A writer's journey of dating and living gay in Seattle exposed.
So there’s this guy that I’ll call The Stylist. Our meeting starts out as nothing more than a friendly, “Happy Birthday” gesture made on my Facebook timeline. I’m one of those people who has thousands of “friends” on the social networks, and The Stylist is one such “friend” who I don’t personally know. Nonetheless, his post comes at just the right time in the early morning (before it gets buried beneath thousands of other birthday messages) and I send him a private message thanking him for the kind gesture. Although I’m tired and just getting ready for bed (it’s 3 o’clock in the morning, mind you), he immediately responds to my message. He asks me where I’m at in Seattle (obviously noticing my location shown on my profile). I tell him that I’m in the northern part of the city, adding that I just moved here from Phoenix. Within seconds, he responds back with, “I used to live in Scottsdale. We should go for coffee or drinks soon.” I reply back from my smartphone since I can barely keep my eyes open and have already crawled into bed. “Sounds good. Send me your number and we’ll coordinate.”
This was going to be my first official date since first moving to this city a month ago.
But let us go to the beginning. Not really the beginning of it all; perhaps just an introduction. After all, you’ll understand me as we progress through this journey together. Hell, maybe you already know me if you’ve read my previous LGBT articles and columns. Again, I’m getting ahead of myself. Hi there, my name is Tristan Wilde. I know, odd last name; however, my father had a thing for the works of Oscar Wilde. Not to mention, the name sort of works with my sexual orientation. Anyway, I’m 6’2″, 174 lbs, ripped abs, 29-inch waist, 9 1/2 inches uncut. OK, so maybe I was remembering an ad from Craigslist while I was typing this. That’s not really me (well, for the most part). Honestly, I’m just a normal guy in a normal world. Gay…handsome…somewhat successful as a writer and novelist…single. Yeah, I’ve been single for almost three years and, ultimately, I’m kind of lonely. I got fed up with the gay politics of Phoenix (along with the racist/homophobic/womanizing politics of the Arizona government in general) and decided to make a fresh start here in Seattle. It was that simple. Although it had been a very long decision to move from Phoenix, it was executed as a moment of spontaneity. I simply up and went. Go where the day takes you and all that good shit. As long as I have WiFi, I have work. What I don’t have in my life is love. Thus, I started fresh in that department as well. And that’s the CliffsNotes version of me.
Now, back to where we were…
A week before my online introduction to The Stylist, I was talking with my best friend and his boyfriend about the gay culture in Seattle and how it differed so much from Phoenix. Of course, to be fair (or, rather unfair), I solely based this on the gay clubs to which my best friend and his partner had taken me in the weeks prior.
“These guys up here are so damn cliquish,” I’d explained to them.
“Maybe it’s time you get back to dating,” my best friend (who I’ll now refer to as Antonio) offered. He knows the horrors of my previous failed relationships and that I’ve been single for the last few years.
“And where the hell am I going to meet a decent guy? These bitches have their noses up in the air farther than the likes of any Paradise Valley queen!”
Trey, Antonio’s boyfriend of three years, intercepted the conversation. “We’ve showed you around Seattle. Maybe it’s time you start getting out there by yourself. Perhaps you’ll make new friends, if anything.”
Of course, I’m practically fed up with the gay culture I’d encountered to this point and wonder if I made a bad choice in spontaneously taking the plunge to move to this city. “Good idea,” I agreed. “I can’t base the entire gay population of Seattle on the attitudes of the snotty bitches at The Q, let alone the other clubs we’ve been to.”
“Actually…” Antonio joked.
I gave him my stare of death. You know the one I’m talking about–squinted eyes accentuating a expressionless face adorned by straight-lined, pursed lips. It hardly looks good on me. In fact, it makes me look like a bad actor in a some drag queen production. Nonetheless, my friends got the idea behind the look and laughed it away.
There’s a part of me that realized an internal conversation happening between my friends. It showed in the way their eyes locked for a minute, and I could almost read what they were thinking. First, they were obviously wishing me the best of luck because they knew what it was like in this city. They’d experienced the same cold shoulders and up-and-down glances of disapproval (of not being part of the exclusive, gay Seattlite clique) when they’d moved up to the city two years previous. Most importantly, I think they feared that I would never encounter the fun, energetic happiness I was so used to in Phoenix if I didn’t make an attempt of trying to reach out to the locals. Thus, I make it a point to give the guys of Seattle a chance. I reminded myself that there was more to the gay culture up here than after hours clubs and Craigslist hook-ups. At least, I continued to tell myself that for the time.
Fast forward to my communication with The Stylist.
After awakening from a random wet dream of two guys having their way with me, I am instantly turned on by the idea of meeting The Stylist. Sex. What the hell is that, anyway? It’s been so long since I seen another man’s dick. The idea of a gentleman (a man for whom I genuinely held feelings) making love to me seems like a fairy tale. Although I had lived out the reality of such fantasies in my past relationships, it has been some time since such an event has actually occurred.
