Silver daddy
A few months ago, before the age of quarantine, I met a young man for a coffee date. All around our tiny little table at Starbucks, background noise shimmered—the whirr of machinery grinding fragrant coffee beans, the hiss of steam, the low-level chatter of people and the clatter of keyboards—enough to distract me from the constant stream of nonsense that came from the beautiful, bearded mouth of my charmingly inept date, Kenny. The lad was far too young, not even thirty. While he talked on and on, and on, two thoughts simultaneously pestered me: first, his handsome face is made even more so by those dark brown eyes that have always meant trouble for me; second, that at 55, I am way too old to be meeting men online.
I am an impostor, too square to be even pretending I know how to do this. I did not expect to be thrown back into the dating pool, now at this age. The whole situation I found myself in was kind of pathetic. To begin with, I wasn’t even sure I understood what he was going on about. Did I watch the final lipsynch-for-your-life throw-down finale on Ru Paul’s Drag Race All Star Reunion show? Apparently, it was like amaze-balls, to quote my date. “And, when Ru told Miss Vanje to sashay away, it was like the worst thing ever,” he asserted. I was pretty sure I hated him. Those smug good looks. That insolent, perfect hair. And his youth. Mostly his youth. If this date were happening today, I would have to ask myself the one question: is he quarantine worthy? Would I want to spend any length of time stuck at home with this guy for some indefinite period of time? No.
Kenny and I had started a chat about a week previous to our meeting, on the popular gay men’s meet up site called Grindr. The name alone should give one pause. My dating profile is the brainchild of Carey and Van, two of my dearest friends. Since they are terminally married, they have taken it upon themselves to ensure that I too will know of such bliss. Maybe I’ve been single for too long a time. Maybe too many evenings, over too many red wines at their place, I may have complained about being lonely. And over 50. How am I ever going to meet someone? My plight set these two well-intentioned Cupids on a mission, to launch me into the digital age. Those little fuckers.
On one particular night some time before, I weakened to their unrelenting push to get me out there in the dating world. Blame it on the fireplace softly glimmering, the warm and cozy pleasure of being inside on a snowy night, or the Ethiopian spices that stirred pleasant hungry pangs as Van’s famous eggplant simmered on a low burner. All the elements of their calculated hospitality conspired to make me vulnerable. Blame it on that domestic scene of what I was missing. Is it wrong to admit I envy what they’ve got? Not always. I know relationships are a lot of work. And I have been best friends with Carey since about 1982, so I know he’s a lot. A lot. Their relationship isn’t perfect, but they’ve got each other.
“Okay,” I admitted. “Maybe I’m ready to get out there again, meet someone new. But where do I find him?”
The bar scene, they told me, is over. “Chaps, Buddies, Fritz, Paradise. All closed.” Carey said.
“There’s still Club Café,” Van said with a sneer of distaste. “That place will never die, but it’s still jam full of the worst little twits in all of Boston. South End queens. They never look at you, they’re all so precious.”
“No one goes out anymore.” Carey handed me a coaster, to avoid marring their Danish mid-century teak coffee table with my glass.
(Now that we are in virtual lockdown, remembering this night, this line, it seems ironic. No one does go out anymore.)
“People must still go somewhere,” I said, “if not the bars, some other places to meet people. What about the movies?”
“Netflix.”
“Shows?”
“Theater is dead.”
“Museums?”
Carey laughed. “When’s the last time you met someone at a museum?”
“Never.” Once, a bit of flirting with the tattooed docent at the Fogg, but nothing came of it. And that was in like 1995.
While my hosts selected some music, I reminisced about the old bar days in Boston, circa the Bronze Age. “Thursday Luxor for Dynasty night, Friday dancing at Manray, Saturday we’d go to Metro, which later became Avalon,” I ticked them off on my fingers.
“Sundays, tea dance at Bobby’s,” Carey remembered.
“Don’t you guys miss any of it?”
They looked at me. “Miss what?”
“Going out, seeing people.”
Van shrugged, “Not really.”
“Getting dolled up? Worrying about what to wear?” Carey always did have outfit anxiety, always thought he was fat. He wasn’t. But you know how gay guys are, the worst thing you can be, besides old, is fat. A few extra pounds causes a crisis of body image. Ironically, now that he is actually fat, he doesn’t seem to care. Perhaps that is one of the perks of this age thing, he is able just letting go of some of that crap. Or trying to. Maybe.
“What about, come on, remember that twinge of thrill when you caught someone’s attention? Remember the smell of a bunch of men packed into a close room? That delicious pheromone musk of men?”
