“You called him a man-child, Blonde Dawn. He’s a fucking idiot. When he does show up, I am going to kill him.”
A few days later, we got a call from State Indian Affairs. They’d picked up one Patrick Garneau, broke, hitching a ride out of the Mescalero Apache Reservation. When I finally got him on the phone, he asked if I could send him some money, and assured me he’d be home for Thanksgiving. When I reminded him that Thanksgiving had come and gone three weeks ago, he seemed genuinely taken aback. In that case, he replied, I wouldn’t mind if he stayed on a little longer, would I?
Apparently, after rescuing a little barefoot girl from a five-foot diamondback in the parking lot of a Mexican bordello, he’d been taken in by the family of a Chiricahua medicine man who was a direct descendant of Lozen herself. I took a deep breath, before asking Pat who Lozen was.
“Dude! Lozen was this legendary badass warrior woman who fought alongside Geronimo, totally outnumbered against Mexican and U.S. troops. Lozen, she was like the Apache Joan of Arc.”
During his time in Roswell, Pat told me he’d had dreams of being probed by interdimensional alien beings, and that the medicine man had offered to guide him on a peyote vision-quest to help interpret them. As it turned out, the money he needed was to pay off a fine for criminal trespass into Area 51, and for a plane ticket out of Vegas.
He said he’d brought one book to read: Kerouac’s On the Road. Marcus had quoted Kerouac in Face.
I told Pat to come home and hung up the phone. I sent him the money he asked for.
That November, I met up with Parker Kapoor at Fran’s Restaurant at College and Yonge. It was a cold, rainy afternoon and I huddled beneath the brightly-lit, marquee-styled entrance. Once Parker arrived, we found a booth in the back of the retro diner, all bright chrome and red vinyl seating. Old menus dating back to the 1940s were displayed under glass. Parker ordered the chocolate milkshake, while I had a cup of coffee and a slice of coconut cream pie.
Parker had just come out of a hot yoga session, and his skin was glowing.
“Daniel, I felt like I was going to barf,” he said. “My sister Charita’s gotten me to come to a few of her classes over the years. But really it’s just not my thing, especially Bikram. I get dizzy and nauseous. It is not a pretty sight.”
“Parker, then why did you go today?”
“Well, this time it was different. I was intrigued. It wasn’t something I’d ever tried before.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “It was naked yoga.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Naked yoga, Daniel. I had no idea women could be that hairy. But I’m not judging.”
“This was for men and women?”
Parker nodded. “All body types, people in their twenties to their sixties. The class was packed. At first, it was terrifying. All those people ogling me? What if I had to fart? What if some creepy person tried to hit on me? Well, probably not if I fart. But after the first few minutes, it just didn’t matter anymore. It was exhilarating. I felt transported. I’ve never felt so connected with my body in my life.”
“So, did anyone hit on you?”
“No, it’s not sexual at all. It’s like how your grandpa is a nudist. It’s all about honouring and accepting your body. And the bonus is you don’t have to spend a fortune on a new outfit from Lululemon or anything.”
“Right.”
Parker sipped from his milkshake. “So I was talking with this older gentleman after the class. Did you know, up until the mid-70s, it was actually the requirement in public pools that boys and men swim naked?”
“The requirement?”
“In high schools and at YMCAs everywhere, it was de règle. Something to do with hygiene and wool fabrics clogging up the filtration system. I know, I was sceptical too, until I looked it up.”
“Wow. That’s really weird.”
Parker’s eyes widened. “Exactly. That’s what you and I are taught to think today. But back then, that was the expectation and the norm: Mr. Cleaver, Beaver, Wally and Eddie, all frolicking together poolside with their dangly bits in full view.”
“Who?”
“Never mind. The point is, in our generation what do we equate nudity with? Sex, perversion, and impossible standards for the human physique. These days, it’s all about body-shaming. I’m as much a victim as anybody else. Look at me: too skinny, too short, too brown. But if I’ve learned to be so self-judgmental, then I can unlearn it. Naked yoga helps us get over this. Daniel, I am so totally going back.”
