Image provided by: University of Oregon Libraries; Eugene, OR
About Just out. (Portland, OR) 1983-2013 | View Entire Issue (April 15, 2011)
----------voices---------- OREGON'S LGBTO NEWSMAGAZINE I lived with my parents during my early twenties, fresh off a tour of California—part confused, half-assed stab at bible college (re ally), part tour de San Diego, where I soaked up the gay in Hillcrest. My family lived in Clark C ounty’s most mundane suburb, O r chards, surrounded by miles of tract housing, odd mixes of old and new construction, gun- toting country boys who measured manhood with chewing tobacco, and teen pregnancy. I cycled through lovers quickly, never lingering long, lest some eager courier get too attached for comfort. Besides, I hadn’t yet come out to my family, so the prospect of waltzing around Vancouver, boy on arm— I couldn’t fathom it. I’d save that for reprieve-hlled jaunts to Port land’s gay triangle. I dated older then, choosing suitors years my senior— at 21, you can have your pick. Stunted by a religious upbringing, I craved experience, so why not from mature men who (I naively thought) had seen and done every thing? Frank, one of them, grew quite fond of me; we even graduated to using the word “love.” One evening, at dusk, I arrived home from a rigorous day o f jean-folding at The Gap, sauntered into the kitchen, finding my mother frantically scrubbing already-glisten ing, clean dishes. Next to her, on the counter, sat an envelope— adorned with hearts and various garish love-themed décor. I recog nized Frank’s handwriting. It’s Not That He’s Just Not That Into You, It’s... lady about town Y DANIEL BORGEN Face toward the sink, pulled-back hair bob bing with every syllable, she nearly hissed: “W ho is Frank and why are there hearts all over that letter?” I explained the letter was from an overly aggressive coworker who mis takenly heard I fell ill— enough to temporarily dissuade my m other’s big gay fears. This wasn’t the first time I cooked up a big gay lie— earlier that summer I returned home from concert camping in the Gorge, covered in hickeys, courtesy of a nameless, handsome stranger. My tall tide: Some helpless girls needed their tent pitched, and they were overly grateful. Willful ignorance on my family’s part, they accepted any excuse I offered. I could come home covered in blood, holding bags o f cash, police sirens wailing in the distance, and I’d say, “So strange, these bags were just sitting outside.” My mother would nod, replying, “You should find the bags’ owners. And take a shower.” After the letter scare, I stopped re turning Frank’s calls. Too close for comfort. Fast forward to now. I’m at Café Nell, my Tickets Available ealbe i t APRIL 15. 2011 31 _ J Ä cause apparently today’s protocol entails'* lengthy Facebook stalking beforehand. Phone numbers mean business. I le and I went on a few great dates— roller skating, cocktails, im promptu bar crawls. And, in a situation eerily similar to Kevin’s, we had a mostly nonsexual sleepover, which resulted in next-day plans— which, similarly, morphed into non-plans. And canceled dates. ^ W hy so abruptly cease communication, sans explanation? Are we more upset when someone else ends things because we prefer to first— or are we perpetually chasing first- and second-date butterflies? Are we truly dis appointed by lack o f possibility or, instead, lack o f control? Do years o f experience cripple us, or make us better, more ready for prime- # time love? Perhaps our earliest experiences forever.brand us— and we’re destined to relive our past dating lives. To paraphrase C hristo pher Hitchens: There is no closure, for that would mean a very im portant part o f us died. So each person we care for carves a niche in our heart. I can live with that. A few weeks ago, I ran into love-letter-writing Frank at the supermarket, who predicted I’d be terri-- ” fied to call him. He gave me his number. I still haven’t called. I will, however, always re member that letter. JW friends’ de facto meeting spot, with Kevin, talking men. Nell’s coziness makes it ideal for catching up, or warming up for events like Cafeteria. Kevin, made-for-TV handsome, spoke of his most recent dating adventure. He and his latest enjoyed lovers’ dinners togeth er— complete with lengthy conversations, handholding, under-the-table foot games. The inaugural sleepover came; Kevin and his man held back, saving sex for later. His date’s “I’ll call you tomorrow” became I’ll call you never. Made plans became unmade. As we poured liquid therapy down our throats, Kevin la mented getting his hopes up: “The worst part? I liked him so much I didn’t care we didn’t fuck.” Momentous—because we love sex. My turn. Last Fat Tuesday, a gentleman approached me at Silverado (bad start, I know). I usually pay no mind to sloppy, drunken gropers there. This one, though, I didn’t recognize. Incredibly cute and charm ing— he even proved interesting. He pledged Yes, I have read H e’s Just Not That Into You. to find me. We didn’t exchange numbers, be- Stupid hook. Email daniel@justout.com. Okiwt TicketsWest «rit POWELL Jeffrey BROWN rick REMENDER «liai NICOLLE kraidei GRAHAM mil« CRABAPPLE pkil FOGLIO tarla speed erikaM randii FMI sarak^ __ DO YOU HAVE SOMETHING YOU WOULD NEVER GIVE UP? OBJECTS HAVE STORIES. TELL US VOURS. Aid Hindreds Saturdaq April isth & Sundaq April irth O re g o n C o n v e n tio n C e n te r • P o r t l a n d , O R More info al w w w s1umptowncomics.com! P O R T L A N D ART M U S E U M obiectstones.ram.on
