Published
Like any gay man, I am prone to many unpleasant practices. I drink my iced coffee in arctic winters like a shivering rat, except I am an adult with an adult brain incapable of making temperature-appropriate choices. I whisper “mother” under my breath whenever any woman does something villainous. I go to a workout class where everyone is gay and everyone hates each other. When I finally got my driver’s license last year—at the ripe age of [redacted] [redacted]—I grieved for weeks. Who was I if not a passenger princess? Life behind the wheel was desolate, devastating. Suddenly I was a gay man who drove. Preposterous! I gazed out from the windshield and longed for a semi to T-bone me into oblivion. Many people contain multitudes but I am not one of them. With one queeny little wave, I bid adieu to my motorist era. For sale: driver’s license, never worn.
Among my many unpleasant practices is my pathological need to win the sidewalk. “What does winning the sidewalk even mean???” you ask. You have already lost. My sight is firmly set on my next victim: any passerby who dares occupy a position ahead of me on the path. I must be the fastest pedestrian on the road. I must overtake at all costs. I must be Usain Bolt if Usain Bolt was a maladjusted gay man with zero athletic ability and a BPD diagnosis.
It is a time-honored truth that gay men walk fast—propelled by impatience, fear, or general neuroticism. There is, of course, a functional element too, fuelled by my chronic inability to arrive at an event less than 50 minutes late after I have spent the entire evening lying in bed for no discernible reason. (See above: unpleasant.) 50 minutes, by the way, is the maximum amount of time one can be delayed while still holding the mantle of ‘fashionably late’. 50 minutes and one second is decidedly un-chic. 50 minutes and one second is punishable by excommunication. More often than not I am sprinting down the street, legs aflurry; one eye on the clock, the other on the sluggish pacers and dawdling urchins ahead of me. On the sidewalk, everyone is an opponent, especially when 50 minutes is approaching like a semi about to T-bone you into oblivion. Sorry for elbowing your grandma, but I think she’d want me to be a good party guest too.
On a recent Tuesday, though, I meet my match. Picture this: I am fresh from a haircut—at one of those evil salons which insist on taking the worst photo of you ever captured and blasting it to their thousands of judgemental followers. I have asked for Dominic Sessa but what I have received is closer to Ice Spice. I am speeding home, praying to the firmament that no-one will glimpse me in this compromised state.
This is when I see him.
Out of the motion blur, something appears. Someone appears. The first thing I notice is the bag slung across his shoulder: a baby bag, slippery and silvery, glistening under a sudden sunburst. Then his oversized fleece and joggers: a little too crisp, a little too tailored. Less like he had rolled out of bed in sweats and more like he was cosplaying the idea of someone rolling out of bed in sweats. Then his terrifying gait: large, brazen strides led from the hip. He thunders down the sidewalk, matching my pace. I stare at him, awed. He does not see me at all. We are walking—cantering—gay stereotypes.
For the better part of an hour, we march together. We are two horses escaping the glue factory. We are shivering rats let loose into the bounty and brutality of existence. Side by side, neck and neck, we face our opposition as one. A raucous throng streams from a bus, obstructing our passage. No matter: with practised grace, he parts the crowd like the Red Sea. I tailgate behind him and saunter through without lifting an elbow. Could it all be this easy?
He slows down; I slow down. I speed up, edging past him; he rises to the occasion. We are bound for life, whether star-crossed lovers or foes to the bitter end. I catch him sneaking glances at me, sizing up his comrade-in-legs, throwing his head over his shoulder as if inspecting the ground behind him. It is a bad disguise. No-one has ever stopped to inspect the ground behind them.
The sun has disappeared now. It is raining: a gentle patter that accompanies our footfalls. His glasses are fogging up. He is flagging. We have paused at a pedestrian crossing; I can almost taste victory. The lights turn green. I charge: limbs akimbo, head lolling as I lope across the road. And then it hits me. Where is my handsome, inscrutable stranger? Where is my only ally in this cruel world?
I spin around, searching for signs of life. But it’s too late: when I spy his baby bag, his perfect sweats, he is long gone, racing down some other street. An electricity buzzes between us. Call it gay solidarity. Then it crackles and fades—and so does he, a shadow in the drizzle.