I’d never thought of Parker as someone who had body-image issues. But then, who didn’t? I tried to imagine a room full of men and women stretching and posing with their bare butts in the air, liberating themselves from the humiliating shackles of a body-shaming society. I remembered reading how ancient Olympic athletes would rub themselves all over with olive oil and compete naked in front of the crowds. Just that idea itself had fuelled jerk-off fantasies for years.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Parker said.
“What am I thinking?”
“You’re wondering if the men ever get erections.”
“Maybe. Okay, yes, I was.”
“They talk about this on the website. Yoga moves a lot of energy though the body, and yes, it sometimes happens. It’s normal and healthy, and nothing to be embarrassed about. But it never lasts long. Frankly, Bikram is so intense, really, I’d say it’s next to impossible.”
“You were never concerned?”
“Me?” Parker sat back with a funny look on his face. “No, not at all.”
“What is it?”
“The biggest concern I had was squashing my nut-sac during Vakrasana.”
“Okay. And ...?”
“Well.” Parker shifted restlessly and looked past me. “The truth is, Daniel, I’ve been wondering lately if I was ace.”
“What?”
“Ace. Asexual.”
“A sexual what?”
“Daniel, you’re in med school, you should know these things. Asexual, as in, I really don’t have any sexual attraction to anyone.”
“But, Parker, you’re gay.”
“I know, I thought I was, for the longest time. I remember my parents sitting me down and saying if I was gay then that was perfectly fine, and that they’d always love and support me no matter what.”
“That was decent of them. How old were you?”
“I was five. That made a big impression on me. I grew up with four big sisters. They’d dress me up in their clothes, I’d play with their dolls. After watching Brian Orser in the Calgary Winter Olympics, I begged my parents for figure skating lessons. When I was twelve, I came in second place at the pre-novice men’s Central Ontario sectional. My mom made me this fabulous white cowboy outfit with tassels and rhinestones. Daniel, it was glorious. In high school, I just thought Madame Valdez had really nice hair and nails.”
“What? Who’s Madame Valdez?”
“Oh, she was The Spanish Teacher. Every boy in high school fantasized about Madame Valdez. She had the body of a Penthouse model.”
“The Spanish Teacher.”
“Me, well. I was in love with Madhubala and Judy Garland. My fantasies were all about Bollywood and Broadway. Ergo gay. It just made sense. At least at the time it did. People were just waiting for me to come out. My parents even threw a party for me when I did. I became president of my GSA. I built a LGBT YA section in the school library which they named after me: ‘Kapoor’s Corner’ (‘Parker’s Pit’ didn’t quite sound kosher). Everyone welcomed me with open arms.”
“So, why are you saying you’re not gay?”
“Because.” Parker made a pained expression. “I don’t think I’m attracted to men.”
“But you’ve had sex with men.”
“Sure, and I’ve also tried Christmas fruitcake, more than once even, but that doesn’t mean I like it.”
“Okay.”
“Look, the truth is, I can count the number of times I’ve had sex on one
hand. It never did very much for me. When I look at porn, it’s sometimes interesting, but mostly boring. I’d rather watch cooking shows. I practically never think about sex. When I do, it’s only because people expect me to. It’s a lot of pressure, Daniel.”
I thought about sex all the time. Not an hour went by when I didn’t think about sex. I’d talked about sex often with Parker, just assuming he’d get it. “Parker, I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything.”
“Weren’t you making out with that friend of yours, Kyle, last New Year’s Eve?”
“Well. He was kissing me. That was interesting. Since then, I’ve told him I think I’m ace. He’s okay with that. Kyle and I, we’re still good friends. We still cuddle a lot. He still thinks of me as his boyfriend.”
“So you two are boyfriends?”
