Cannonballs in Brazil

Photo by Robin Ulset/Flickr

By Scott Gerace

He watched me float on my back naked in the pool, ignoring bar patrons a hundred feet away, sipping vacation cocktails. My new Brazilian friend, Alex, ten years my junior, hesitated after removing his shirt and shoes. He debated whether to finish disrobing and dip his toes into the aquatic path to passion I’d charted for us.

“Get in. The water’s so nice,” I urged.

“I come to you,” Alex said, with a heavy Portuguese accent.

Since arriving in sun-soaked Key West for ten days of escape from the dating doldrums of New York City, I’d exploited all my bad behaviors—excessive boozing, random hookups, and eating with abandon. But in the chlorine-saturated, clothing optional pool, I started to unravel the rules I often let dictate my adventures in dating.

It had been almost eighteen months since I’d severed a two-year relationship that failed to ignite beyond glorified dating. My ex-boyfriend was a digital journalist, six years younger than me, who’d had only one long-term boyfriend in his thirty-eight years. I toiled away as a financial corporate communications writer, amassing few boyfriends myself by my mid-forties.

My ex Ernie and I met cute via an online dating app. Our first meeting turned one cocktail into three and one date into one month. Dinner dates and flirtation followed. I easily let passion be outplayed by hand holding and perfunctory making out. Soon we were introducing one another as boyfriends at social functions. I met his parents visiting from Costa Rica.

“You must learn Spanish,” insisted his mother.

“I know a little from high school and college,” I responded.

“Good. Then you will come to Costa Rica.”

That trip and my Spanish skills never materialized.

We’d quickly moved from make outs to old married couple, and like many hopeless romantics before us, we soldiered on like dolls controlled by unseen hands acting out romance and contentment.

In our second year, New Year’s Eve served as our final act. Nothing during the celebratory night camouflaged my discomfort as I darted from friend to friend with declarations that I was finished—it must end. I deserved a different ending in love, and this wasn’t it.

When Ernie leaned over to kiss me the next morning, I said, “Don’t … I want to talk to you. I’m not happy with our relationship.”

“Okay,” he muttered, then silence. We both lay half-dressed under my covers within inches of each other, clutching our pillows as barriers against an impending war that never materialized. Ernie wanted time to process. Within fifteen minutes he left my apartment for the last time with an agreement that we would be friends. I gave my boyfriend back to the world, and I gifted myself singlehood during a time in my life when being alone seemed freeing.

After a week of binge-watching Netflix shows and endless dinners by delivery, I embraced the new solo me—searching for love, again—in cinematic New York City where tripping over gay men was as easy as finding a slice of pizza at four in the morning.

Except it wasn’t.

An English teacher in Brooklyn seemed like a safe choice until he revealed that his only two great loves, besides his cherished French bulldog, were smoking marijuana and nightly porn viewings. A promising drink with a quiet and cute Buddhist turned into four dates debating how to deal with his third kidney transplant.

Most recently, I forced myself to stay out until 3 a.m., going home with an eager thirty-year-old who I specifically informed was not getting in my pants.

“I’m trying a new approach. No sex the first night,” I said.

He agreed to meet the next Wednesday, even asking if I had any dietary restrictions before he selected the restaurant. Then he went AWOL, disappearing into the Bermuda Triangle of men, before resurfacing days after the date that never was.

“What are you up to this weekend?” the thirty-year-old texted.

“Still wondering what happened to Wednesday,” I texted back.

“I worked later than expected, so no need to wonder.”

I refused to respond.

That’s when the argument with my close friend Kel right before the Key West trip bubbled up my unseen rules.

“What did you expect?” Kel said when I described the man who conveniently disappeared on the day of our planned date. “He only wanted to sleep with you.”

“He sounded eager to go out and began picking out a restaurant,” I said.

Apparently I misread dinner as code for doing it. I started to bemoan my lonely fate.

“Your problem is you have too many rules!” Kel declared.

Hot tears formed at the cusps of my eyelids. I demanded to know my “rules.”

“You tend to nix people who embrace their bodies or who expose too much skin in the daylight,” he said. “It’s like you discredit others for being themselves.”

He had a point. It was an approach borne out of my own body image issues, having been an overweight kid who struggled with my weight most of my life. Now as a slimmer adult, the lingering remains of my “yummy tummy” had me quick to resist those who showed real confidence by throwing off their shirts at gay pride events or sunbathing at the beach.

“You refuse attention from men, who, let me say this delicately, aren’t from the U.S.,” Kel continued.

Ouch.

“That’s not quite an accurate assessment,” I protested.

