I've been noticing looks being exchanged between strangers in the subway lately, and occasionally above ground, too! What's going on? Are you guys plotting something? Is there a cruel joke in the offing I'm not in on? Am I the butt of it? Come on. Come clean. This isn't funny.

It won't last, you know. But it's actually good to see people acting like people a week or two out of the year, instead of like insects (there are a lot of WASPs about, if you hadn't noticed). Humanity makes a brief appearance at first thaw, but then we all remember ourselves and get back to mud daubing, sharpening our stingers, or whatever pressing insectile onus awaits us. Insects have lots of obligations, in case you hadn't noticed.

Aside from our ability to stand around and do nothing when the mood strikes, one of the advantages of being a mammal is that we can make eyes at each other. Of course, primates are always looking for an excuse to fight, and an errant gaze is as good a reason to start flinging feces as any. Primatologists have noted that the gaze can elicit attack, a submissive display, or flight. But what doesn't?

Human interaction is more nuanced, right? Pioneering Sociologist Georg Simmel wrote extensively on eye-contact, calling the mutual gaze "the most perfect reciprocity in the entire field of human relationship." He was talking, a little dreamily perhaps, about intimacy.

It wasn't until the sixties that social scientists really got serious about the gaze. In '65 Argyle and Dean came out with their systematic examination of eye-contact and intimacy, "Eye-contact, distance and affiliation," the same year Exline and Winters came out with their study showing evidence of a direct relationship between positive feelings and eye-contact.

It's only in the last half century that eye-contact has begun to be studied in other contexts. And it's only in the last quarter century that the emotional dimension of the casual gaze has been questioned. The backlash kicked in in earnest in the eighties, with studies like "Eye-contact as a Chance Product of Individual Looking: Implications for the Intimacy Model of Argyle and Dean," by Rutter, Pennington, Dewey and Swain, which claimed:

the duration of eye-contact is no more than a chance product of how long the two subjects look individually. Looking and not eye-contact should be the basis for models of visual interaction, and the intimacy model is ill-founded conceptually; the role of emotion in gaze has been overstressed at the expense of the concept of information.

Oh, Snap!

As scientists steamrolled our emotions, the philosophers were getting in on the act. While the implications of the gaze had long been a concern of popular Phenomenologists like Merleau-Ponty and weird wall-eyed Existentialists like Sartre, it wasn't until the seventies that Lacan's thoughts on the Mirror Stage came to fruition. The object of "Lacan's Gaze" was always his lack, the object of desire nothing but a screen for narcissistic projections. And then, God help us, Michel Foucault came along with his Panopticon and "The Eye of Power."

And suddenly the gaze was everywhere, phallically penetrating everything, oppressing everyone. You couldn't look at someone without colonizing them. And the more mediated our experience became, the more "dangerous" and "difficult" the gaze got.

But even in brief encounters, it's more our nature to steal a quick cursory glance at those we're brushing past on the pavement than to look straight ahead as if nothing were coming. I agree with Rutter & Co., that it's about information more than emotion. To me, it's about spacial orientation first, checking out guys second. But whatever your hierarchy of needs, something in us wants to look. Television has turned us all into extreme voyeurs. Problem is, most of the time we don't want to be seen looking. We don't want to be caught reifying, even by a fellow reifier who is reifying us right back.

Gaze aversion is the obvious answer. Experiments involving children with autism are interesting, somehow, in this context. One study measured the effects of an adult looking at autistic and "normal" children, with both eyes, one eye covered, and both eyes covered. As expected, autistic children looked more at the adult with his eyes covered, exhibiting less "flight behavior" when he was not looking back. They looked less when two eyes were exposed than one.

Researchers would find pretty much the same pattern on the streets of our fair city, I'd venture. We live in a fully Aspergerized society, where the mutual gaze triggers the flight response in us. However interested in the idea of intersubjectivity we may be, we seem better equipped to objectify the unfamiliar other — feeling threatened, embarrassed, or angry when the gaze of another falls on us first.

Of course, different cultures glance, gaze and ogle differently. One of the pleasures of my years in Budapest was the electricity in the streets and the depth of the "conversation" among strangers going on in them. People look at each other there — they flirt, they glare, they observe, scrutinize, smile demurely, roll their eyes, leer and stare. Sometimes they want something more, most times they don't. There's this silent chatter going on between people, whole conversations spoken in that intimate language of looks.

In Boston, eye contact is the unfortunate exception rather than the rule. Most of the year, it's only the beggars and the crazies who look you in the eye. Or Green Peace or Save The Children clipboarders who want to guilt trip you into giving them your credit card number. We've been conditioned into expecting to be impeded by the other. A look is the prelude to an imposition, a look back is an invitation to be inconvenienced.

I'd venture we've all felt at least a little like misanthropic Imagist poet Richard Aldington "In The Tube"...


But it's hard to love a city passionately that you can't look in the eyes, that you can't flirt with occasionally and whisper a sweet nothing or two to. Boston is a fine old town, don't get me wrong, but it's more a town you're fond of, the plain sister people call "handsome". In my experience at least, Boston's not a very flirty city, much less a cruisy one.

And so it is that when the seasons start to change, and the time comes to crawl out of the cave, rather than stalk the streets, I just fork over twelve bucks for a month of access to a hook-up site like Manhunt. I'm not snooty about hook-up sites. They are a vast improvement over the old personal ads back in the day. Remember those? Oy. And the bar scene, while fun on occasion, becomes tedious in very short order.

