by Rick R. Reed
Ethan lingered over this message from such an energetic and dim-witted young man. He was almost breathless with shock. It was one thing to be a slut, quite another to be a reckless one. Where had this poor hungry soul been for the last two or three decades? Hadn’t he heard of HIV and AIDS? Or did he just not care? Ethan knew there were gay men out there who were not always as careful as he, but this fella took carelessness to whole new levels.
Ethan was tempted to respond and give the young man some pointers on condoms, but handing out safe-sex lessons was not part of his agenda for this little experiment. Part of him wondered if he should just go ahead anyway and lecture the guy, but Ethan knew the fact of the matter was this fellow simply did not care, and he probably did not care because he was already infected with the dreaded virus. And, Ethan surmised, didn’t care who else he infected along his bottoms-up course.
After reading two messages from men who wanted to get a little “on the side” and wondered how discreet Ethan could be, Ethan was almost ready to give up in despair, although for entirely different reasons than he had only yesterday. Where once he wondered where all the gay men were, he now wondered where all the decent ones were, the ones who weren’t either so low on self-esteem they needed a booty bump of confidence or so sexually promiscuous, horny, and indiscriminate that they truly were no different from a cocker spaniel in heat.
And then he opened a message that gave him cause for celebration. There was, it seemed, at least one gay man out there like himself: possessed of maturity, scruples, and a love for romance. There existed, it seemed, a man who was not ready to jump into bed with the first Tom, Dick, or Harry who happened along, but someone who actually—wonder of wonders—wanted to get to know a potential bedmate a little first, to see if maybe there was an emotional and intellectual connection beyond the physical.
Ethan read the message over again….
Good morning!
I don’t see many profiles that I actually want to write to, whether that’s from shyness or pickiness, I’ll let you decide. But there was something about yours that caught my eye. Yes, yes, I did notice how easy you are on the eyes… and speaking of eyes, yours are quite magical, drawing me in right from my computer monitor. But it was your description that really made me want to write. I liked what you said about appreciating things like candles, flowers, and candy. I liked what you said about how spending a quiet evening at home with a special someone stood head and shoulders above an evening out at the bars. I liked how you preferred an evening of theater and a quiet dinner over “louder” pursuits. I especially identified with your longing for a stable future with a special man, one who could appreciate and embody at least some of the above. These days, that’s a rare quality.
Your profile message spoke to my heart, Ethan! Like you, I am a man of a certain age (forty-five), and like you, I had just about given up on ever finding that special someone. Men have come and gone throughout the years, and no one was quite right. No one ever truly shared the premium I place on things like romance and fidelity (especially not that last one). None of them were ever really honest and genuine, the way I am.
Ethan sucked in a little air on that last line. He kept reading.
So when I came across you, I wanted to dance a little jig and sing a few bars of that old Etta James chestnut “At Last.” But I was afraid my coworkers would look at me a little more strangely than they already do.
Ethan, like you, I am a quiet man who takes great pleasure in life’s simple things: good food, good conversation, a shared bottle of wine. On the weekends, you can usually find me (if it’s sunny) biking along the lakefront or on the Green Bay Trail. (I actually prefer the latter, especially in the summer and fall—it’s leafier and much, much quieter.) If it’s rainy, I’m usually curled up on the couch either reading (and I love, love, love that you’re a fan of Patricia Highsmith; I’ve read everything she’s written!) or watching a good movie. We share the same tastes there as well. Give me Bette, Joan, Norma, or Rosalind (and I know you don’t need last names!) over a Meryl, Julia, Sally, or Hilary any day. And I admit it: I can be a big crybaby during the course of a good weeper.
I am probably rambling on more than I should, but I really did want you to know how excited I was to finally find a man of substance and quality on wingpeople. I can count on one hand the number of men I have met through here (or any other site), and I hope that you and I can get acquainted very soon. But I like to take things slow, so let’s hold off for a bit on a face-to-face and get to know each other a little first.
