Rugged Fox is a gay blogger living in Vancouver, B.C. His interests include red wine, men, Netflix and spaghetti bolognese.

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    free range gays

    The following post is RATED UCF (Uncle Curt Friendly). Alberta Rye is advised.

    [Okay. I know everyone is becoming, like, terribly anxious about part five of “The Grindr Monologues” series, and truth be told so am I. I have been staying up late each night drinking red wine, watching Schitt’s Creek and trying to find the appropriate angle from which to write. I promise as soon as I find it, we will return to our inflight entertainment; but for now I have another story to share with you.]

    As soon as I discovered the restaurant was shutting down for renovations on Easter weekend, I booked a plane ticket to Calgary to visit Granny Fox. Unlike Vancouver, where gays roam free, I knew I was going to have to watch my strut after touching down in Cowtown. And so for protection, I purchased a vintage pair of cowboy boots, and assembled the perfect designer outfit to shield myself from tire irons and men in big red trucks.

    Fortunately for me, I had nothing to worry about! As it turned out, with falling oil prices and economic turmoil, Albertans have much bigger problems to fear than a dandy ginger. And so, I did what any civilized man would do and struck the perfect balance between family visits and happy hour pints and 39 cent wings at the watering hole down the street. I am proud to announce that Rugged Fox placed 69th nationally at Tap Trivia at Donegal Irish Pub.

    On my last night before flying home, I had a lovely dinner with Granny Fox and my cousins at a quaint Italian restaurant in Kensington. While sipping Valpolicella Ripasso, I assured the Matriarch that even though I was not married and had zero children to show her pictures of, I was still managing to lead a very fruitful life on the Coast. All she said to me in return was, “you better publish a book before I’m dead kid, and if I were you I’d get on it. Now be a dear and pass the bruschetta. Chip chip.”

    Returning to Vancouver first thing the next morning, I managed to evade the temptation of the Molson Brewhouse in the airport terminal and arrived home surprisingly sober. Hopping in a cab at YVR, I kindly asked the driver to drop me off at the Vancouver General Hospital where I was already late for an eye appointment. After a routine check-up went sideways last week, I was booked to see an ophthalmologist in regards to a hole at the back of my eye.

    Once my pupils were successfully dilated and my eye scans were complete, I finally made it into the doctor’s office. Sheilding myself from the burning fluorescent lights, I came to full attention when the Eye Man walked in and shut the door behind him. Standing six-foot-two with da Vinci brown locks and biceps that rippled out from underneath a sea foam polo, Eye Man was not at all what I expected.

    “So what brings you here?” he sat down at his computer, scrolling through pictures of my eye balls.

    “I have a hole that needs to be filled,” I answered, uncrossing my cowboy boots like Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct.

    “You’re right, I can see it on the retina scan of your left eye. Well I’m sure I can help with that. Let’s take a closer look why don’t we.”

    With the flick of a switch, before I knew it, the lights were off and the chair had propelled me back before lifting me up into a horizontal position. Now, I could direct this next scene using a slew of sexual innuendos – like how when the Eye Man pressed his waist against my shoulders my pupils were not the only part of me enlarged – but I am not twenty-three anymore and must restrain myself. The truth is that even though he had both my balls in his hands (one more) the experience was not all that comfortable.

    “I am going to give you laser surgery,” he said, turning back on the lights and sitting down at his computer.

    “YOU ARE GOING TO GIVE ME WHAT?” I yelped, fumbling upright while the chair struggled to catch up.

    “There is only one risk involved,” he locked eye contact with me.

    “And that is?” I dabbed my eyes with a fresh tissue.

    “That I miss… But you have nothing to worry about because when I shoot, I never miss.”

    “Dear Meryl.”

    I was so weak in the knees I had to take a moment before getting up when he directed me back to a seat in the waiting room.

    Twenty-two laser beam shots later, I fumbled back to the reception desk brain-fried and half-blind where Eye Man dropped off my file and said, “I will see you in three months.” But what about joining me for Happy Hour in thirty minutes? I furrowed my eyebrows and squinted my eyelids in his direction but it was no use. He was already back in the office getting set to laser beam another highly-attractive an un-expecting young eligible man.

