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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
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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
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