The ball’s in your court, Ethan. I hope to hear from you very soon.
With warm regards, Brian
Ethan closed his eyes. He didn’t know whether to be elated or extremely depressed. Here was the kind of man Ethan was beginning to think was extinct: thoughtful, considerate, cultured… and in all the right ways. Kindness seemed to radiate from the screen as he read the short, well-composed letter. It was more than Ethan had hoped for. The horny come-ons and the flattery, he had fully expected, but he had not anticipated finding someone who, from his very first message, screamed soul mate.
So caught up was Ethan in the email from Brian, he hadn’t even clicked on the thumbnail photo that accompanied it. Was this a first, Ethan wondered, in gay history? Reading the message and then looking at the picture? Oh, stop being so cynical, Ethan! The evidence is staring you right in the face that not all gay men are superficial, not all gay men rely just on the physical. And yet he couldn’t help but wonder if this Brian would have written him had he left his old photo—his real photo—posted. Brian had not written him yesterday, when his actual face had been out there for the world to see. So what, Ethan? Maybe Brian is not like Bubbles and does not spend every waking moment seeing what fresh meat has appeared on wingpeople! Maybe he just logged on today for the first time in weeks. And maybe, just maybe, he would have responded to your original ad. You dimwit.
Ethan clicked on the thumbnail, and his thoughts of Brian responding to his original message were immediately dashed. In the thumbnail, he saw only a blond man with human features. But blown up to clearer size, he saw that Brian was an equal to his new online persona in the looks department. He was handsome in a Nordic sort of way, with thick blond hair, brown eyes, a face that was all delightful angles and planes, and a lopsided smile that was deliriously sexy. He had a kind of younger Redford/Nolte thing going on. The contrast of his dark brown eyes and pale hair was riveting. Ethan clicked on the link that revealed Brian’s online profile and was paradoxically thrilled and dismayed to see they liked all the same kinds of things. The movies and books Brian had already mentioned, but he also loved the dark, quirky plays of Neil LaBute and had a real taste for unusual ethnic cuisine, like Ethiopian and Vietnamese. His favorite travel destination—Paris—meshed perfectly with Ethan’s, even though it was a place he had only imagined going. He felt like he had been there anyway, having watched the film Paris, je t’aime over and over again.
Brian was the perfect man. And he probably would never look twice at Ethan. Ethan stared down at the glass top of his desk and saw his dim reflection looking back up at him with disapproval. You’re an idiot. No wonder you’re alone. Look at the mess you’ve made of things in only two days.
In despair, Ethan shut off his computer, wondering if he would ever have the courage to turn it on again. Before he switched it off, he noticed he had another rash of new emails, all probably from adorable, smart, witty, kind, and sensitive men who were all dying to know the handsome and distinguished Ethan—the one who didn’t exist.
Ethan dropped his clothes on the floor as he walked slowly to his futon and then collapsed on it, praying the oblivion of sleep would come quickly. Tomorrow he would call his friend Mary and see if she was up for dinner and a movie this weekend. Maybe he would check out the Pets section of Craigslist and see, after all, if there wasn’t nonjudgmental companionship of the four-legged variety awaiting him there.
But sleep eluded Ethan,
always just out of reach, no matter which side he lay on or if he lay prone on his back, where the stark white ceiling mocked him. He tossed; he turned. He flung the covers off. He pulled them back up to his chin ten minutes later. He thought briefly about masturbating and decided it wasn’t worth the effort and the mess. Besides, he was bored—and not bored stiff!—with the cinematic opus of Miss Chi Chi LaRue and the silky slipperiness of Queen Helene Cocoa Glow with Aloe.
At about 4:00 a.m., Ethan sat up, eyes wide open and staring into the darkness. The chances of his going to sleep, he realized, were about as good as resembling the identical twin brother of his online persona.