    Retrieving my suitcase from a corner closet, I found myself at the height of confusion. I was not on any drugs, but my mind and body were unaware of that. I wheeled outside and screamed when the brightest ray of sun hit me like a fireball. Hunching down like Quasimodo, I scrambled to put on my sunglasses and started walking up West 10th.

    I felt like I had just stepped out of a bar at last call – and had no idea what to do with myself. I debated hitting up the patio at Cactus for a beer but reasoned if I couldn’t see the waitress then I probably shouldn’t be drinking. Stopping for a moment to light a pity cigarette (I never smoke during the day – and yes I need to quit!) I took one puff in the middle of the sidewalk when I heard a familiar voice say, “Well lookee what we have here.”

    Out of all the people in the world that I could literally bump into at this moment, it just had to be my Gay Arch Nemesis. At the head of one of the top Beaujolais’ in town, this man was only ever meant to catch sight of me put together in my best oufits.

    This was a total disaster.

    “Oh my Gawd Dominic!” I puffed up my chest and used my gayest voice possible to forge emotions of joy and surprise. “It is so good to see you – what has it been like two years now? You look great!”

    It was true. From what vision I could muster, he did look great, which infuriated me to no end. I took another puff of the cigarette before stamping it out.

    “It is so good to see you too Rugged!” he said before tilting is head, “Is everything okay? You look tired.”

    TIRED?! HOW DARE HE! I was on fire like a 425 degree oven that had six minutes left to bake a delicious frozen pizza. Call me whatever cruel names you desire on this planet, but never refer to a gay man as looking ‘tired.’ I could barely keep it together.

    “Oh you know, I just flew in from Calgary this morning and popped in for a little laser eye surgery before returning home. DEAR MERYL BRING ON THE TIRE IRONS AND MEN IN BIG RED TRUCKS, ANYTHING TO SAVE ME FROM THIS TORTURE. I am kind of legally blind at the moment but you know, no bigs, sun is shining, patios are hopping.”

    “Where are you living right now?” he asked, looking up from his phone. I doubt he heard anything I just said.

    “Oh you know, that way!” I pointed blindly in the opposite direction of the mountains. “It’s humble, garden suite, 1200 square feet, insuite laundry and dryer … I live in a basement in East Vancouver underneath a four-year-old girl. Whereabouts are you?”

    “Mathieu and I just bought a house in Railtown. The two of us were just so over the West End and finally thought, hands in the air to heck with it! Let's move! It’s really quite a charming neighbourhood once you get passed all the crack addicts and prostitutes. Did I tell you we got engaged last fall?”

    He showed me the ring and I pretty much had to bring his hand up to my face to get a good look.

    “Congratulations! Is that Tungsten?” I asked.

    “Why yes it is. How did you know?”    

    “Well it’s not like I stay up till 3:00am each night Googling men’s wedding ring photos… (nervous laugh followed by awkward silence) My friend Bay Roberts has the same one. Anyways, I should be on my way but it was so nice to see you!”

    “Cocktails soon? You have to come see the new place!” 

    “Absolutely. 100%. For sure.”

    The two of us parted and rather than light another cigarette, I proceeded to call Mama and Papa Fox who accompanied me on the ninety-minute walk home.

    The moral of this story is call your parents, visit your grandma, and so long as you can see them coming, always run at the sight of any successful, attractive recently-engaged gay men.


    rugged fox and the burning bush

    UPDATE: Watch Rugged Fox read "Rugged Fox and the Burning Bush." Clink the video below!


    part four of "the grindr monologues"

    Fasten your seatbelts folks because this is part four of “The Grindr Monologues.” For those of you who are just taking a seat, allow me to bring you up to speed. After compromising his credit card in a virtual threesome on Grindr, the Fox is terrified he might have to fly high and a dry on a Westjet flight to Ottawa. When the sassy gay flight attendant rejects his prepaid credit card, Rugged Fox is forced to pull his pant leg up and show some skin. Exchanging his humiliating story for sips of gin with the beautiful woman seated next to him, the Fox begins to spill how this entire mess began.

    biceps drawn to scale“So did you go to his or did he come to yours?” inquired Erin, the beautiful lady in the middle seat, also known as my new best friend with gin.

    “None of the above,” I replied. “It was eleven o`clock in the morning, and while I should have been up writing, instead I found myself in bed, listening to Q and wondering why I did not have more likes on Instagram. If I was looking to hook-up with someone on their lunch break, I would have been searching Craigslist instead.”