“I’m not sure. By default, I guess you could call us that. But can I be ace and still be someone’s boyfriend? Kyle seems to think so. I want to be his boyfriend, I really do. I want to be somebody in his life. Except Kyle, he’s not ace. I caught him masturbating once, and then I felt so bad I wanted to break it off. I even suggested it. But ...”
“But what?”
“He said he loved me. It’s been just over a year since we met. Don’t you think that’s a little soon to tell someone you love them? Especially if that person can’t love you back, at least not in the way you want them to?”
For once, Parker was looking directly at me, searching my face. Except I had no idea what to say. “Parker.” I wanted to reach out and hold his hand, but I didn’t because we were men, and in Fran’s Restaurant. I thought of Betty watching my family visit the nursing home, year after year. It was Betty who’d asked me to help move a couch into Grandma’s room just so us kids could all be a little more comfortable. It was Betty who’d bring two cups of tea every day Grandpa visited, long after Grandma stopped drinking hers.
“People love each other for all sorts of reasons,” I said. “There’s never too soon. And there’s never too late. You and Kyle are friends already. There’s no need to hurry. You don’t have to be anybody. Just be yourself.”
“Daniel.”
“Yeah?”
“You just quoted Virginia Woolf.”
“I did?”
“Kind of.”
“Oh. That’s just what a friend told me once.”
“I like to sparkle.”
“You’re the most sparkly person I know.”
“Really?” Parker’s face lit up. “Thank you. Well.” He drew a deep breath. “Thinking of myself as ace is what works for me right now. It’s kind of a relief, really. I’m definitely queer. I’ve been queer ever since I can remember. I’m pretty sure that’s never going to change. Why don’t you just think of me as queer?”
“Works for me.” I sat back and rested one hand straight-armed on the table. “Parker, I didn’t know you were a figure skater.”
“I never knew I’d be into naked yoga. Daniel, you really should try it.”
To my surprise, I was just the tiniest bit intrigued. I’d never had much issue with my body image. As an athlete, I was used to public showers. I’d gone skinny-dipping often with my brothers, and Karen and Anne. I felt I was in decent shape, although I’d never tried yoga before in my life. “When are you going next?”
“I’m not sure. Look, here’s their card.” Parker pushed a slip of paper toward me. “There are drop-in classes. But if you are going, tell me when just so I can avoid that time. I’d hate to run into you. That would be mortifying. With strangers, it’s one thing, but I could never do this in front of my friends. Be forewarned: there will be balls, in your face, and penises and vaginas. Oh, and be especially careful, Daniel, with Child’s Pose.”
“Child’s Pose?”
“It’s an eye-opener.”
For Christmas, David and I decided we’d get everyone socks, which sounded boring except these ones had wacky, colourful patterns and prints, inspiring lengthy debate over which socks best suited which individuals. Some were no contest: The purple pair covered in crazy cats was for our neighbour Liz who’d started fostering kittens from the Toronto Cat Rescue; a dark pair with a moose motif had Liam written all over it. Others were tougher: Should the pink cupcake socks go to Nadia or Marwa? The pair lined with musical notes could go to any number of people. “Not to your DJ lover Fang?” David asked.
“He’s not my lover,” I said.
“He never was. He was Marcus’s lover.”
“Then what about your special friend Sean?” David winked at me.
“He’s not my special friend.”
“Fuck buddy, then.”
“David. Jesus. He’s not my fuck buddy. Like I said, until Parker’s party I hadn’t seen him in years.”
“No sockies for Seanie?”
“No. Look, I’m not getting Fang or Sean anything. I hardly know those guys.”
We were rummaging through cardboard boxes in the back of a warehouse outlet in Kensington Market. Big plastic bins brimmed over with discounted toques, thermal underwear, and lacy bras. David was convinced half the stock in the store was stolen merchandise. “Except,” he remarked, “you’d still have sex with them.”
I took a deep breath. I knew he was teasing me. Karen always said I was too easy to tease. “David, you,” I said, “made out with Silvia Sabatini.”
