(Jet City Boy Culture) The Vulnerability Factor!

A writer's journey of dating and living gay in Seattle exposed.

by Tristan Wilde 

They say that one of the key factors in finding true love is to allow yourself to be vulnerable. One must go into meeting his or her potential partner without any emotional baggage or unresolved feelings for past relationships. It’s neither a Pacific Northwest nor Southwest etiquette to dating; rather, it’s part of the universal code of love. I’ve seen it many times–the potential for a relationship between two people who appeared to have been “made for each other,” only to find that one was still hung-up on his ex. Metaphorical walls around the heart would block certain elements of an emotional connection. Thus, the potential for said relationship came to a halt. It could have been love, but the power of love lost has a voracious appetite that doesn’t let up if you fight it. Let it eat. Feel the pain. Endure. Move on. Only then are you ready for the potential of a new relationship.


I once had a heart of stone (for some reason, I’m always reminded of that Cher song by the same name that was so popular in the ’80′s). After enduring a long-term relationship filled with physical abuse and another comprised of mental abuse, it took two years of therapy, self-defense, and a year long quest of self-realization to lower those walls. I wasn’t exactly the nicest guy in those days. In fact, I was pretty much an asshole to any guy I met. Whether they wanted me as their whipping boy or an anonymous fuck, in my mind, every guy was out to take advantage of me. Since then, I finally reached a point in which I lowered my walls. At this time, they’re practically non-existent. I say that because I still think their might be a brick or two left as a reminder of that the walls can easily be rebuilt. There remnants of those walls, enough to keep my emotions safe, but not enough to hold a grudge. Thus, I knew I couldn’t hold a grudge against The Stylist for, despite what he said, flaking out on our date.

Two days pass since my last communication with The Stylist, and I decide that I can now reply to his texts. I let him know that I’m a bit disappointed that we couldn’t get together that past Tuesday. I get an apology from him, so that’s good enough for me. He responds by saying that he understands and that he might be available later this evening. Let’s try this again, I think. Of course, I do my best to not hold my breath. After all, he states that he “might” be available. Not to mention, I’m busy working on a deadline for a story to be submitted to one of my editors. Essentially, we’re flying blind into nothing more than a possibility.

As the day progresses, I get through my re-writes without a hitch. As a writer, there are days in which the muse fully cooperates. This is one of those days. After several hours, I send off the final draft of my latest short story to my editor and feel a celebration is in order. I decide to text The Stylist and see how the events of his day have transpired. He quickly replies (it seems he responds within seconds to all my texts; perhaps he realizes I’m not fucking around). Nonetheless, his response is “I can’t make it tonight. I have to work later than anticipated. Let’s plan for another night.” While I’m slightly disappointed by this, I respect the fact that The Stylist earlier mentioned it was not a definite date. Nothing had been set in stone.

Regardless of not being able to get together with The Stylist, I’m feeling accomplished from meeting my deadline (as I always do) and am itching to go out. Thus, I decide to beautify for the evening. Realizing it’s late in the afternoon, I quickly take a shower. I throw on a pair of Diesel Tepphar Slim blue jeans, a tight black v-neck, a Marc Ecko jacket, and slip on some leather Prada loafers. I grab one of my many Pierre Cardin scarves to accentuate the outfit. Not to mention, it’s winter and a bit chilly out. Yes, not only have I’ve been accused of being a “label queen” on many occasions, but I’ve also been known to successfully blend my labels without offending any “fashionistas.” If it’s any consolation, I make sure to wear a pair of Diesel underwear.

One of the many things I’ve grown to appreciate about this city is the public transit system that exists. From buses to light rails to monorails to ferries–it seems that the transit system acts as the veins to this city. Traveling from one point to the heart of Seattle is possible from almost any part of the city or its suburbs. This especially acts as a benefit for me, as I refuse to drink and drive. On the other hand, one of the downfalls of the local transit system is the fact that most buses stop running after 11:30pm on weeknights. That thought in mind, I check the schedule for the local route from my home base to a bar I’ve grown to love…R Place. The time is nearly four o’clock. I figure I could catch the early crowd at R Place, possibly have real conversation with some of the locals sitting at the bar before the industrial beats of the late-evening DJ has everybody moving to the the dance floor (located on the third floor) and before “A.S.S.” (the Amateur Strip Show) begins. I have ten minutes to make it to the nearby bus stop. I also make note that the last bus to get me back to my side of town is at 11:35pm (plenty of time to indulge in drinks and conversation).

