Of Dogs and Men

 

If my friend Josh were to buy the puppy he’s always wanted, it would no doubt be the kind of dog that approaches any breed, regardless of its size or intimidation factor. He would wag his tail, threaten to jump up on your lap, but not quite take that next leap, and given the chance, beg to be taken on a hike through some god forsaken mountain trail on a sweltering hot summer’s day, stopping to pee every five minutes.

I’m sure Josh would agree with me because, one night last week, we both came to the same conclusion after watching the boys of the South End walking their dogs: the man you may be interested in dating is best understood by spending five minutes with his four legged companion. The two may not look alike, but their personalities are directly and inexplicably linked.

Dog number one was a black lab puppy. Four months old, still a bit tentative on his paws, but willing to walk over and let us pet him. The tall, young twenty something who controlled the leash stood just off to the side and smiled, answering only the questions we asked about the puppy, never venturing any more or less. Though it would be a one-sided conversation with him in a bar, we agreed that the boy would no doubt get the attention of all of your friends.

Dog number two was a boxer regulated to the window of an Audi A4. Its owner, instead of inconveniencing the drivers along Tremont Street, pulled into the Doris Day spot in front of us. He left the dog inside with the window rolled down just far enough to prevent escape from the front seat.

“We’ll watch him,” Josh offered, to which the boy smiled and hurried off to the corner liquor store. And there the boxer sat. Not a sound. No barking. No whimpering. Just staring down the street, patiently waiting for his owner.

“He’s cute,” Josh ventured.

“A little nelly for me,” I replied. “I don’t think he’s worth waiting, all happy and obedient for. Though he does have nice tastes in cars and clothes.” Josh made no comment and rolled his eyes at me.

Then the nelly boy strolled back with his brown bag. Josh motioned to the patient boxer, not panting in anticipation of his owner’s return.  

“He’s still in there,” Josh chuckled. “Didn’t go anywhere.”

“Oh,” said the well-dressed owner. “She’s a good girl.”

Josh turned to me and whispered. “It’s a girl.”

I have to admit, female dogs are my favorite, and not because I get to call their owners the same slang term. An acquaintance of mine, Devin, owns one of the cutest dogs I have ever met. Of course, she’s cute despite Devin’s fur dying her any color that sparks his fancy. Pink. Blue. Green. Color combinations that even rival the gay flag during pride. It doesn’t matter, he says, since she’s colorblind. My friend David loves the dog more than I do, and takes her out running whenever he can, but he’s always prepared with his usual statement lest he be mistaken for her crazy pent up cosmetologist owner.

“She’s not my dog.”

He says it very emphatically and articulates every word so he doesn’t have to repeat it, which would mean that if you dated David, he’d take care of you no matter who you belonged to and what shape you were in. He’d just add the disclaimer to someone else that you were definitely not his boyfriend and was available to date. You can guess what dating Devin would do to you psyche, let alone your hair color.

Of course, my favorite dogs of that milkshake drinking night were two miniature Jack Russell Terriers. Without hesitation, and not even waiting for an invitation, or allowing me time to put my drink down, that bundle of energy pup was on my lap and licking my entire face. The other sat watching, wanting to join in, but not quite ready for a group scene. The two owners laughed, loosely yanked on the frisky terrier’s leash, at which point, he jumped quickly jumped over to Josh. Once they left, I turned to my friend.

“Now, they’d be fun. Couldn’t commit, but fun.”

And then, the two of us stopped slurping our shakes when we saw the beefiest boy of the night. He emerged from the brownstone next door, dressed in eye-popping color sweats that were loose, but tight enough to wonder what good was imagination? Following him were two lumbering bulldogs. They finally reached the sidewalk, and all three bowlegged, walked in the other direction. Ten minutes later, the three made their reappearance from around the block, the two grumpy bulldogs, without a leash, taking a wide berth and moving like sloths across the sidewalk, out of our reach. 

“They just love taking their time, don’t they?” Josh laughed.

“Huh?” replied the beef, his feet dragging along the pavement in his flip-flops.