Yes, I did steer clear of the sexy, foreign men I longed for from afar. My personality was self-deprecating at times, and my wicked sense of humor often caused miscommunication. I recalled countless occasions talking in a loud club or even on a quiet date, saying “No, that’s not what I meant” to no avail, as I tried to make a point or crack a joke past language barriers.

“You just don’t let yourself go. You eliminate so many possibilities by wanting things to be perfect,” Kel said. And then to toss a bit of humor into his harsh, judgmental assessment, he added, “And then there’s the ‘no sitting on your duvet’ thing that drives everyone crazy.”

This was well known and true among my circle. I lived in a nice but cozy Manhattan studio, so with the bed as part of the room I demanded it stay maintained like a fine piece of furniture. No getting on top of the duvet cover was a standard rule.

I walked home battle-scarred, sad to think even my friends were looking at me and “tsk tsking” failure they felt I brought upon myself. Back at my apartment, I hovered over my pristine bed until I jumped on top of it in an act of defiance, letting my tears dry on the now crinkled pillow cases I’d want to iron in the morning. Waking up later and seeing what I’d done, I pulled the duvet tighter around me, believing it took baby steps to loosen the grip my unwritten rules had encased around me.

Brazilian Alex became my giant step.

We met at a dark bar midway through my vacation. He brought the brawn and the affectionate smiles. I responded with humor that made him laugh and an openness to letting him put his big hands on the small of my back as he seduced me. Electricity traveled through my body as low rumbles of distance thunder and lightning burst through pockets in the starry night sky.

When I suggested we try the bar across the street, he gleefully followed, taking my invitation as a sign of genuine interest. Confronted with the nude swimming pool at our destination gave him pause and me heart palpitations. No one was more shocked than I when I pulled off my shorts, shoes, and socks. Following a brief hesitation in removing my tee-shirt, I took a plunging leap into nude swimming at this men’s-only establishment.

Soon Alex slid off his shorts and underwear in one stealth motion. I turned and swam to the other side. Eager to check out his goods, I felt it was more gentlemanly to give him privacy and leave his manhood reveal as a second act surprise.

“Now!” he yelled.

Out of the corner of my eye I watched Alex tuck his stocky frame tightly in the air and crash into our small oasis like a thrill-seeking cannonball out to cause trouble.

The force of his explosive entry sent a pool tsunami over the back of my head, and I dove under the water to escape. Like a heat-seeking missile, Alex pulled me back up from the deep end, wrapping his beefy hands around me and pressing against my back. My second act surprise was rising from the deep as well.

“Where you go?” he said.

“I’m here … with you,” I said, turning around as he cupped my face and kissed me.

“Yes, you here and I no let you go.” And he kept his word.

In order to dry off, I needed to get out of the pool and go to the bar for towels … naked. While I stood there dripping wet amid the clothed people, modestly trying to cover up with my two hands, he smiled at me from the water, mouthing sweet sentiments on how great I looked.

Once we slid half dry back into the security of our everyday attire, we stood at the bar to get a drink as that late night thunderstorm blew in, showering our Technicolor vacation postcard moment in shades of muddy gray. The tiny awning around the bar did little to shelter us from the driving rain, and I started to feel uncomfortable with a wet tee-shirt sticking to my body.

“It’s okay. I protect you,” he said.

I wasn’t sure what rules I had left to break that night, from the naked swimming to my own wet tee-shirt contest, to finally allowing Alex, this stranger from Brazil, to come to my rented condo, giving into his advances. Taking a chance on him without any hesitation and misplacing my silly mental checklist of dos and don’ts paid off. Somehow he got my sour sense of humor and my body, and I slept soundly amid his light snoring with his husky body tangled around mine.

Afterwards we met one last time for a drink before departing from our island adventure. I told him, “No sex,” and he said, “No problem, I just like to see you.” A rule, yes, but one we both wanted to follow.

Back home, instead of talking to men on dating apps, I chatted with Alex on Whatsapp. It was how we maintained a daily connection from our respective countries. Our vacation romance remained suspended by memories of moonlight swimming, thunderstorms, the Atlantic Ocean—and over seven thousand miles.

Alex recently sent me links to photos of gorgeous Brazilian beaches dotted with tiny cliffs. People leapt into the teal and bright blue sea. He also reminded me of our time in Key West. “Was like a dream there to me,” he texted. “You are my special crazy American guy.”

He promised to come to the U.S. to visit me soon. Maybe he would. While I can’t quite contain this unexpected excitement, it’s the hardest rule to break—expecting things to be so perfect instead of taking a leap of faith, even if this dream of joining our hearts might never materialize. I’ve leapt into love before and drowned in the process.

“I’m still talking to Alex,” I announced to my friend Kel recently, our tense conversation packed away like many uncomfortable moments among good friends.

