As gay men, has our bark become worse than our might when searching for a hole to bury our bone—er not?

by J. Corbett Holmes

At the close of ’07, I’d been tasked with writing a piece on New Year’s resolutions. Instead I wrote about butt hair. The piece was never published (you can read it on my blog). But, staring up at me each day from the pile of paperwork on my desk was the initial list of resolutions I’d begun to collect prior to fixating on my (now hairy) ass. And there on line four, in bold orange scribble it read: Start Dating Again!

After spending a year licking my wounds over the covert behavior of my last serious adoration, with Valentine’s Day looming large, New Year’s resolution No. 4 seemed to literally scream up at me every day from its place on the pad. To silence the taunting scribble, I decided to do something about it. My attempt began as a series of considerations that grew—a “hello” at the gym to the man with the salt-and-pepper hair and the white surf shorts, a date with the “sparkly” boy from the holiday party, a kiss at New Years and a few dinner-and-a-movie dates. However, while I was out sniffing around, my latest attempts at affection just felt like I kept barking up the wrong tree. Because, although there were endless attractive choices, connecting just seemed harder, and I began to wonder why. The approach of Valentine’s Day wasn’t helping matters.

Then, on a clear, January afternoon while doing research for a book, I stumbled across the kind of love I’d been searching for my whole life. Their names are Tom and Ed and they’ve been a couple for 33 years.

As I sat perched at the edge of their sofa, devouring every word the dashing duo told of their lives, I began to notice something really special about their relationship: It wasn’t what they said, but what they did. A gentle touch of acknowledgement to keep the other included, the unsolicited refilling of an empty wine glass, a subtle nod of reinforcement to a statement. Their actions made it very clear how well they had come to understand each other.

“Do you think gay men are looking for too much in one another?” I asked, hoping they would shed some light on my dreary dating demeanor.

“Forgetting about the sexual part and focusing on the behavioral thing, I think so many men are looking for someone to complete them. Somebody who will behave exactly as they want them to behave,” Tom replied. “I say get a dog!”

“If you’re a dog-needing person, and you need to snap your fingers and get some results, then get a dog!” Ed nodded in agreement.

“Sometimes a dog is good in a relationship. Better than a ménage à trois, which is totally confusing.”

We bantered on into the evening, their knowledge filling me with a comfort I rarely felt with men my own age.

“Do you think two men have a harder time with each other because we always need to be seen as strong and in control?” I asked.

In unison they both gave a firm “Yes!”

“You have to push your balls out of the way, so you can get down to the relationship part,” said Tom. “It’s a negotiation you have to manage.”

Ed agreed.

“Women understand that transition and move through it differently,” he added. “We have to reprogram ourselves if we are going to have a nurturing relationship with each other.”

Instead of a life of cynicism and questioning, they’d achieved a relaxed confidence about both their age and their life together—happy with a love well lived.

As I drove home, it felt as if I had a new “leash” on life—filled with a renewed confidence that maybe as I got older, appearing available wouldn’t be seen as weak and the control part would fade.

The following weekend I tagged along to the birthday party of a man I didn’t know. New territory, I thought. And so I went.

As we entered the party, I scanned the room for the bar. Bingo—the dining room. While I was busy making a drink, naturally I lost my friend in the festive mob of men, so I found a spot against the wall and took in the party. It was 100 percent boy. All gay, all handsome, all from the same gym—the same pack. Oddly as I studied the guests, I thought of Tom’s analogy about dogs and balls. And although there were several men I would have liked to give my boner to (including the birthday man/boy), at the same time, I felt incongruous among this pack of peers. But there was still resolution No. 4 to contend with, so I began to play ball. Each exchange would start with a simple bearing of teeth—smiling while marking our territory. Next, if things went well, came a wag of the tail followed by a little circling—taking in a scent for security before eventually saying hello. Careful not to lift our legs improperly, scraps of our lives would be exchanged: photos on an iPhone, conversations about faking a gag reflex, I even got to see a few tattoos on one handsome man’s back. All were alpha-actions. Thus, I did the same—doggie style. There was no room for a “runt” in their litter.

Throughout the following week, I suppose you could say I was “in the doghouse.” I began to monitor the species—dogs, not men—observing their every move. Then one night while leaving the gym, my friend Brian and I opted for an impromptu dinner.

“I have to walk the dogs first” he said. “It’ll only take a minute. Then we can go eat.”

When we hit the streets with his three dogs (he and his partner have been together 14 years—think about it), I helped out by taking Flynn, his boxer. As we circled the block, between sniffs and the release of fluids, all three dogs met each and every passer-by with equal enthusiasm and welcoming affection. The results were astonishing. Every person—man or woman, young or old, cute or not—got the same greeting: affectionate abandon! And, aside from a few who were scared by Reilly (she’s is very large), everyone stopped to return their friendliness. While two handsome guys scratched each set of ears, cooing at the trio, I stood speechless, twisted in the leashes.

And I was left with this: As gay men, we grow and change, and yes, we age. Sometimes we go on different walks, fetch for different “sticks” and we all chase balls. But, is the thing that drives us, the scent that propels us to raise our legs to mark and guard our territory, the same thing that keeps us constantly circling, vying to stay on top—always the alpha dog? Does our bark keep us from our might?

And then, as I considered my current state, I thought maybe it’s the dogs who’ve had it right all along. And maybe it’s age that shows you that.

So, maybe a dog in the hand is worth two in the bushes?

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