It’s not what you think. If you came here for lewd pictures of guys engaged in horizontal hanky panky, you’re in the wrong spot. I recommend one of the 130,000,000 porn sites on the net or just go watch the trailer for the last James Franco and Seth Rogan film.
Moreover, if you were hoping for the uncloseting of a forty year-old teacher, sorry to disappoint.
As a single forty year-old who lives with a cat, my lifestyle has generated discussion amongst my family and friends. I get the usual questions about when I’ll get married, have kids, settle down, buy a Saturn.
The people who really comment on my single status are my parents and my grandmother.
Whenever I visit home, my mom gives me a speech that goes: “As long as you’re happy, we don’t care who you are with,” which I immediately translate to: “At this point, we’d settle for a daughter-in-law named Gary.” Moreover, when we eat in restaurants I catch my mother scanning the left ring fingers of our female servers, hoping to drop into conversation that I am a professor (I’m not) and I have a book published (six people bought it). Nevertheless, the desperation to pair me up is palpable.
My father used to take a different approach in which he would cleverly slip covert statements into conversations during football games or dinner.
Dad: “That’s not a touchdown?!”
Me: “That’s ridiculous!”
Dad: “You know…there are a lot of advantages to getting married later in life.”
Me: “Where’s the fucking bourbon?”
If you know my dad, you know this spur line of random conversation isn’t out of the realm of normalcy, but still, the message was clear. Now my dad makes excuses for me. “You don’t want to get married. It would change your lifestyle completely.” This is translated to, “You lucky bastard, you can eat out of pans and eat pizza for breakfast. I wish I was forty and unmarried. Stay happy forever!”
My grandmother openly states that I am the only smart person in the family. This intelligence test has one question: Are you married? If you answer yes, you are stupid and if you answer no, you are smart.
Though I do not have a wife, it has recently become clear to me that I do have a heterosexual life mate. A heterosexual life mate differs from a partner in that at no point do we engage in sexual intercourse. But pretty much everything else suggests that we are in a long term relationship.
It’s assumed between my HLM and I that we will hang out at least one night on the weekend. We know each others’ families and ask after parents and brothers. We got a cat when we lived together which he cat-sits when I leave town. We have a set of matching Japanese robes. We cook and trade recipes. And like most other couples, we have long running arguments that get drudged up at inopportune times.
“Well, I remember one time you were forgetful.”
“I apologized for that!”
“Oh, so sincerely too.”
“We’ll talk about this later.”
This isn’t the only kind of “couple talk” we have, either. There are work talks, money talks, and candid health chats. There are domestic messages. On my way to your place, need me to pick anything up?, What’s that brand of cornflakes you like?, or Make sure you get to the doctor for that thing, I don’t want another midnight trip to the ER.
It was one of these domestic messages that made me realize I had an HLM.
Hey, let me know what you want to do Xmas eve. I need to get gifts.
I sat down afterwards and weighed out the advantages and disadvantages. OK, was it a perfect relationship? No. I would prefer someone who doesn’t have a beard, a penis, and a Y chromosome. Also he’s about six inches taller than me, which means I don’t even get the double wardrobe benefits those in other same-sex relationships get. But those things aside, at least my HML is a good cook and makes a good Manhattan. He’s also a good person, moral, smart, and generally looks out for his friends. As long as I’m getting bourbon drinks and chili, I could deal with guy love for a little longer.
If this was a romantic comedy with Seth Rogan and James Franco this is where you’d see a brief adventure into the hilarious world of actual and awkward guy love. There would be a knee-slapping hilarious depiction of an embarrassing night of near-coitus. I am afraid – and overjoyed – that this isn’t the case. Our guy love is purely platonic.
Until I meet Ms. Rightova, I am happy spending time with my heterosexual life mate. I’ll get a Christmas present, and a few good cocktails. I just have to stay on the lookout for disconcerting signs, such as matching pajamas or braiding each others’ hair while watching a John Hughes marathon. I fear the holidays, and cringe at the thought of matching ugly sweaters and being introduced along with a catalog of couples, “This is Dita and John, Marketa and Pavel, and this is Damien and Collin.”
“You guys been to Vermont?”
“No.”
Still, we have to do that Christmas picture with our cat. We didn’t get that little elf outfit loomed for nothing.