“Someone needs to get laid,” Carey said. True enough, he would get no arguments from me there.
“Don’t you miss that feeling when you caught a guy’s eye, some sweaty guy under the strobe lights, when you look at him and he’s looking at you and it’s like maybe? And when you finally got up the courage to go up to him?”
“I always waited for them to come to me,” Van said. So arrogant. But handsome.
“Ain’t that the truth.” Carey picked up a record from the stack by the HiFi, glanced at its cover. “Van, this bastard here, led me on quite the merry chase.”
“And it was all worth it,” Van said. He held up Patsy Cline. Corey shook his head. Dusty Springfield. No.
“What about flirting, though? Don’t you miss that feeling of excitement? When he says hello, and he means Hello?”
They laughed. “Honey,” said Carey, “Don’t you remember how terrible you were at it?”
“Was I? Terrible?”
“You remember the guy at Campus who tried to sell you life insurance?”
Sadly, I did.
Van shook his head, “Nah, you’re being nostalgic. Most of the time, you’d see the man of your dreams chase after someone else. It was a lot of wasted time, standing around looking at guys who were standing around looking at guys. And being Boston and everyone’s a pussy, you’d be lucky to get a hello out of anyone.”
Carey agreed. They’d finally decided on a record to play. He pulled a shiny disc from its sleeve. The record landed with a plunk on the spinning turntable, the needle hit the groove hissing and scratching. Etta James growled, ready to Make Love. “Nothing like vintage vinyl,” Carey said. “A song like this is meant to be heard, make those speakers POP,” he reached for the volume dial but stopped after Van stilled his hand. Sometimes, often enough, they have spats over these petty power plays. If there’s been enough drinks, it can quickly turn into Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?
I deftly decided to bring things back on topic. “So, we were talking about meeting people. Where are they? Where am I supposed to find a guy?”
By now, we’ve moved to the rough-hewn farm table where little plates of sautéed artichokes and bowls of lovely olives glisten under the warm light of a Moroccan chandelier.
“So everybody meets on line now?”
“Everybody.”
They tell me about the apps. Growler and Tinder and Scruff. Nothing could be easier. You make a profile, a few words no one will bother to read anyway, post a half decent picture of yourself, and sit back. Next thing you know, you’re being poked and winked at and oinked. Think of all the guys out there looking to meet up, now. None of the pointless conversations, none of the waiting by the phone, none of the wondering if you’re going to get lucky. Meet up some place neutral, a coffee or a drink or whatever, and see what happens. Why not?
Carey grabbed my I-phone. “I just thought of the perfect profile name for you.”
In the time it took Van to open another Rioja, my friend busily swiped away, and suddenly Silver Daddy was born.
“Silver Daddy? Are you serious?”
Carey smiled indulgently. “Of course! Sweetie, you’ve got to know how to sell yourself. Use what you’ve got. Celebrate that you’re a daddy bear.”
“Absolutely,” Van agreed, as he overpoured another round. “It’s all about marketing.”
Since the two of them have successfully started a side hustle selling beard balm and care products made out of avocados and guava jelly, geared toward African American men, they may know a thing or two about how to sell things. Apparently, unknown to me, single daddies are a niche commodity in the gay dating world, as rare as unicorns, since most guys our age are married.
“Or dead,” I say.
Carey ignored me. He read what he’s cooked up so far for my dating profile: “Rugged man looking for fun.”
“Rugged? I’m pretty sure I’ve never been considered ‘rugged.’ The word makes me think of lumberjacks in flannel, rugby players, Appalachian trail hikers and longshore fisherman,” I said, while trying to capture an elusive olive with my fork, too anxious it might jump the plate, potentially leaving an olive oil stain on Carey’s mother’s hand-embroidered table runner. When it finally made it to my dish without incident, I let out an audible sigh. “I’m not rugged,” I continued, “the most ‘rugged’ act of late was letting my library card lapse.”
“It’s a buzz word,” said Carey over his glasses, with a note of irritation as I tried less successfully to spear an artichoke heart. “You can’t just say ‘Old.’”
“How about ‘weathered’?” suggested Van.
“Even worse than rugged,” I said. “‘Weathered’ ” makes me think of lighthouse keepers and lobster trappers. Or a dilapidated barn.”
We considered “Seasoned.” Like a good steak. Or a mellow scotch. We debated that one while I blotted the artichoke grease stain off the runner, using my linen napkin dipped gingerly in seltzer water.
“Seasoned man looking for fun,” Carey said, like he was trying it out, though the look on his face clearly said it wasn’t working.