In the days after our initial messaging back and forth, The Stylist and I exchange formal email addresses followed by phone numbers. Our first conversation on the phone immediately reveals our common ground. We both love ’80′s music, “Brat Pack” movies, wine, and walks on the beach. It’s all laughter and “Really? Me too!” for what must be hours. It seems as if we’re two old, best friends from junior high school that have accidentally run into one another after years.
Finally, I ask him, “So what do you do?”
“I’m a hair stylist,” he boasts. I think, OK, I’ve never dated a hair stylist before and am suddenly missing my personal stylist, Angie, from Phoenix. I try to make a mention of her, but it seems I open a can of worms in asking him what he does for a living. He takes control of the conversation, telling me about his clients, and the posh salons in which he has worked while living in Scottsdale and here in Seattle. He talks about the things he hates about his clients–those who always want to go against his advice and the others who come in with pictures of celebrities, hoping to look just like their idols once their new do has been executed (“They’re always disappointed that their second chin doesn’t disappear with the new haircut,” he adds). It’s the first time I hear a fierce sarcasm and bitchiness in his voice. And my slight laughter goes unnoticed as he continues.
Twenty minutes easily passes and, to avoid slipping into a coma, I walk over to my laptop and start perusing the social networks. Another five minutes before he comes to a halt and asks if I’m still there. Should I be? I think. Realizing I’ve gotten through the brunt of his explanation of his job duties and a rundown of his clients (in all honesty, when a person says they’re a hair stylist, one usually gets the general idea), I say, “Of course. I was just listening to you.”
“Sorry,” he laughs, “I didn’t mean to talk your ear off.”
“It’s all right,” I lie.
“So what is it that you do for a living?”
“I’m an author.”
“Oh, a writer.” The way he says the word makes it sound as if I committed a felony.
“Sure. I prefer ‘author’ or ‘novelist.’”
“Do you have any thing published?”
I want to die. No, I want to say. You just asked me what I did for a living. I thought my answer was pretty much cut and dry. ”Yes, I have a couple novels published and I also write for a LGBT publication.”
“Oh, so you write gay porn?” Again, he with an accusatory tone.
“My non-fiction writing is primarily gay-oriented. You know, politics, marriage equality and the like. My fiction novels touch more on the supernatural side.”
“Oh. Oh.” Silence. “So that horror stuff? I don’t watch that crap.”
Watch? Dear, what part of author do you not understand? I feel a bit awkward and, instead of trying to defend the horror genre I simply say, “It’s what I do and I enjoy it.”
“Anyway,” he quickly changes the subject. “When are we going to hang out?”
I already don’t like that the term is ‘hang out’ instead of ‘date.’ “You mean go on a date?”
“Sure.”
We set up a time for the upcoming Tuesday (since he is off work that day). Soon after, we exchange our goodbyes and I realize we were on the phone for practically four hours. I think about the common denominators we have (with the exception of his not liking horror). Four out of five isn’t bad.
The day before the date with The Stylist, I make some necessary changes to my weekly routine before our Tuesday date (or “hangout”). I wash my laundry, run errands, and visit the grocery store (my usual Tuesday routine moved a day ahead). I decide to work on my current novel late into the evening, knowing I won’t be able to for most of the next day. I also confirm my date with The Stylist via text.
Tuesday morning comes. One of my routines that never changes is checking my email over coffee. That morning, I go to my email account and, amid the fan mail and messages from my editor, I see an email from The Stylist. I open it to find: “I’m not flaking on you. Just wondering if we can schedule for next week instead.” Last minute bullshit. I want to scream. I took the time to completely change my schedule for what? The Stylist doesn’t bother offering a reason he’s wanting to postpone. He can at least give me that!
In my instant frustration, I reply back to The Stylist’s email with a simple: “Don’t bother.”
Within minutes, my Lady Gaga “Government Hooker” ringtone announces a new call. It’s The Stylist. As I contemplate answering, I question why I even attempted this whole dating thing in the first place. The call goes to voicemail. Ten seconds later, my cell phone rings. Again, it’s The Stylist. “Here we go,” I say. I use the lyrics of the ringtone as my shield from the inevitable. It’s at this point that I realize that as different as the gay culture might be from my hometown, there are some aspects of it that never change.
That night, I go to bed debating if I should call The Stylist the next day. But then I quickly remind myself that, for the first time in my life, I’m in control of my choices. It took me a long time to realize that–many years of relationships that will (probably one day) become books all their own. This city isn’t going to change me; rather, I am going to change this city.
I smile as I drift off to sleep. And that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? The smile brought on from a joyousness in knowing that you made the right choices and are aware of your worth. For it is that when we find happiness within ourselves, when that smiles comes from within us and not from the gestures of another, that is the moment in which others notice us. That is the moment when we truly know who we are.
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The journey continues next Friday!
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