“Yes, I did. It was situational heterosexuality. I hated every second of it. But I was lost and alone, a stranger in a strange land, far from my French-Canadian lover. How was it with DJ Sean?”
I thought of Sean’s pale legs spread wide, his feet in the air, the small, chirping-gasping sounds he’d make, and the way his round toes would curl. He’d brought his own condoms, and I’d wanted badly to fuck him, but I hadn’t. That was the agreement David and I had made. “It was okay.”
“Just okay?”
“I dunno. David, that was months ago. We’ve talked about this.”
“No, not really. Not in detail. Life is in the details. It’s Seurat in the park.”
“What?”
“Never mind. Oh, these are fun.” He held up a pair of socks with psychedelic swirls. “For Pat?”
“Hm. Maybe.”
The storeowner was watching TV by the front register, eating noodles from a Styrofoam box. Every now and then, he’d glance over, making sure we knew he had his eye on us. Big signs hanging from the ceiling read: YOU ARE ON CAMERA. SHOPLIFTERS WILL BE PROSECUTED.
After a moment, I replied: “It was okay.”
“You used to really like the guy.”
“Years ago. Not anymore, not that way. Anyway, I’m with you now.”
“So, would you ever have a threesome with him?”
“What, with Sean? The three of us?”
“Yeah.”
“Seriously?”
“Just asking.” David shrugged.
“I don’t know. Look, why are we even talking about this?”
“Daniel, you’ve been in a threesome. I’ve never been in a threesome. We’re just talking. It’s no big deal. I thought he was cute.”
After David got back from Italy, I’d told him about Sean and shown him a photo from the Drake Hotel website. Sean was more than cute. There’d been a (very brief) time in my life when I thought he was the most beautiful man in the world.
“You know,” I said, “he has this thing for ears.”
“Ears?”
“Like as in an ear fetish.”
“Really, there’s such a thing?”
“Sure. Charles says anything can be a fetish.”
“True. Interesting. Okay, well, tell me yours.”
“Tell you what?”
“What’s your fetish?”
“Who says I have any fetish?”
“Daniel, everyone’s got some kind of fetish. It’s just something particular that turns you on. Feet, leather, redheads, whatever.”
“Okay, um ...”
“Hello?”
“Okay. I guess I used to be really into jock straps.” David’s eyebrows rose. “I did not know that. Is that from your hockey days?”
“Probably.”
“Guys in locker rooms, all those steamy showers together. Sure, I get it.”
“Alright. Okay.” I wondered if the security cameras could pick up our conversation. I turned to another box. “So what about you?”
“Superheroes. Totally hot.”
“Really?”
“All those tight outfits and masks, secret identities, and masculine angst. Definitely super sexy.”
“Is that why you still read those comics of yours?”
“Maybe. Did you know the first gay superhero was Canadian? Northstar from Alpha Flight. Jean-Paul Beaubier, he was French-Canadian. His parents died in a car crash when he was young. And he has a twin. You two have a lot in common.”
“The similarity is uncanny.”
“For a while there he was a member of the X-Men.”
“So, you’d have sex with Jean-Paul?”
“Oh, no. He’s been brainwashed and switched sides too many times. He’s way too messed up.”
“So it’s not just the tight outfits.”
“Hell no. It takes a lot more than that to turn my crank. Oh, check this out.” Sea-green socks covered with golden starfish.
“Who’s that for?”
“Silvia.”
‘You’re sending Silvia Sabatini a Christmas gift?”
“Sure, why not? You got that Canadian beaver one for Antonio. I think you’re secretly in love with Antonio.”
“Yeah, that’s exactly right.” I rolled my eyes. “Sicilian farm boys, totally hot.”
“Salt-of-the-earth, sun in their faces, sweaty limbs and hairy pits, all smelling like hay.”
“You wanna box of Kleenex to go with that?”
Tales from the Bottom of My Sole Page 17