“What does ‘fun’ mean?” I held out my empty glass for another.
“If you have to ask, it’s been way too long.” Van nudged me, joking, but it was true enough. It had been a while. After Robert and I split, I let myself settle into a deep funk. Fun had been the last thing on my mind. Some eighteen months since he has been gone, I began to feel lonely. Horny, even. I haven’t gone on a date in what? Twelve years? Fourteen? Robert and I were supposed to be forever. Ha. The same old story.
Van pulled up the Grindr app on his phone, deftly scrolled through photos of half-naked young men, torsos and body parts, full heads of messy hair. Disembodied selfies. He quickly tutored me in the lingo of bears and otters and pandas and pups. “There is literally something for everyone,” Van asserted, “it’s as easy as ordering a pizza.”
I downed my wine in one eager gulp.
Carey’s thumbs danced across my little keyboard. The tap tap tapping unnerved me. Finally, he said he got it, and stood up like a resident poet, about to recite his latest work. Van and I politely looked attentive:
“Silver Daddy looking for fun and adventure with a playful guy, open to new things and new people.”
Carey looked up to gauge our response. Van nodded. I was feeling drunkish.
“That’s good,” Van said. “Gives a nice approachable vibe.”
There was more, but I officially gave up all semblance of resistance, having succumbed to the appetizers and the crusty bread. Carey downloaded that pic of me from Provincetown, where I am sunburnt and unshaven, squinting into the September sun, because it looked so “masculine.” That will be my profile, he said, but I could edit it whenever I wanted. As if I knew how.
Then we all sat down to eat in earnest, and I forgot all about Grindr and Silver Daddy.
Until the next morning when I woke up back in my own single bed to blinding sunlight on new snow, and a dozen woofs on my profile. Silver Daddy was suddenly in play. At first, I had no idea what I was doing. I’m not that technologically challenged, I mean I have a Netflix account and I was able to download the entire last season of Grace & Frankie, but this seemed to have a bit more weight. I quickly learned that the usual niceties of conversation are passé. You never say: “Hello, how are you? You seem to be a nice guy based on the three photos of you and your Labrador Retriever, and it seems you also enjoy meeting guys for fun, so how about we meet up for a drink?” No. People don’t have time for that. It’s like our attention spans have dwindled to near nothing. People are so busy all the time. Keep it short and snappy. These days you say: “S’up?” “How u?” “Into?” I also got an education on dating in the new era. Even though almost everyone on the app is married or partnered or dating or “it’s complicated”, the new thing is “open relationships,” and something called “polyamory,” which, in my day we called “cheating,” and “being a slut.” But I am told my generation is way too harsh with the judgmental labels, so just roll with it, dude. So, I roll with it.
Which brings us back to my date with Kenny, who amiably explained to me the subtle differences of dead lifts with a kettle bell, versus regular old squats. There are nuances I never knew. He asked about my gym routine, which lately consists of slow treadmill walks while I listen to an Audiobook, and PT for my arthritic foot. I used to be an avid runner, now, I can’t. He looked at me as if that was the saddest thing he’d ever heard. I didn’t have the heart to bring up my peripheral neuropathy, but that didn’t seem much like first date fodder anyway. So much for rugged. Carey was absolutely right. I am terrible at flirting. To give Kenny credit, the date was dismal, really quite awful, but he soldiered on. His parents, who are likely younger than I am, must be very nice people.
When we talked about music, I thought we had found common ground, until it was apparent he meant Billie Eilish, and I meant Billie Holiday. He’s not much of a reader. He doesn’t eat carbs. He’s pretty sure he’s lactose intolerant. It went on like that for a while until he asked me The Question:
“Are you clean?”
“Am I what?”
“Clean.”
“You mean like hygienic? Am I showered?”
He laughed. That face. All the indulgent humor the young have at the expense of the old. I couldn’t help but think--one day, he’s going to have wrinkles in all those places were mirth now creases his pliant skin. His hair flopped across his forehead, he was laughing so hard.
“Dude. You crack me up. I asked if you are Clean. Like disease-free?”
“Disease free?”
“Yah. You know, like you don’t have HIV or anything.”
The noise around us suddenly stopped. At least for me. I couldn’t hear anything except the word “Clean.” Echoing. “Clean.”
“You’re asking me about my HIV status?”
He sensed the shift in the air. His face tilted, like a dog when he’s listening to something, ears attentive. Those brown eyes examined the expression on my face, a mix of surprise, disappointment and anger. The beat lasted longer than comfortable, the silence between us vibrated.
I said, finally, “What would you say to someone who is HIV positive?”