Before I leave the apartment, I grab a small amount of money from my secret stash located in my bedroom closet. If there’s one thing I learned about going out to a bar or club, it’s to not bring debit or credit cards. There have been a number of nights in the past in which I’ve easily spent hundreds of dollars on a single night out. Since then, the rule of thumb has been: when the cash is gone, it’s time to go home. I’m almost out the door when I stop by my bathroom to spray a decent amount of Emporio Armani cologne upon my neck and shirt. Now I’m ready to have a good time.

I catch the 358 express bus downtown. Although I’m still trying to find my bearings in this city, I keep the GPS on my cell running as I am entertained by the techno-driven beats of my latest Spotify playlist. Seriously, what’s a twenty-first century guy to do without his smartphone? Thirty-three minutes and one bus transfer later, I’m in the heart of Capitol Hill (the gay mecca of the Jet City) and entering the doors of R Place. Not only is this the first time I’ve been to this particular bar by myself, but it’s the first time I’ve been able to enter the bar without having to pay a cover charge to a door-person (another minor benefit of my early arrival).

I sit at the bar and order an appletini. While it’s not my typical drink of choice, my celebratory mood begs me to step outside the standard. I order top shelf vodka for my drink (Grey Goose, or course); after all, I anticipate feeling pretty damn good after four drinks. The vintage video for Madonna’s “Lucky Star” is playing on both televisions on either side of the bar and provides the only source of music. The second and third floors are currently closed. This is the quietest I’ve ever seen R Place. Then again, I typically arrive after 9pm with friends to hit the dance floor (usually resulting in closing down the bar by 2am then hitting Neighbors or The Cuff for after hours dancing until 4am).

There’s an often unspoken stigma surrounding the Seattle gay culture. It results in a bond formed by those gay men born and raised in the Jet City. In the few attempts I’ve made in trying to engage in typical discussion with the locals, it seems one of the the first questions that automatically pops up is ‘Where are you from?’ Any answer besides ‘Seattle’ typically results in a passive aggressive cold shoulder. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not trying to stereotype the gay culture of this city. However, that has been my experience thus far; notwithstanding that the same experiences have been explained to me by other non-locals. Still, I have faith that I’m wrong in this assessment.

A group of guys are huddled near the corner of the bar, their chairs turned toward each other as they raucously laugh. I can immediately tell they are regulars by the way the bartender jokes with them and calls many of them by name. At this point, I’ve already downed two drinks and am feeling chatty. One of the guys makes a joke and they all laugh (one, practically choking on his drink). I slightly chuckle, then don a smirk. This immediately gets the attention of the guy next to me.

“You’re cute,” he announces as he turns to me (as if he hasn’t seen me sitting here next to him for the past twenty minutes). “You smell good too!” The laughter of the group comes to a halt as their attention becomes focused on me.

“Thanks,” I laugh.

The stranger extends his hand. “I’m, Mike.” I can smell the whisky on his breath.

I introduce myself and am officially greeted by Mike’s hand grabbing my ass. “I haven’t noticed you around before.” Obviously a regular.

“Me or my ass?” I ask him.

Mike erupts into a laughter that echoes throughout the bar. “And you’re funny too?”

“Yes, I tend to have a sense of humor.”

“Are you in town visiting?”

“No. I moved to Seattle from Phoenix a couple months back.”

“Oh. OK.” There’s a slight disappointment accentuating his words. Yep, he’s a local.

I decide to not let my non-local status create a barrier between us. In fact, I’m determined to crack through the invisible force field that surrounds so many of these gay Seattlelites. Perhaps they can offer some insight into the local dating scene of which I’m not aware. “Oh, don’t tell me you’re one of them.”

“One of who?”

“Let me guess, you were probably born and raised here, right?”

Mike nods.

“Then can you please share with me how one becomes part of the exclusive clique of snotty bitches that think they’re better than those not from Seattle?”

