The Fox and the Hound
I am writing to you live on location from Chinatown. I have been here the past week dog-sitting my pooch nephew CLARK. I can report to you now that he is going buck wild with his blue ball and I am sipping on a civilized glass of red wine. Outside the rain is pouring, but that is okay – because it makes me feel less guilty about watching Netflix and finishing the rest of the bottle of wine.
As always, CLARK and I have enjoyed our time together, immensely. While his immediate family has been sipping Mai Tai’s on a beach in Hawaii, we have been busy catching up on shows, cruising hotties on the seawall and discussing the meaning of life at two in the morning over Tanqueray martinis and dog biscuits. The two of us even managed to RSVP to a dinner party at my best friend Maggie’s house in Burnaby. While there is no doubt I will miss the handsome pooch when I go, there is a time when a gay man must return to the West End.
Apart from restocking the Fox Den with groceries and more toilet paper, I am pleased to announce that I also have a couple of dates lined up with Gentlemen Callers. I am not sure what happened, I suspect some gigantic shift in the universe, but somehow in the last five months, I have turned into somewhat of a stud. Now, I recognize the fact that I just typed that completely contradicts my case; but allow me to explain.
This same time last year, I would be sitting in a coffee shop, staring at a blank screen and pining over any man that sat within stalking distance of me. Or I would be standing in a gay bar, chugging a glass of prosecco and “accidentally” bumping into men just to feel human contact. Then, inevitably, I would return home to the basement with a bottle of red wine and the next episode of Gilmore Girls.
Nowadays I am playing in a completely different ball game, literally. For starters, I am actually using words when talking to men. The other night, I said “hello” to the DJ at 1181 and gave him my phone number because he was standing right next to me. I also started monitoring my wine consumption, in an effort to be more hot and less mess. While I have still have a ways to go, I believe I have been making excellent strides in my performance as a confident, well-adjusted thirty-something gay man.
Looking back at my twenties, I can’t help but want to kick myself for all the time I spent worrying! Ten years ago, it would have taken me three days to get ready for a date. I would stop eating so I didn’t have to the gym, obsess over my T-Zone, and lay out multiple outfit options before having my friends vote on the final one. Now all I do to prepare for a date is put on a pair of pants and wipe down the washroom sink.
I spoke with Mama Fox the other night and, while it is true that she would like me to meet a David Furnish or David Burtka one day, I reassured her that she has nothing to worry about. I have had a handsome pooch to cook dinner for all week, and dates lined up with humans into March.