Four in the morning, Ethan had observed, was an hour when odd ideas and notions came to him. It was something about the quiet, the feeling that the whole world was asleep other than him. And maybe such thoughts led him to his computer, with the idea of writing back to Brian. Again he wondered, what would be the harm? It might be nice to have a good-looking, cultured, and just plain nice pen pal for a change. Hadn’t many great romances been sustained from writing to one another? Hadn’t many been forged on epistolary seduction and canoodling? Just because he couldn’t think of any right offhand didn’t mean they weren’t out there. If that’s what he would have to settle for, then so be it. And who knew? Maybe in the deluge of messages his new, handsomer persona was bringing in, there would be one who would care little about things like looks—or honesty. Don’t forget honesty, Ethan.
Well, maybe there wouldn’t be such a man.
But Brian was out there somewhere. And it would be rude to not at least acknowledge his kind overture.
So he sat down, powered up his computer, and clicked on the big blue e to take him to Internet Explorer. In just a few minutes, he was composing what he thought was a remarkably clear-headed response to Brian’s email, in spite of the ungodly hour.
Hello Brian,
I must admit I was charmed by your warm message to me, so charmed, in fact, that I have been at a loss for words for the past several hours. Part of me wanted to think that you were simply too good to be true. And that same part wanted to convince me that you were some figment of my imagination, an email phantom brought on by wishing very hard that someone such as yourself might get in touch with me. I have long despaired of such a thing ever happening. I have a confession to make—
And here Ethan paused, wondering if he should just go ahead and lay out his hand, beg for forgiveness for his duplicity, and try with whatever persuasive powers he could muster up to convince Brian that at least his intentions were honorable, if not so much his actions. He wondered if just using the phrase “I have a confession” was his subconscious telling him to go ahead and be an honorable man, get the truth out, and see if the universe would reward him. So he continued…
I have a confession to make, and that’s the fact that one of my guiltiest pleasures is Judge Judy. Now you may be wondering why I bring that up at this point. But one thing this honorable, tell-it-like-is lady always says is: “If it doesn’t make sense, it isn’t true.”
And here Ethan mentally castigated himself with another Judge Judy catchphrase: “Beauty fades, but dumb is forever.” And yet another: “Don’t pee on my leg and tell me it’s raining.”
And Brian, it just doesn’t make sense to me that you exist. I have searched far and wide, high and low, and no one who more perfectly matches my interests and temperament has ever appeared. Not in the wilds of Africa, not in the frigid cold of Antarctica, not even among the dust bunnies under my bed. One would think that in forty-some years on this earth, I would have seen some evidence of another person of the male persuasion who might be such a perfect match. Can you blame me for thinking that finding such a creature is about as likely as finding a unicorn lowering its horned head to drink from Buckingham Fountain?
So I long to roll my eyes at you and ask—but very sincerely—are you for real? I just want to be sure.
Really? Ethan questioned himself. That’s what you want to say? Admit your love of Judith Sheindlin?
Why can’t you just tell him the truth? Yeah, it’s a gamble, but maybe if you explain things correctly, it might just be a gamble that pays off.
Ethan shook his head. It was too much of a risk. What kind of guy would accept heading into a relationship when the path was paved at this very early stage with deceit?
Better to have a little online back-and-forth than nothing at all.
Right?
Right?
Ethan gnawed at his lower lip, his fingers hovering above the keyboard, wondering if he should just hit the little Discard icon at the top of the email and return to bed. The tiny little man inside him he sometimes called his voice of reason and at other times simply referred to as “fucking pest” told him that to simply discard the email and not respond was the most sensible thing to do. To write to this Brian would only be furthering the masquerade, a game that would only end in tears. While Brian might be miffed, hurt, or curious why he never responded, he would certainly get over it. After all, a man who looked like Brian must surely be getting dozens of messages today alone from desirable suitors, and his interest in Ethan would soon fade into a background made lovely by a steadily flowing river of male pulchritude.
Ethan typed:
I look forward to hearing from you very soon, Brian. And hope to find out what else we have in common.