Mike chuckles. “It’s true, the local guys tend to form their own circles. It’s a territorial thing.”

“But we’re not dogs.”

“You’re great,” he laughs again. With that, he begins introducing me to his group of friends. “He’s from Phoenix, but he’s a cool guy,” he adds. It’s as if Mike’s introduction of me to his friends is the stamp of approval that lets them know that it’s all right to speak to me.

Before I know it, I’m being engaged in conversation left and right. From ‘Why did you move to Seattle?’ to ‘What do you do for a living?’–it seems the guys are taking interest in getting to know who I am. I feel a good in knowing that I might have met a whole new group of potential friends. After all, one can never have too many friends.

I consume two more drinks before Mike’s hand makes its way back to my ass. Not only is he not my type (he’s probably ten years older than what I would go for) but I plan on going home alone. Thus, I ignore the gesture. “So,” he asks, “do you have a boyfriend?” If I had a boyfriend, your hand would not be on my ass, I kept to myself.

“No, I’ve just begun to start dating.”

“So you have a boyfriend then.”

“Uh, no. As I said, I’m dating.”

Mike looks awfully confused, and I wonder if his drunkenness is eclipsing his ability to understand me.

“Honey,” one of his friends calls out over the group, “if you’re dating, then you have a boyfriend.”

Now I’m the one who is confused. I stand back from Mike and address the group. “OK, what is it with that word up here? It seems that nobody wants to call a date a ‘date.’” Their attention refuses to waver as I try to explain myself. “It’s like the guy I’m been trying to go out with. Every time I call it a date, he refers to it as a ‘hang-out.’”

“Like going out for dinner?” Another one of the group chimes in. “Yeah, you’re going to hang out?”

“You hang out with your friends. If I’m going to dinner with a guy I have an interest in, it’s called a date,” I respond.

“If you’re dating somebody, then you’re not seeing anybody else.”

I laugh. “That’s called a relationship.”

“If you’re dating more than one person, that makes you a tramp,” another explains. The entire group breaks into laughter.

At that point, I order another drink and decide not to make any further attempt at deciphering the lingo of the local culture. Instead, I share in on the group’s laughter and discuss random subjects that gradually become more sexual in nature as more drinks are consumed. Another drink becomes two and then three. I’m having a great time with Mike and his friends and don’t bother realizing that a crowd is forming around us, let alone that the upstairs floors have been opened.

I pay for one final appletini and tip the bartender as I realize that the only cash I have left is reserved for my bus fare home. As I take my first sip of the sweet drink, I hear the alert from my cell phone that warns me of a low battery. I pull the phone from the inside pocket of my jacket and instantly notice the time. 11:31pm. My heart races in the realization that I have four minutes to walk two blocks in order to catch the final bus heading north.

I stand from my bar stool and am suddenly feeling the rush of alcohol hit me almost all at once. “Well, guys,” I quickly announce, “I have to get going. It was nice meeting you all.” A number of “You too” and “See ya” phrases are returned from the group.

As I walk past Mike, he grabs me by my waist and spins me around. “You want to hang out some time?”

“I’ll be around,” I hastily say as I turn and make my way to exit R Place. I feel bad for giving him the brush-off like that. He is a nice guy. However, I’m in an extreme rush.

I quickly make my way down Pine Street, constantly checking the time on my cell phone which now reads 11:36pm. No sooner than I reach the street where the bus will be making its last pick-up, do I see the red tailights of the bus disappear down the road. Fuck! This is that oh-my-god moment in which a great evening instantly goes to shit. Not only do I miss the last bus of the evening, I have a total of $2.25 in my pocket, no debit or credit cards, and a cell phone that’s about to die.

My world slows to a crawl as my drunken mind races to figure out a solution. Considering I don’t have much juice left in my cell phone, I know I need to immediately call my friends, Antonio and Trey. Surely, they can come and pick me up.

“Hello?” Antonio answers.

“Hey,” I say. “I need a big favor from you guys.” I explain the situation. However, both Antonio and Trey have been drinking tonight. Driving thirty miles to pick me up instantly becomes a bad idea.

“Call a cab,” he suggests.