“The guy from Brazil who you met on your vacation? Where’s that relationship ever going to go?”

“Who knows?” I responded. “Anything’s possible.”

And in my dreams, it’s more than possible. It becomes reality. When I close my eyes at night, I picture myself perched on the edge of a tiny Brazilian cliff. “Come. The water so nice,” he yells. Alex is waiting there for me, floating in the bluest of oceans. I run and jump high into the warm, heavy air, tuck my legs inside my arms, hold my breath, and wait for the big splash.

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SCOTT GERACE currently resides in New York City. His essays have appeared in Full Grown People, Purple Clover, and The Washington Post. Scott is currently at work on audio recordings of his essay collection and a full-length play. Read more at www.scottgerace.com.

Read more FGP essays by Scott Gerace.

The Kidney Who Came to Dinner

By Scott Gerace

“I just had my third kidney transplant.”

He revealed this fact to me on our second date, as I put a forkful of the insalata di frisee in my mouth at the Italian restaurant he’d recommended for dinner.

“I’m sorry?” I said, trying to swallow without appearing overwhelmed by the kidney that suddenly arrived at the table.

“Yeah, I don’t like to get into this conversation so soon after meeting someone. But I wanted you to know what’s been going on with me,” he explained.

Rick, or Rican Rick as he called himself on the dating app where we met, was forty-eight, one year older than me, Puerto Rican, balding, bearded, and four inches shorter than my usual preference in potential suitors. Scootercrunch, my online moniker, was newly single after a two-year relationship that soured, dissatisfied with his corporate communications job, and searching for “the real thing” by finally swapping out drunken hook-ups for serious dating.

I hadn’t expected “serious” to translate to a man who spent most of his adult life on dialysis, dealing with one failed kidney after another.

“What else you got?” I joked in an attempt to unpack all his baggage before the entrees arrived.

“Well, I haven’t really worked in seven years.”

And there it was. This attractive man, obviously thin and dealing with a disease, played his whole hand as my roasted chicken and his pasta nudged in between me, him, his kidney, and his unemployment.

The big revelations in gay dating usually consisted of HIV status, recent STDs, favorite sexual positions, and whether or not one of you suffered a serious porn addiction. On a recent date, a middle school English teacher sipped Merlot and plainly announced, “I like to come home after work, smoke a joint, and watch porn.” I immediately sensed I’d be third in line behind weed and over-the-top orgasms. Now that I was confronted with real life problems, I was unsure how to address my feelings about them.

“This is not the man for you,” said my friend James, when I told him about Rick.

“There are some serious red flags going on here,” said my sister during our weekly phone chats.

“Absolutely not! We’ve already had enough death and illness from cancer, let alone bad kidneys.” That was my brother, who begged me not to take on someone with health problems.

Cancer lurked in the shadows waiting to take the next member of the family—at least that was our fatalistic outlook. First our father from brain cancer almost twenty years ago and then more recently our mother after a brutally quick three-month battle with lymphoma.

Our working class parents weren’t the care-giving kind. The sympathy gene never made it to the next generation. You had a cold; you tried your best to go to school. God help you if you stayed home with the sniffles and spent time whiling away the hours watching television.

“If I come home and find you had that TV on, you’ll get the belt,” assured my father.

And he wasn’t kidding. He’d march upstairs to press his hand on the back of the TV to determine if any offenders had snuck into our parent’s bedroom and watched afternoon soap operas. The trick? Only keep it on until three p.m. so it had an hour to cool before his arrival home.

When our mother struggled with cancer, my siblings and I badgered doctors, questioned nursing home administrators and attempted to rally my mother out of her own feelings of doom. But we already loved her. She wasn’t someone new entering our lives.

I often teased my brother that when we got older I’d move in with him and spend our remaining days as brothers drinking and helping each other to the bathroom. “Look pal, it’s bad enough you’ll live here when you’re old, but I’m not taking in some guy with a bad kidney,” he concluded.

For Rick, an ongoing battle with renal failure combined with fear of romantic rejection seemed easily outmatched by my battery of questions and confessions of uncertainty on entering this relationship. In his former working life, he managed a career in the mental health field, so I was on the defensive from his comebacks to my questions.

“What would I do if you got sick again?” I inquired.

“Well, Scott, you could easily get sick anytime too.” Touché.

I told him to watch out as both my parents died of cancer, and I was surely the next one to be afflicted. He found my sense of humor troubling.

“What happens when I come home from a tough day at the office and I say you don’t understand because you don’t work?” I hoped being up front and honest would win me points.

“So it sounds to me like Scott would have feelings of resentment,” he suggested.

“What about a year from now when you’re still not working?”

“You’re assuming things will be a certain way a year from now, aren’t you?”