Yours very truly, Ethan
And without giving it further thought, he hit Send. He sat back and let out a most unmanly giggle. “What on earth are you doing?”
He looked to his left, toward the window, and saw the sky was becoming gray, signaling the arrival of dawn.
What would the new day bring?
THE NEW day brought a new message from Brian, just as Ethan hoped/feared/dreaded it would. He put off checking his email for his long as he could, taking an extra-long shower, exfoliating his face, trimming his nails, and plucking nose hairs, but the time soon arrived for him to sit down in front of his computer before heading off to the office.
My dear Ethan,
You and I share a similar worldview. When I saw your picture and saw the way your eyes seemed to reach out to me, beseeching, I also thought “This is just too good to be true.” My father often told me to beware of things that seemed too good to be true, because they usually were. I bet Judge Judy has said the very same thing! Anyway, I’m glad you’re real and I’m glad I’ve found you.
So tell me a little bit more about yourself. What do you do for a living? Is there anything not in your profile that you like to do when you’re off from your daily pursuits? What’s your favorite color? Meal? Film? Play? Book? Song? The wonderful thing about asking these questions is that I know you won’t have to dig too deeply for an answer. I am thoroughly exhausted by younger men whose answers to such questions involve Harry Potter or the latest discovery on American Idol. As for me, I am very partial to blues and derivatives of it (grays and purples), so it’s not surprising that for me, a rainy day with dark clouds sparked by flashes of lightning is just as much a gift to me as a sunny one. My favorite meal is one I threw together with what’s in my pantry and refrigerator. It seems like these creations are often the most inspired and taste the best, maybe because they come from pure imagination fired by necessity. My favorite film is Stella Dallas, and not the one with Bette Midler, but the old 1937 version with a very young and very beautiful Barbara Stanwyck. I hope it doesn’t disappoint you that I am a big fan of old classic three-hanky melodramas! That final scene where she watches her daughter get married while standing outside in the rain gets me every time! When it comes to books, I, as you know, am partial to Patricia Highsmith and others of her ilk, like the Brit mystery writer Ruth Rendell. I just love how those two women explore the dark side of human nature… and the possible redemption their characters find (or don’t). And finally, when it comes to music, I love classic jazz. Give me Oscar Peterson, Anita O’Day, Dinah Washington, or Ella over anyone in the so-called modern canon of music.
I love a good melody and something that can lift me right out of those dark colors and dark worlds the people in my favorite movies and books find themselves enmeshed in.
I look forward to hearing from you once more. I am starting to think about taking down my profile on wingpeople because I think you, Ethan, are one in a million. So what’s the point in playing the online game anymore? I think I just might be more comfortable playing this out and seeing where it goes. Did Judge Judy ever say anything about a bird in the hand?
Oh Lord, Ethan thought, he just gets sweeter and more perfect with each message.
Ethan’s mailbox was full of messages from other suitors, and looking at the clock, he decided he would have time to run through them quickly before he had to head out for work. It was more of the same. About half the men were looking for quick, unencumbered sex with him—and presumably as many guys as they could find online; another large group just wanted to heap praise on the fake pic of Ethan and tell him how he was next in line for some sort of divinity, based on his dreamy gaze alone; and while among the others there were a couple Ethan might have considered in what he was already thinking of as a “former” life—before Brian—there was no one who even approached the bar Brian had set for compatibility. So why bother? Why send a quick note to the gallery owner from Evanston who shared his interest in lakefront cruising of the two-wheeled variety? Why get in touch with that Second City actor who came across, even on paper, as someone who could make him laugh?
My God, Ethan wondered, am I perhaps falling in love with this guy, Brian? On the basis of a couple of notes and a picture? Ruefully, Ethan had to admit to himself that he was. If falling in love with someone meant thinking of them and only them, of pining for their next word and imagining a future with them, then why yes, he was beginning down the road the pundits and poets referred to as love.