    “But you said you accepted his request to jerk!”

    I would love to tell you that this last line of Erin’s was whispered into the private depths of my pierced ear, except sadly that was not the case. Her scream echoed into the back of the cabin and, in total, attracted six dirty looks, two scoffs and one baby’s cry. It became readily apparent that not only had she grown impatient with my propensity to dilly dally; but she also crushed several double gins before the flight. For safekeeping, I transferred the gin and tonic from her tray table to mine.

    “I did acquiesce his invitation!” I decrescendo-ed in attempt to bring her volume back to an appropriate level. “I just didn’t meet him in person. I hadn’t even brushed my teeth yet.”

    “So what did you do?”

    “Well at first I tried to negotiate the logistics of the situation. It had been years since I last stripped down in a chat room and I wanted to make sure I had set the mood right. At first, I considered typing out my favourite Shakespearean sonnet from 10 Things I Hate About You; but I was too afraid the iambic pentameter might get lost in translation. I was just about to quote Keats when an image lit up the screen before me.

    Seven inches tall, shaved and cut like a slice of prosciutto, it was clear that rose petals were not going to be necessary in this sexual encounter.

    Now, before we move forward, I must take pause to note that, although I do appreciate the rhythmic nature of the term “dick pic,” given the fact there is a six-year-old boy sitting across the aisle from me, I shall proceed henceforth to use the term “head shot” instead.

    ‘It is nice to make your acquaintance,’ I typed into a blue message bubble. It does not take much to cross the line between nobility and vulgarity when responding to a picture of a penis.

    ‘And u?’ he replied.

    Blast! I squealed. Unlike other men, who keep a collection of head shots stored on their phone, I prefer to live in the moment, delete the moment, and then cross my fingers that same moment doesn’t end up on the internet.

    I knew if I was going to keep the blood flowing I was going to have send a picture in return. Even though I consider myself to be quite the skilled wordsmith, no one likes to zoom in to a dirty adjective. And so, with gazelle-like motion, I sprung out of bed and swapped my Joe Fresh boxers for the only pair of black CK briefs I had left. Meryl knows, it does not take long for a man to lose his entire lingerie collection when the only person he ever beds is himself.

    Jumping back into bed, I adjusted my IKEA reading lamp on the night stand before adjusting myself and then snapped the perfect shot. 

    What followed could best be described as a typical exchange between two single gay men in the twenty-first century. Both sitting at home alone, the two of us held on to our cell phones in one hand and ourselves in the other. While I polished my grammar and continued to firm up my sentence structure, he remained rigid in his use of abbreviated text and questionable emoji’s. Ten minutes passed and just as our conversation was about to reach its climax, I came to a full stop when another photo arrived.

    Unlike the previous head shots that he had sent, there was a major difference with this one: a full head of hair. My bush is always burning bright so continuity is not an issue I would have in this situation.

    Sitting up in my bed, I felt as if the fourth wall had collapsed on the imaginary encounter I had just created for myself. How could I be so foolish? Somehow, I had bought into the illusion that this alternative universe of profile photos, head lines and measurements was actually real. The air began leaking from my tires as I began to question everything I thought I knew about this gentleman caller. Was he even at home? Was that even his head shot? Did he even like Bruce Springsteen?

    The phone rang at that second and I screamed.

    I then proceeded to scream again once a picture of Mama Bear popped up on the phone!

    There was no use ignoring her call. The phone would just keep ringing.

    RF: Mom! Hi.

    MB: Oh, Rugged I am so glad I reached you.

    RF: Mother dearest I must confide to you that I currently find myself in the throes of an existential crisis and must implore you to call me back at a later time. Like in six minutes.

    MB: Did you forget to eat breakfast again?

    RF: No, what? My hands are just tied up at the moment.

    Pulling a blanket over myself, I returned to my previous conversation on Grindr and texted a very simple question in a language this man was certainly able to understand,

    “where r u?”

    “at werk,” he replied. 

    Dear Meryl.

    “Where do you work?” I asked.

    “DQ” he wrote back, a three-minute walk away from my basement apartment.

    Returning to my aisle seat on the Westjet flight I noticed the plastic cup in my right hand was empty and Erin was sound asleep on my shoulder. I had still yet to secure a mini-bottle of red wine.

    to be continued.