“I have no cash on me,” I remind him.

“Shit. What are you going to do?”

“You know what? Don’t worry about it. I’ll figure something out.” I hang up. I remember that The Stylist lives somewhere downtown and call his number. I instantly get directed to his voicemail and don’t bother leaving him a message.

My nerves get the best of me. I feel like vomiting. I take deep breaths to calm myself. I haven’t a clue as to what I’m going to do, so I start walking. While I’m still not too familiar with the layout of Seattle, I do know that if I make my way down from Capitol Hill, I can eventually reach the heart of the city. A little over a half hour later, the skyscrapers of downtown tower over me and make me feel protected. Call it being drunk, I have no clue; but, for some unknown reason, I am at peace.

There’s something about this city at night that cannot be described. It can only be felt. To witness the city during the twilight hours, when practically the rest of its population are sleeping, one is subject to a different perspective of life. Sure, there are the number of derelicts roaming the streets and pandering for money. Still, to be alive in this city at night, to truly see the city at rest, allows you to have an appreciation easily taken for granted during the day.

I turn down a side-street and take notice of the different cafes and shops (all closed). I observe a guy leaning against a stop-sign who glances up at my approach. As I pass him by, the pungent smell of the pot he’s smoking invades my nostrils.

“Hey,” I hear him call from behind me.

I come to a halt and head back in his direction. “What’s up?” I casually ask.

“You want some of this?” He offers me the joint he’s been toking.

“No thanks. I’m fucked up as it is.”

“What are you on?”

“Appletinis.”

He laughs. “That’s funny.”

“Yeah, well.”

“So, are you on your way home then?”

“Actually, that’s an interesting story in itself. It could take some time to explain.” I feel a bit paranoid from his smoking pot in public and scan the perimeter for any police cruisers that might happen to pass by. The last thing I need is to be ticketed, let alone arrested.

“I have all night.”

Me too, I think.

“I’m Wes, by the way.” He offers me his hand. Wes is a good-looking guy. He’s six-foot, has dark brown hair that almost reaches his shoulders, and eyes the color of caramel. In fact, his eyes appear as if they’re glowing. His features are hatchet-sharp. I can’t help but wonder how an obvious twenty-something guy with his looks can be homeless.

“Nice to meet you. I suppose I have all night as well. It looks like I’m stranded here for the evening.”

“Wow,” he excitedly replies. “So I’m not the only one whose friends abandoned him fifty miles from home?”

I immediately feel bad for thinking of him as homeless. “Well, it is kind of my fault. I lost track of time and missed the bus.”

He offers me a cigarette. Although I quit smoking some time back, my stress levels have me grabbing for it as quickly as he produces it. He lights it without thinking twice. “I have half a joint, six cigarettes, a dead cell phone, and five bucks (almost half of which is for bus fare in the morning). That’s leaves me with $2.75. I’ll never leave my debit card at home again.”

For the first time in the past hour, I find myself uncontrollably laughing. “Me too! Lesson learned, right? Let’s see, I have bus fare and a dead cell phone as well.”

His innocent smile instantly attracts me.”You think we’ll make it through the night?”

“I think we’ll be fine,” I assure.

“Let’s go,” he says as he begins walking.

“Where?”

“Wherever you want? Is there any place you want to go besides home?”

My gaze is fixed on the glow of the Space Needle in the distance. “Well, I’ve always wanted to see the Space Needle.”

Wes stops in his tracks and turns to me. “You’ve never been to the Space Needle?”

“I’ve driven past it many times, but haven’t had the chance to visit it yet. I just moved up here a couple months ago,” I explain.

“Then the Space Needle it is.”

“Isn’t it closed?”

“Nonsense,” he laughs. “Looks like I’ll be your tour guide for the evening. By the way, you smell good.”

“Thanks. It’s Armani.”

“Of course it is,” he chuckles.

We walk through the city at night, beneath the glass and steel towers, talking and laughing like old best friends. Wes tells me he plays guitar in a band. I tell him I used to play drums. We discuss horror movies and he asks me what my books are about. He reminds me of a mature version of the guy I used to be back in junior high school–long hair, graphic concert shirts, ripped jeans–you know, the glam rock look of the ’90′s in all its glory.