He made valid points as I learned how Medicare and a supplemental plan covered his medical bills and how he maintained a living. What I didn’t like was his therapeutic approach in response to my honest hesitations.

When he stumbled once in conversation, I joked, “You’re not stroking out on me are you?” A long pause filled the air.

“Don’t tell me you’ve had a stroke before?” I asked.

“Well, they’re not sure what it was,” he replied.

“Are you kidding me?”

He wasn’t.

During my last relationship with a guy six years my junior, we were dating only a few months when an evening of Mexican food resulted in him rushing to the restroom repeatedly with stomach cramps.

“You’ve got a sensitive stomach,” I proclaimed, chalking his boo-boo belly up to the spicy salsa we just ate.

“No, this is not salsa pain. It’s something more serious,” he said.

“You’re fine. Gosh, what are you going to do when you hit your forties like me?”

My poor attempt at a belly pain diagnosis backfired. The next day he summoned me from work as they wheeled him from the ER into the operating room to remove his swollen appendix. All the while he glared at me with an unspoken “I told you” from underneath the silly surgical hat crammed on to his head. Any ache or pain announced during the rest of our two-year courtship immediately ignited my fears, and I quickly encouraged him to see a doctor or head straight to urgent care.

Our love story already had begun taking shape when the appendix appeared right after that chips and salsa appetizer. And, that was not a chronic illness defined by stages and the possibility of failure. My former boyfriend’s appendix wasn’t making a comeback. Kidney failure, on the other hand, remained a possibility for Rick.

I started to question my goodness and whether I was a bad person for wanting to pass him over because of his maladies or lack of current career mobility. As a grown adult I confessed to ending brief affairs of the heart by ignoring calls or texts or coming up with transparent excuses. It was hard to hate yourself for following a dating blueprint adopted by millions of others. But meeting a truly genuine and honest person confronting real-life struggles and dismissing them outright seemed cruel.

I agreed to another date.

In between our meetings, Rick wondered aloud about sex and when we’d explore physical affection. I kept things strictly above the waist and insisted that somewhere between date three and date ten “something surely was bound to happen.”

But it didn’t.

Sunday brunch and casual shopping served as our third date’s agenda. He arrived fifteen minutes late, a pattern I noticed once the kidney and career conversations took a back seat. Before settling on a selection or deciding on a non-purchase, he subjected every waiter or retailer to a multitude of questions and follow-ups. He complimented my good skin repeatedly as if nothing else interesting about me stood out. My humor, Rick pointed out, wasn’t always necessary, and I needed to listen more and talk less.

I wasn’t a bad person, simply someone on a bad date … a third one of my own making. Forget the kidney, and possibly a stroke. No burning romance ignited inside my heart. There was a sense of emotional availability for sure; we certainly talked about his feelings and what he needed. What my brain forgot was why I started seriously dating again in the first place.

I yearned for a true meaningful connection with another man who complimented my late forties skin, yes, but also my wicked sense of humor and my ambitions. I didn’t need analysis—and while the thought of dialysis didn’t exactly excite me—I did need some stirring below the waist to know that sex wasn’t going to wait until date ten.

I agonized over how to tell Rick my heart just wasn’t in it. Friends told me to get over it and rip the band-aid off now, and early, before feelings took shape or sex slipped in to fill the expected next step I swerved to avoid.

We met a final time a week later, having already purchased theater tickets in advance. I waited between nervously devouring the guacamole and paying the bill to tell Rick that this felt more like a friendship than a budding romance. He listened, of course.

“How do you feel about it?” I prompted him.

He paused for a few minutes before replying. “You know. I think we have very different communication styles.”

It felt like the first real connection and mutual agreement we had since meeting.

After the show we chatted briefly on a cold, windy street corner and hugged goodbyes, promising to stay in touch. We haven’t. I watched him confidently walk down the street, moving on to the next adventure life held in store for him, and I did the same.

I was hung up on his physical ailments and lack of a job too quickly, which delayed my discovery of the real issue—our incompatibility. It wasn’t so much about health or career. Of course they mattered when taking in the whole of a potential mate. And yet, it really did come down to the fact that we simply had no chemistry. Rick wasn’t right for me or I for him. Someone needed to say it and save us both from grasping for companionship so blindly rather than patiently staying single.

Truthfully, the kidney mattered too. I wasn’t ready to love someone who brought renal failure as a possible third wheel in our relationship. But with Rick, I hope I did my best to take care of his heart while I practiced stretching mine.

••

SCOTT GERACE is a corporate writer by day and an essayist by night. He currently resides in New York City. His essays have appeared in The Washington Post and Purple Clover. Read his work at www.scottgerace.com.