Page 8 of Jealous of the Clouds
So which is it, Josh? A fall or a stab from a murderous homophobic stranger?
I wondered if I’d ever have the courage to ask him.
I told myself I was alone with my thoughts. No one else was privy to them, especially not Josh, so I had to wonder—how well did I know this man, anyway?
We’d met only about six weeks ago. I’ve always trusted my gut, believing that intuition was more of truth-teller than intellect. Heart over head. This belief served me well for most of my thirty-some years. I could name friends with whom I’dconnected immediately, with no rational basis for us aligning. I could also point to people that I’d run in the other direction from, prior to having any reason to think they were bad, or even weren’t right for me.
Nothing about Josh had set off red flags. Well, there was the one other thing, but even mentioning it seems ridiculous, but still, it had remained in my memory, a quiet thing that still had the power to fill me with dread and suspicion.
It was the cat, Mrs. Davis. I recall the first time Josh visited. When he walked in the door, Mrs. Davis was in her favorite position in the living room—on the back of the couch where she could gaze out at the comings and goings on Fargo Avenue. The view held endless fascination for her. But as soon as Josh came through the door, she looked up, hissed, jumped from the couch and ran into the bedroom, where she dived under the bed. As long as Josh was there, she refused to come back out. I put it down to a new stranger, an unfamiliar scent that bothered her, even though a part of me said that Mrs. Davis has never been one of those aloof felines. No, she was more like a dog in regards to meeting new people. She was beyond curious and often went right up to them, sniffing, purring, and eventually rubbing against their legs. I called her a slut.
Beyond the first time, though, she never was friendly with Josh. She ignored him at best and, at worst, hid until he’d leave.
I shook my head. Was I putting too much stock in the feelings of a cat?
Josh and I had met, as so many do these days, online.
Both of us, it turned out, eschewed hookup sites like Adam 4 Adam or apps like Grindr or Scruff. I can’t speak for Josh, but I learned pretty quickly as a baby queer that those sites were concerned only with things like dick size, whether one was top or bottom or versatile, or whether one ‘partied.’ They were superficial, often cruel, and highly effective—if hooking up wasyour sole purpose for using them. Sadly, many men were content with forgettable physical connections in lieu of something more meaningful.
But I wasn’t one of those men.
And neither was Josh.
We’d meet on a site called WingPeople.com. Its come-ons proudly boasted that they were for gay men seeking a meaningful connection—perhaps even a lifetime one. Their tagline proclaimed something along the lines of, ‘we’re here to help you find Mr. Right, not Mr. Right Now.’
I’d been on the site for a couple of years. I ran across the gamut. Despite its lingo favoring long-term, significant connections, there remained a large percentage of men who were on the site for the same reason scores of other men were on apps like Grindr. And, I admit, in my needier moments, I reached out to some of them, giving these guys the benefit of the doubt and catering to my baser instincts.
I’d had a lot of nice dates too, the kind where we went to dinner, had pretty decent conversation, and maybe even ended the date not in bed, but with a chaste kiss at one or the other’s front door.
But there was never a spark. I could look back and see men who were perfectly acceptable—I had a lot in common with them, they were attractive, they had good jobs, they didn’t have too much baggage. They were funny. Sweet. Kind.
All good enough.
But all completely unable to ignite the mythical spark I sought.
Until Joshua Kade came along.
I brought up my phone again and brought up the screen shot of his profile I’d saved, since we both agreed to get off the site after we’d had a couple dates.
I looked at the face he used as his profile picture, the one that drew me in. Salt and pepper hair, buzzed at the sides and a little longer on top, but not much. Green eyes. Clean shaven. Bushy eyebrows. His smile was slight, a sort of Mona Lisa. He wore a simple green crewneck sweater with a white T-shirt beneath.
It was his eyes that drew me in. No other face pic had the effect his did—it was as though our eyes met in real life.
And then I read his profile.
Low-key, humble guy looking for a monogamous long-term connection. I’m done with all the BS, the lies, the cheating. I’ve been hurt before and refuse to put myself in self-protective mode again. I want a man who values intimacy and one-on-one connection as much as I do. Someone I can trust and someone who trusts me because he knows he can. Without a doubt.
I’ll give my heart to this unicorn, this creature I’ve all but given up on believing in.
I want someone with whom I can be their world—and they can be mine. Shared laughs, travel, cuddles, and more, for the right person, the rare one who appreciates fidelity and being each other’s number one.
Okay, okay, I remember thinking, I get it. You’re one of those unusual gay men who doesn’t believe in open relationships, who wants his man to behisman. To be honest, I was a little put off by his message. I mean, I wanted the same thing, but didn’t think I needed to be so explicit about it, especially when I was only casting a net. It seemed, I don’t know, a little desperate.
But who knew? Maybe he’d learned the hard way about the unreliability of gay men when it came to being faithful. Maybe he really did want to cut through the bullshit and weed out potential cheaters right from the get-go. Hewas, after all, abouta decade older than I was. Maybe along the way he’d learned more than I had.
In the end, I went with the superficial. I answered him, not because of how he’d described himself and his wants and needs, but because of that profile picture—and those piercing green eyes.
They just wouldn’t let go.
