Human Bonding in the Doghouse


     In the evening I sat in The Doghouse and settled with my large glass of merlot, glad to be out of the icy February wind. At the next table was a burly, bearded, crew-cutted guy in his mid-forties with dyed black hair. I recognised him from his Grindr profile, wherein he advertised himself half-misleadingly as: ’35 year old. Bear. Give good hugs. Mainly bottom but vers with right guy.’
     With him was an attractive Colombian man in his mid-twenties. He looked very morose. I listened in to their conversation. 
    “You see, Carlos, the thing is that she doesn’t deserve you. You were completely faithful to her in all the years you were together. And what did she do? Threw it all in your face.
    “I know, but it is so hard to face fact that she no want me no more. I try hard to forget her other men but very hard to forget this thing.”
    “Well, as I told you, you are welcome to stay at my place for however long you need to.”
     “Thank you, Chris. I know it very not convenient for you.”
     “On Saturday your friend can drive you to your old flat and pick up your things – or the things that she’ll let you have.”
     “She tell me I cannot have furniture or plates or dvds, only my photographs of family and my books. She no want them.”
      Chris, the burly good hugger then proceeded to give the Colombian some pretty good advice – the sort of advice that comes from a lifetime of always being on the margins of things; the sort of sage advice that only a gay man who’s been kicked around the heteronormative block a few times can give. The Colombian guy sat silently, staring into his fourth pint glass. Chris got up to go to the toilet. As soon as he had left the room the Colombian guy put his hands to his face and great heartrending sobs rattled up from his depths. I felt totally at one with this shattered human being. On an impulse I walked over to this lone sufferer and crouched beside him. I put my hand on his shoulder. He uncovered his face and turned to me, unsure of my purpose.
    “I want to tell you”, I said quietly, “I have been exactly where you are now and you have to know that it does get better. Believe me. You will be ok. You deserve better.”
    Chris ambled back to their table as I regained my seat.
    “What was that about?” he asked the wretched soul.
    “He said I would be fine. Just fine.”
    As I rose to leave and passed their table Chris looked up. He caught my wink and in his face I saw human warmth and compassion that transcended any idea of gay-straight-bear-age-race-nationality. It was just human beings, being human.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

A Bethnal Green Send Off

     A family shambles into the pub, all dressed in black. It comprises a set of obese twins, one of whom is the mother of a boy and a girl aged about eight and nine.       "My god", she says to the barman, "I need a fuckin' drink after the day I've 'ad." She orders for the entire entourage and they all sit around three tables, which they hastily drag together. The woman now spots me in the corner and she galumphs over on unsteady, knock-kneed legs, with a plaintive look across her pale, doughy face.     "'Scuse me luv, can I take summer dese chairs?" She gestures to the three empty seats around my table. I tell her she can. "Only, I cremated me muvver dis mornin'. " she says, apropos of nothing. I give her my condolences.       She seats her two children on tall stools at the bar. Another family member arrives with two bags of McDonald's food. He places these in front of the kids, who eagerly dig in. The adults sit ad...
Read more

Clomping Through the NPG

   Three gangly, teenage American girls spread out and clomped around the wooden floors of the National Portrait Gallery in their chunky boot heels, loudly calling out to each other about the portraits in the Elizabethan rooms.     "Lookit this guy! He's so cool! Look at his beard. So hipster. I LOVE it!"     "Oh wow! This woman is, like, ancient. Check out that bling!"     "He's, like, a king or some shit! Lookit his hat! " I sought to escape them by slipping into another room, but they followed me in. This room contained a group of young schoolchildren who were sitting on the floor quietly listening to a lady Gallery guide explain to them the beautiful portrait of Henry IV. The three girls seemed completely oblivious to this, and they edged around the room still shouting out their observations on the people in the paintings.     "Gahd! that looks like that dude in that movie, you know who I mean?" ...
Read more

The Old Marquis

     I found myself at the French House in Dean Street, Soho, where I sat at the bar and had a number of glasses of the house lager. I eavesdropped on the conversations.      A young man in his late twenties asked his friend, a woman about thirty, how she was.      "Oh, alright, I suppose," she replied, "except for having to shove suppositories up my father's arse for the last ten days."       Two old gents were seated on the stools under the window. They were red-faced, very merry, and very loud.             "And, of course, when I was sixteen," one said, "I was taken under the wing of the old Marquis, and I went out to live on his estate. He taught me a great deal about society, and food, and wine, and what to wear to table, and that sort of thing. All kinds of things, really. It was the perfect education for a young chap, in all sorts of ways ... And, of course...
Read more