Josh tried again.

“Yeah,” came the mumbled response from the beef without even a show of teeth. Josh shrugged his shoulders, and I slurped the rest of my milkshake, taking the top off the cup and greedily spooning the chocolate chips into my mouth.

“You pig,” Josh said to me. Then he shook his head. “I have to pee.”

Reflections on LA at 40

I'm no longer forty, but I found a story I wrote back when I entered a new decade. It still has a lot of truth in it.

Lots of things were different when I was 24. Cruising men meant picking up a boy in person. No Internet fees, no online profiles with stats and codes that needed a gay dictionary to decipher. It was face to face and the decision if this one was it was made in less time than it took for microwave popcorn to pop and burn. I also believed that sex would lead to dates that would lead to the perfect relationship with the man who held my number in his hand and whose apartment door just closed behind me. The Castro district had no chain stores; getting drunk was easy and cheap at $1 beer busts; and in Los Angeles, one of my favorite places, the Abbey, was a small and quaint coffeehouse. 

Today, realizing the man on the other side of the door won’t call you is a good thing, getting drunk on a Sunday afternoon will set you back a few twenty bucks, and the Abbey has somehow taken steroids and expanded like the boys of the very town it inhabits. One look and you hardly recognize the quaint gathering place it used to be. It was where you could once meet a cute boy reading his newspaper while he sipped a double mocha. Now you go out of you way to avoid the quintessential bitter queen who’s smoke escapes from his curled lip in a snarl of smoke that matches the look of disdain he throws to the crowd packed in shoulder to shoulder on a Saturday night. If the bar were in San Francisco, everyone would have a coat to keep them warm from the relatively cool temperature. But this is LA, and displaying your pumped up and expanded body is what sets it apart from the rest of the world. 

So what is it about LA that I love? There’s a thrill to this town. It’s been written about, been photographed, documented and broiled to a crisp by the Southern California sun. But it’s the money and the power — or perhaps the illusion that you have one or both that gives the city its life.  But sometimes I think it’s as simple as the weather. Growing up on the East Coast one would never step foot out of the house in January without seven layers of clothing to keep you warm. And in that same month, here I was standing among the beautiful people with an outfit that would have caused me to catch frostbite within seconds. With one shrug of my shoulders, my coat slips off my shoulders without my spilling one bit of my $11 cocktail. I turn my attention to my small circle of friends, keeping the bitter cowboy in the corner behind me. 

One boy more beautiful than the next passes me every second and I find myself exhausted from the sight of them before I’m even drunk. My friends crack a joke and I smile.

My smile was once my fortune, and since smiles are as rare in an LA bar as an unattractive boy, I could take anyone by surprise and put them at ease. But this night, not even the bitter cowboy in the corner would give me the time and getting drunk was getting me broke.

A round of drinks and with my wallet fifty dollars lighter later, we were leaning against the corner vacated by the bitter cowboy queen. 

“I think half these boys don’t even know how to start a conversation,” my friend said.

“Hey, you got a cigarette?” I asked.

“I stopped smoking four months ago, missy. Or haven’t you noticed?”

“Of course I noticed. But you always have a pack when we come here. Come on. Give me one.”

He sighed and reached into his jacket pocket. “Why aren’t you working your mojo tonight?” he asked as he handed me a Marlboro Light. “You didn’t slip that wrap off your shoulders to talk with me all night.”

I lit the cigarette, careful not to curl my lip as I exhaled. “I’m a bit out of practice. I think I’ve forgotten how it all works in person.”

“You? Forget how to pick up a boy? That’s like me forgetting how to be cheap.”

“Very funny.”

“Have you seen me pay for a round of drinks?”

“Point taken.” The smoke circle I attempted folded sadly in the air in front of me. “There’s no one here I want.”

“Bullshit. Get out there and meet someone. Take them home and put your legs in the air.”

“It’s their legs in the air, dear.”

He grabbed my cigarette and took a puff. “My, times have changed, haven’t they?”

I looked around the Abbey as the crowd got bigger and bigger. “They certainly have.”

