part two of "the grindr monologues"
“Well you see, it all began…” The truth was, at that moment, I was unsure where the story began. How did such an attractive redhead man like me, find himself pleading for a mini-bottle of red wine as if it were his life?
Looking down at the embarrassing prepaid credit card in my right hand, and back up at Wesley (the fabulous flight attendant whose name I gleaned from his access card) I flashed back to the moment I saw my ex-boyfriend the Polish Prince for the first time in almost three years.
It was a cool and cloudy morning in March when our swords – I mean paths – almost crossed again. Dressed in the previous night’s clothes and sweating with shame, I found myself walking east on the sea wall at Sunset, when I saw the Prince gallivanting towards me with another man linked in his arm.
Dressed in matching coloured Werther’s Original pea-coats, the two men looked like they had woke up between the cover pages of GQ. Left with no choice but to evacuate, I sprinted into the damp sand on the beach and dived behind a log.
As the two men neared closer, I peeked up from my hiding spot and noted that his partner was the same height as him, six foot three, and had the same heroic jawline as me. Judging from his unstrapped boots and dirty blonde hair, I reasoned the 'gay-with-no-name' must be a free spirit – which has the exact opposite of the pompadoured Prince. As I recall, the ex-boyfriend in question was regimented by organic protein bars and early morning alarms.
Once the two men shrunk into the distance of English Bay, I picked myself up and dusted the sand off my blue jeans. I knew at that moment, that like Casper, I had unfinished business which needed to be resolved.
“Dear Mr. Prince,” I began texting him, “I know how it has been a while, well years, but I was wondering if you could meet me for breakfast?”
Two days and six hours later he replied, “Yes.”
“You see Wesley,” I loosened my belt in the aisle seat of the Westjet flight now bordering Saskatchewan. “The entire story began with a blooming tree and a mushroom scramble.”
With dramatic flare, Wesley released his grip from the beverage cart and leaned in right next to me. Within seconds, his moisturized lips were so close to my ear that his warm breath carried the vanilla scent of Carmex to my nose.
“Blooming tree, mushroom scramble, is that code for a blow job and anal sex?” His voice had dropped so low I felt like Anastasia Steele after discovering the fifteenth shade of Christian Grey.
“Oh my goodness no!” I hollered. Wesley immediately returned to his upright and locked position while I devised a new introductory paragraph to my story.
“Allow me to try this again. It all began … on a sunny day last Spring at my favourite breakfast spot, de Dutch on the corner of Oak and 15th. The leaves on the gigantic elm trees were blooming outside the restaurant windows, as I plunged a fork into my favourite egg and mushroom scramble in the seat across from my ex-boyfriend.”
I proceeded to tell Wesley the entire story of our breakfast together. I would provide you with the transcripts from our emotionally-stunted conversation; but at a time like this, it is imperative that we keep on track. I will let you know a few key details, however.
key detail number one: I showed up for the date sans hangover; which is important because that is how strong and confident men wake up on Tuesday mornings.
key detail number two: Since our break-up, I gained 30 pounds from eating chicken parmesan at the restaurant, while he shed 1.2% body fat and picked up another eighteen pounds of lean muscle.
key detail number three: He and his partner Gabriel (the gay-with-no-name) met two and a half years ago (suspect) and moved in together, shortly afterwards in a small west end apartment.
“If you don’t mind me asking,” I took a bite of pineapple from my fruit cup, “how did you and Gabriel meet?”
“I am kind of embarrassed to tell you,” the Prince replied, chasing a sip of orange juice with hot water and lemon.
“Oh come on, there is nothing to be ashamed of here. That is my job.”
“Gabe and I met on Grindr.”
As soon as we paid the bill (de Dutch at de Dutch), I walked home, poured myself a glass of red wine and downloaded the orange masked app on my phone.
Back on the flight, entrenched in my own tale, I did not notice but somewhere over Regina a riot had broken out in the rows behind me. Thirsty passengers were furious that the drink service had stopped and Wesley got ripped away from me like a scene from The Walking Dead.
With no red wine, credit card or boyfriend to speak of, I thought all hope was gone. It was clear that I had no choice left but to jump out the plane above Winnipeg; but then a miracle happened – in the form of a plastic cup.
to be continued.