He swallowed audibly. “How do you mean?”
“Would you say someone who is not “clean” is “dirty”? Are HIV positive people dirty?”
“Look I—” He started, raised his hands like shields.
“Is someone who is HIV positive disease-ridden, according to you?” A couple at the table next to us turned and looked at me, the girl made the crumpled pouting face as though someone stepped over some arbitrary social rule about talking too loudly at Starbuck’s. Kenny visibly withered, unable to deflect both my question and the attention we were getting.
“For the record Kenny, I am poz, I was diagnosed in 1999. I know what it’s like to feel like a leper, to feel diseased—” I knew I was getting worked up. The girl at the next table was showing signs of real distress, Kenny’s eyes were large and blank, he didn’t know how to respond. At that point, at that moment, I thought to myself that this could be a teachable moment, that I could use this as an opportunity to educate Kenny and his glib generation who can now take a pill a day and never once know the fear that we felt every day of our lives when we were his age. I could tell him about stigma and shame. As a tribal elder, maybe I owe it to him, I could school him in the history that has brought us to this moment, the community we once used to be, the devastation of watching your friends and lovers die. He doesn’t know, he wasn’t there, I thought. Fuck him, my other self said, the ActUP self, the one who spent more than half his life cowering in fear and feeling nothing but rage. That kid is now a man. 55 years old. Single. Poz. Undetectable. Unafraid. I didn’t go through all of that, didn’t spend all that time in therapy, just to be diminished by a single syllable word uttered by an ignorant youngster. He was still looking at me, he formed words but nothing came out. I put my finger across his lovely mouth. “Shhh. Don’t talk anymore. Not until you know the meaning of words.”
“Dude, I—”
“Shhh.”
He was silent. For one second his eyes met mine, and I thought he might have understood. I got up, gathered my things, ready to go. I said good bye.
“Ok, Boomer,” he muttered to my back. When I turned, he was already on his phone.
“Fuck yourself,” I said loud enough that everyone might hear, loud enough to make Miss Nosey Parker at her table turn bright red. Fuck them all.
Out on the street, I zipped up my jacket against the cold. Adrenaline and caffeine and my old pal anger jazzed through my shaking body, but I was ok. I took a few deep breaths of the chilly air that smelled like snow, I breathed in the air that was clean.
Now that we live in a time of disease again, I think about the feelings that came up during my date with Kenny. The fear. The shame. The wariness. The concepts of clean, and dirty. This generation will have their history shaped by the events that are happening now. This government will do too little too late, while people will become needlessly infected, and die. This generation will see their friends and their lovers get sick. They will know the fear that we knew. I feel for them.
The other day, as I was walking through Cambridge Commons, it was impossible to understand how such a lovely spring afternoon could feel so foreboding. Blue sky, cloudless and vast. Sunlight bouncing off every shiny surface. The first daffodils trembling in the breeze. And yet—no kids playing in the playground, no sounds of their laughter and happy chirping, no lovers kissing on the new green grass. No traffic sounds. No city noise. Sunday quiet. A woman, coming in the other direction had her head down, lost in her own thoughts. You see a lot of that now. When she looked up, saw me, I made a smile, I nodded. She stopped, stepped off the sidewalk, and crossed the street. Maintaining social distance. We are all possibly contaminated. Dirty.
No more apps. No more dating. No more going out. Even Starbucks is empty, quiet. It sort of puts all of my shit into perspective, there are bigger issues than one old lonely guy. There are worse things than being alone in quarantine, like being with the wrong person. How would Robert and I have fared in all of this? Hard to tell. Maybe a little thing like a new virus would have exposed all the cracks we thought were sealed? Mere speculation now. Being alone is not the worst.
Carey called me. Since the latest outbreak, and his self-quarantine, he now uses the phone to talk, we have conversations on the phone, like in the old days.
“How you holding up?” he asked. A glass with ice tinkled, he was already into the vodka, and it was barely 11 am.
“Meh. How are you guys?”
“Please. If you ever are asked to spend the end of days with Van, do yourself a favor and say no. He’s driving me nuts. Everything smells like bleach. Do not mess with a Virgo during a Mercury in retrograde.” In the background, the vacuum cleaner roared to life. Carey sighed.
“Is it the end of days?” I had yet to shower, or clean the apartment. It didn’t seem to make much sense to tidy the magazines.
“Who knows? After watching CNN for five fucking straight days I feel doomed.” He took a healthy swig of his drink.
“Let’s just hope alcohol has some medicinal uses.”
“Amen,” he slurred.