It’s not that I didn’t want to try my luck with the LA boys; it’s just that I hadn’t forgotten how the taste of rejection tasted, even after five vodka and cranberries. I’d gotten complacent, content at how much easier it was to cruise the Internet than it was to smile and strike up a conversation. And most importantly, it was simpler to just close the chat window and plop myself in front of my television. Ironically, that all changed the next day at the gym.

Although pick-ups at the gym are stereotypically porn, I couldn’t resist when I saw the boy across the floor. Endless hours with my personal trainer would only cause me pain rather than results of looking like him. For the first time in my life I was nonchalant in my approach. I picked machines close to him, but not too close and managed a closed smile the few times his eyes glanced over at mine. No need to flash full force so soon, I thought.

When he finished his work out and headed to the showers, I was right behind.  I turned the cold water on to relax and calm down. And then I followed him into the unbearably hot steam-room.

After fifteen minutes of feeling as if I would evaporate from the heat, the object of my steam got up and headed towards the showers. Not caring what the other towel wrapped sweaty boys next to me would think, I wasted no time in following him. I felt rejuvenated and just like old times, my heart was racing and the anticipation of what would happen was exhilarating. As the cruise gods would have it, his locker was next to mine and I flashed my full smile and uttered a pick up line that never failed me.

“Hi.”

The boy looked up. “You didn’t melt in there? I thought I was going to die.”

“I would have rescued you.” Okay, so that was corny, but it just slipped out. 

“Would you now? I’m Chad,” he greeted and offered me his wet hand.

“Jim. Nice to meet you.”

And with that, our dance of small talk began and being this close to him, I realized he must be extremely young. Nobody my age had zero percent body fat and an ass that was quite that round.

As the conversation progressed, I became more and more relaxed and in the back of my mind I wondered why I didn’t do this more often. It was a refreshing change from the computer screen and the endless nights spent chatting with faceless men. And, I admit, better than a vodka and cranberry.

“Do you live around here?” he finally asked.

“Oh, no. I’m staying at a friend’s house, I just walked here while they went to the movies.”

“You walked?” He sounded as if someone had punched him in the stomach. “If you’d like a ride I can drive you back to your apartment. You can’t walk in LA, people will think your either homeless or a hooker.”

And for a second I thought should decline and take my chances at gaining some unexpected income. But I’d picked him up the old-fashioned way, surprised that my once flawless skills still worked. And although I was dying to know, I didn’t dare ask him his age before we’d finished what I set out to start.

On the ride back, we made mindless conversation about the weather, the difference between San Francisco and Los Angeles and the type of boy that frequents either city or both.

“I’m not sure why I love it,” I answered after he asked about my attraction to the city. “I’m in love with the sun in January, I guess. Or better yet, it’s just a place I can skip out of town and not go very far or spend much money. Though I’m beginning to be an old face in town and that’s never a good thing.”

He laughed at that and I realized then he had no idea how old I was.

“Are you sure your friends aren’t home?”

“Positive.”

Whatever nervousness I sensed from him was gone the second we got back to the apartment. And before the gym bags hit the floor I was lost in his kiss, and as quickly as it started it seemed to end just as fast.

Afterwards, sitting on the edge of the bed, I rustled his hair.

“I have to ask how old you are.”

“I’m 21.”

 I laughed.

“What’s so funny, you’re only what? 28, 30?”

“Bless your heart,” I smiled. “I’m turning 40 this year.”

“Oh that’s a great age. All the guys I meet are these young and immature snots. They’re too flighty for me. It gets so old, you know?” He reached for his pants and threw on his shirt. “It was great to meet you.” 

I stood up, hugged him and then I felt that familiar something slip into the palm of my hand.  I kissed him again and took another look at his sweet face.

"It was my pleasure.” 

“I’ll be in San Francisco in March for a few days on work," he said with just a hint of an unfinished question.

“Stay out of trouble until then,” I joked as I closed the door behind him. 

I turned the lock, balled my hand into a fist and slowly crumpled the business card in my hand.