wandered down to the water, craving skin.

It being a cool fall night, there were only two men down there. One was a young strawberry-blond fellow, maybe twenty, in a bright yellow jacket. A minute after I arrived, he walked right up to where I was standing by the bushes, an expectant smile lighting up his face.

My lucky night? I wondered. We chatted for a minute; my crotch beckoned like gravity, like a habit. I wanted to wordlessly yank him into the nearby bushes. I wanted to ravish him.

After an exciting moment or two of such chit-chat, Strawberry Blond said, "Well, I'm going to walk around. Maybe I'll catch up with you later."

"I hope so," I said. And he was off, up the hill, walking slowly, turning around to check me out several times.

After a moment or two, I walked off too, in the opposite direction. It seemed Strawberry Blond hadn't made up his mind about me. Didn't matter. I couldn't get a good look at the other, ball-capped guy leaning against the wall. Didn't matter.

I wandered around the circumference of this queer space, back up the hill where Strawberry Blond was. He walked back up to me again. Same expectant smile. His energy was intense, as if he might grab me right there, or lean in and take a slobbery kiss.

But we kept talking. Small talk, the kind usually dispensed with in such venues. I enjoyed it but didn't quite know what to make of him. So that when he asked, "What do you do?", I misconstrued.

"You mean, what am I into?".

He looked uncomfortable. Oops. I patted his arm, apologetic. "No, that's not what you meant," I said, embarrassed. I told him what I do for a living.

Another pregnant pause.

"You're cute," I said, truthfully, manipulatively.

"Thanks," he said, beaming at me.

And then he said, hesitantly, "I have to be honest…I don't think you're my type."

I looked at him. Those smiling eyes, so anxious not to offend. "Hey, no problem, " I said. "Wow. Thanks for being so nice about it."

He smiled, stood there, stayed in contact.

"You know," I continued, "the gay community would be a lot healthier if more of us handled this as pleasantly as you just did."

"You're right," he said, thoughtfully. "I've never thought about it that way before."

"Have a good night," I said.

"You too," he said.

And I walked home, buoyant with okayness, desire crowded out by something bigger and more important: a sense of hope for us all.