Scott Capurro
Gay Times
July 2007
Before a show in Covent Garden, a note came hand delivered. The young man smiled, said some kind words, and then shyly, slowly walked back to his seat.
The paper was embossed with a Buddha head. I do yoga. I considered this a good sign. Once opened, in black pen it read: “I don’t do this very often, but I think you’re very funny and I’d like to meet up with you…” There was a phone number, and an encouraging “I really hope we meet!” scribbled in the lower left side of the missive.
After my set, Tom (let’s just call him that) reappeared, with another young guy I assumed was his boyfriend. My heart, what’s left of it, sank, but when we went for drinks, tiny Tom made it clear he was single. That weekend, from his Jewish father’s house in Wales he sent me a text that ended with an on-screen bear emitting red hearts from its chest. I was aroused.
All went downhill from there. At lunch he showed me phone photos of he and James, then he and Jasper. Men he’d befriended. Older men, who’d assumed things. He’d disappointed them both by remaining platonic. I accused him of being a prick tease, and he just smiled. I found his coyness exhilarating.
I brushed my hand on his belly button whilst kissing him lightly on the lips. Later, he texted me, punishing me with the ol’ “I hope friendship is enough.” Of course it’s not. It never is. That’s why it’s always offered as a compromise, like the Gaza Strip.
I felt feeble and ugly. Not as pathetic as Tom’s previous conquests, although to be fair James and Jasper are much richer and much more famous than little graying me. But then my teeth aren’t fake. Sorry Jasper.
I deleted Tom’s number from my phonebook; then a young French clerk from Tate Modern asked if we could go out. And I never heard from him again. I texted, I called, and now I suppose he thinks I’m needy.
Youths have always been my muse. I like their confidence, and I find the ease with which young gays deal with their sexuality inspiring. I’d twice misinterpreted their flirtations, but so what? People flirt all the time.
Yet my ego was so shattered that, just last week, to stop myself from crying in front of Tom’s work, I had to literally freeze and count in my head the things about me that might appeal romantically to another man. But everything I could come up with seemed to counter itself.
I’m honest. Well, actually, I’ve no choice. I’m a bad liar.
I’m a walker. And I’m fast, even when wearing a costume, like today. I’m camouflaged, and moving faster than any real postal worker would ever move. I wonder what I’m running away from?
I’m, uh…a non-smoker. Yet I’m still asthmatic, and my wheezing increases when I’m anxious.
So it’s come to this: I’m so grizzled that my only positive characteristics are those that might appeal to my parole officer.
I stifle a cough as I adjust my sunglasses, watching my reflection in Tom’s office window. He’s a temp, with good hair and grand plans, and I still have rain gutters, those little hipbones so alluring on someone under 30, but rather alarming on a 44 year old. No one my age should be so thin. Svelte maybe, but skinny is sinister, like knowing the lyrics to a Sinatra song at the tender age of 10. My father thought there was something wrong with any kid who spent so much time alone, just the way he wonders why I’m alone now.
I heard pity in his voice when we spoke on the weekend. We’re not close, but he worries about me. So do I. I thought I’d spend my forties walking my boyfriend’s dogs. I’d cook and have time to myself, while someone I loved was off earning money.
“I don’t want much,” I find myself saying out loud, as I sort through fake mail, “just financial security and a good fuck now and then.”
A parked cabi watches me. Or does he? I’ve become so self-conscious, so defensive and so road weary of young men that I’m suspicious of everyone, even of myself.
I’m a weird looking fucker, but I’m attentive and insightful. At least, in person. I stroll into Tom’s work, ready to state my case. And deliver his post. But he’s at lunch, so I leave a note.
“It’s me, Scott, the funny guy. Call me. Maybe friendship is enough.”
Terrible liar, remember?