Missed Connections: A Memoir in Letters Never Sent by Brian Francis

Author:Brian Francis [Francis, Brian]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780771038143
Google: fyZmzgEACAAJ
Publisher: McClelland & Stewart
Published: 2021-08-17T00:13:39.815524+00:00

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A few months after I placed my personal ad, I started to notice a change. The romantic in me hadn’t completely died, but he’d faded somewhat. I was tired of trying, of putting myself out there and never finding anyone. My failed attempts at love, the chatter of the people around me, the empty feeling of being in a crowded bar after I had exhausted every option—all of this fostered a kind of reckless cynicism. Things I wouldn’t have dreamed of doing a few months prior were now real possibilities. My unhappiness fuelled my decisions. I wouldn’t have called myself self-destructive, although I know that’s a very real issue for many queer people. But it was self-deterioration. I stepped into situations that I knew I shouldn’t. And this was new for me.

I stopped being careful.

There was a man who frequented the bar who I thought was attractive. He was older, but not out-of-the-question older. Someone I knew had briefly dated him and said he was strange, that he had seemed a bit off.

In what way? I asked.

Just weird, he said. He didn’t get a good vibe. I was told to stay away.

And while most people would have heeded this advice, I didn’t. This warning only intrigued me more. The man became a sort of challenge. I was attracted to the potential danger of him. I wanted to see if I could handle myself—which, of course, I believed I could.

I was playing games, Brett. Games.

One February night, I was at the bar and so was he. I struck up a conversation. He told me how cute I was and said that I had a great mouth. (If anyone ever comments on your mouth, warning bells should start clanging.) At the end of the night, the bar lights flickered on—always a sobering moment—illuminating the cigarette smoke that hung like fog and the determined faces of people who didn’t want to go home alone. He invited me back to his place and I accepted. I can’t remember if I told anyone I was leaving with the man, but I would have likely laughed off whatever warnings I received. I would have told them not to be stupid. I could handle myself.

The man lived in a small apartment in a low-rise building. It was tidy, and dimly lit. A single lamp was on, but nothing more. I waited on his couch while he got us beers. I don’t remember what we talked about, but at one point, we were reclined on either end of the sofa, our legs crisscrossed. I was wearing a pair of wool work socks. He took one off and started rubbing my foot. I didn’t think this was particularly strange, but it did seem a bit odd. Seeing my pale, naked foot look so vulnerable in his hand brought the gravity of the situation into focus. I had made a mistake. I didn’t want to be there anymore. I wanted to leave.

I excused myself to go to the bathroom in an effort to clear my thoughts.

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