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About Just out. (Portland, OR) 1983-2013 | View Entire Issue (Nov. 11, 2011)
• voices • OREGON S LGBTO N EW S M A G A ZIN E N O VE M B ER 11, 2011 31 T # T S a m e F e e lin g s, O p p o s ite T im e s Many things work as typical harbingers of autumn. O ur summer vanishes in the blink of an eye, attention turns toward costumes and parties, daylight grows scarce— and all your friends seem to shack up, marking the official end to a- season-long search for comfort and warmth during cold, wet nights. Add a Portland exodus that’s gaining momentum (seriously, what’s in the water?), and you’ve got a poten tially disastrous end-of-year mix for the single ladies among us. Fortunately, there are ways to keep company—and survive—without renting U-Hauls. Call it an autumnal guide to dating. Grindr, the grass-is-always-greener app your recently hitched friends covet more than ever, rarely fails. Your coupled friends snatch away your phone during dinner, demanding access so they can “see who’s new, who’s on, w hat’s happening.” It’s of little consequence your only “high teas” (euphemism) of late con sist o f multiple lunchtime rendezvous with a ruggedly handsome, seemingly partnered— maybe married— man who refuses to disclose his real name. To satisfy curiosity, you might rifle through his things while he’s showering off your DNA. Faster, he ju st turned off the water. You find nothing (not even a wallet), and before de parting, he whispers this sweet nothing in your ear: “If you see me on the street, you don’t know me.” You do, naturally, see him on the street— in line for a queer film fest, actually— and kindly oblige. But you partake in seconds, thirds—determined to acquire knowledge. (And to keep him guessing, you like to leave last year's Red Dress getup, a camisole, on your bedroom floor.) W hen electronic approaches bore, turn to reliable nights out—your favorite being once- monthly, last-Tfiursdays Cafeteria, the brain child of an insanely talented LunchLady (who’s also moving) held at the city’s best dive bar, Vendetta. At Cafeteria, you see the expected droves of friendly faces, packed shoulder to shoulder, wall to wall; you’re neck-deep in strong drinks and stronger music. There, a friend, who also happens to oo-own the bar, introduces you to a boy who’s new to town. You engage, briefly, in small talk and your hopes creep up, so slightly—until the other gay piranhas smell blood and converge en masse onto the new boy from the eastern part of the state. As you’re elbowed and shouldered away, tram pled beneath a horde of ravenous men intent on being the last ones aboard the remaining life boat, you momentarily bemoan the loss o f a space available— it’s all chance, everyone’s merely engrossed in the work-like tunnel vi sion Gym evokes. Recently, my mother told my friend—who cuts her hair— that I am prone to giving way to complacency. Before you go accusing my moth er of not loving me, let me elaborate: She says dedication to familiarity makes it challenging for me to alter my routines (euphemism). I think she was talking about work. Regardless, I wondered how this applies to my adventures in dating. Has an infatuation with routine, with comfort, hindered my man-related fortunes? W hy can't I pick up and try new cities like my more adventurous counterparts? Elizabeth Gilbert— of Eat, Pray, Love fame— contends everyone's like this, consumed with emotional landscapes, consciously and subcon sciously wondering about connections missed and made. Perhaps she’s right. Regardless, I find solace in the fact that most everyone I know stumbled into their pairings, a dearth o f con certed effort. Dumb luck. O f late, in my periph ery, serious relationships have emerged from Grindr dates, online hookups and casual intro ductions at parties (the latter prompted a move). So perhaps a fair amount o f complacency—let's call it ease— isn't so detrimental after all. JW chance. But you remember there’s always Mari- con at Matador—just a few days away. Sometimes you don’t have the energy for long, intellectually rigorous conversations on G rindr and you need refuge after dance-heavy late nights. Enter the gymnasium: the best stress reducer not involving soda water and lime wedges. After months o f flirting, you’ve embarked on a meaningful courtship with weights and entered a part o f Gym you’ve never really explored. W hile deciphering foreign, nuanced weight room code, you’re wondering why the cute guy you danced with at Cafeteria is so boring and aloof—and uninterested— at the gym. You la ment when the chasm between drunken, af fected personality and sober counterpart is so damn wide. 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