After finally making it to the Space Needle, he walks me along the grounds beneath the magnificent structure. We come to a halt and he looks up. “There’s your Space Needle.”

I put my head all the way back to glance at the top. From this perspective, the beams remind me of vertebrae. “It’s fantastic.”

“Come on; I want to show you a better view.”

I follow him without thinking twice.

The distance between us and the Space Needle grows as we walk up the streets of Queen Anne. Before I know it, he directs me into a wooded area I assume is a park. However, the cover of night allows for very little visibility. At that moment, I almost panic. Shit. What are you doing? You’re in the middle of nowhere with a guy you don’t know! “So where’s this view?”

“Up here,” Wes says. “Keep going forward.”

The realization that he is behind me doesn’t set well with my increasing paranoia. I try to let the thoughts go as quickly as they entered my mind, but it is to no avail. Finally, I accept the reality of the situation and give in. “If you brought me out here to murder me, at least don’t shoot me in the back of the head.”

“What if I did bring you out here for that reason?”

“I would say, ‘go right ahead.’ I’m at peace with life and all I have accomplished.”

“You writers and your overactive imaginations,” he replies. “You’re silly.”

We reach a clearing. It’s as if we entered a park hidden in the middle of the woods.

“Look,” Wes points out. To the left of the clearing, the Space Needle stands in full view, beautifully glowing. Wes must have noticed the expression of wonder upon my face. “You really like it, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” I say as if in a trance. “I don’t know why. There’s just something about it.”

Wes grabs my shoulder to divert my attention. “Come over here.” He takes me to a slanted slab of a rock upon which he proceeds to rest against. “Lay down here and look up.” I do as he tells me (he hasn’t led me wrong thus far). The skies are clear and millions of stars gleam down upon us like precious stones. “This is what it’s all about. This is the night,” he tells me.

We lie next to each other throughout the wee hours of the night. We make small talk as the pink and orange tints of the coming morning begins to ignite the darkness. “Are you ready to go?”

“Where?” I ask.

“The buses should be running by now.”

On our way to the central bus terminal, Wes stops by a convenient store and buys me a cup of coffee. From there, we make our way through a city now awake. Traffic on the street increases along with the number of well-dressed pedestrians on their way to their downtown, corporate jobs. We arrive at the bus terminal in no time.

“So, you’re heading north, so that’s where the bus should pick you up.” He points toward the south side of the station.

“And you?”

“I’m heading the opposite way.”

I’m disappointed by our having to say goodbye. “Do you want to exchange numbers?”

“Our phones are dead, remember?”

“Yeah. OK. Well, I guess I might see around some time. Perhaps the next time I’m stranded in Seattle.” We share a small laugh. “Thanks for showing me the Space Needle.” I extend my hand. Wes grabs it and pulls me against him, giving me a hug. I pull back and our gazes lock. I’m lost in those caramel eyes and, before I can say a word, Wes brings his lips to mine and we kiss. Giddiness fills my insides for what seems like a minute before Wes pulls back. “I have to go now. See you around.”

As he walks away I call out to him. “Hey, if you ever need to get a hold of me, just go to my website. Better yet, Google me. I’m easy to find on the Internet.” He turns back and dons a smile that could make a heart melt. Goodbye, Wes.

On the bus ride home, I do my best to keep my eyes open. Without any music from my dead smartphone, I”m left with the raw thoughts that come in the early morning. How can I claim to have even the smallest portion of a wall guarding me? I just spent the night giving my full trust to a man that I’d never met before. I spent the night at the mercy of this vast city. I gave in to both. They say that one of the key factors in finding true love is to allow yourself to be vulnerable. In one evening, I found such love in a stranger and in my new hometown. As much as I hope to see Wes again, I can’t help but feel I never will. But this place, this city, it will always be here for me.
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The journey continues on Friday, January 18, 2013!

NOTE: Jet City Boy Culture will be posted every Friday to this blog (simultaneously along with its print counterpart). Though Jet City Boy Culture is a non-fiction column, some names and locations have been changed to protect the innocent (and the guilty). Again…names and locations. Everything else is fact through the eyes of the writer.