I think hook-up sites are good fun. It's long been my feeling that the web is the collective unconscious laid bare, surprisingly safe and sanitary for your viewing pleasure. And aside from the practical necessity of hook-up sites for hooking up these days, the fun of sites like Manhunt is the pure thrill of observing — and taking part in — the vast social experiment they're a part of, all from the comfort of your own home.

Even just for sheer entertainment, it beats (no pun intended) the poor man's porn back in the day — those cheesy Undergear catalogs and muscle mags from the eighties. And before that — when I was a kid, all you had were odd newspaper ads. Speaking of: the last couple issues of The Dig about the only thing worth picking it up for was the ad for NEU's School of Professional and Continuing Studies...


Is this guy not just about the cutest gaming geek you've ever seen? That's a smile worthy of the Mona Lisa. Those are some serious bedroom eyes.

As you can see, old habits die hard. I have a little box of photographs and newspaper clippings like this I've collected down through the ages. There was a nice picture of Keith Gessen in The Phoenix last week I clipped and tossed in the box. He bears an uncanny resemblance to a much beloved Brazilian beau of mine who returned to São Paulo for good a couple years ago...
But, I can't tell from the picture: is that a comb-over? I don't mind if it is. Just curious. Because my guy had a full head of thick, curly hair. Essentially the same fuck-me look, though.

There was an ad in the paper for a Citizen Cope concert a few weeks ago, with a picture of the artist with his No, fuck YOU look I thought was kind of sexy...


I like those features where they ask locals their opinions of current events, too. You find a lot of hotties in those. Like this activist from Rozzie in one of the local weeklies a couple years back...


And I liked those front page pictures of Eliot Spitzer, chewing on his lip, and looking so contrite. All these dried-up talking heads debating why a man in his position would risk it all to dip his wick. look at the guy. He's an animal. Look at those wolfy eyes, those big wolfy ears, that wolfy snout, and that gobble-you-up look. I think he was set up, the stupid fuck. It was obviously the mob.

Anyway, I don't have any elaborate ritual for breaking out these little scraps, and it's not really a sexual thing (inasmuch as anything isn't). I just come upon them occasionally when looking through my papers for other things, and enjoy going through them now and again. I mean, what's not to enjoy? I like looking at people. We all do. Some are like intelligent animals. Others ... just animals. The thing that's cool about photographs is you can stare at them as long as you want without being rude.

There is a sordid beauty to porn, too. But it is sordid.

Hook-up sites give you the best of both worlds. What I like about them is the way people put that part of themselves out there. I've always been fascinated by how people are naked, as opposed to clothed. What parts of them emerge, and what recedes. Nakedness is a metamorphosis. It can be revelatory.

I had a twenty-something lover in Budapest for awhile who was the meekest, mildest kid with his clothes on. I met him at a party, and he was hanging back, as shy and self-effacing as you can imagine, total wall-flower. Months later he calls me up on some pretense, and I invite him over. After we took care of whatever business we'd contrived to have with each other, one thing led to another, and we tumbled into bed.

I could not have imagined the transformation that took place when the clothes came off. Seriously. A wolf in sheep's clothing if ever there was one. A complete animal. Cracked My Top Twenty, for sure.

That was back in the day when it was actually easier to meet people in person than online. But even online these days it's not a cakewalk. The truth is, a lot of times when I log on I'm not interested in meeting anyone. It's pure entertainment. Better than Bravo.

Seeing how people, especially dreadfully clever, over-civilized people, cope with their nakedness and the sexualizing of their own bodies is interesting in itself (although, admittedly, there are times when it's not). How do they finesse this leveling desire? Irony and sarcasm seem popular among the twenty-somethings. But irony has its limits. It's something that tends to fall flat in flagrante delicto. Sex is never meta. It is the thing itself. Physical intimacy is a kind of second language. It demands a separate set of social skills.

So it's fun to see how folks finesse that in online ads. I've started to notice a generational divide opening up. I'm not too interested in twenty-somethings sexually (thank the gods for small mercies), but it's interesting to see how they work it. Mostly they pretend...


What the second youth has yet to discover is that everyone is "one of these horrible, revolting people," somehow or another, eventually.  If you happen to find a few horrible, revolting people you can love in this life, well, that's something to celebrate.

The more seasoned veterans don't bother making excuses for the nature of the thing.  The Land of Desire is a great, sprawling democracy, no point in putting on airs.


When I'm in hook-up mode I look at the pictures first.  They tell their own story. But, like I said, I do enjoy perusing the profiles just for the fun of it sometimes.  Life's rich pageant.  Good stuff.

I can go a long time without it, though, too. I do have other interests, and I'm actually not a huge fan of chat. I like it when I like it, but a good chat partner's hard to find.  So I tend to take long — months-long — breaks from logging onto my sites. 

Whenever I go back online, it's like going back to your old neighborhood bar after moving to another part of town. Kind of a "where everybody knows your name" thing. I've been visiting the same sites for years, off and on, and whenever I log on, I get a dozen greetings from the regulars. Old tricks drop by, say "hi." Friends I haven't seen or slept with in awhile stop in for a chat. It really is like Cheers, after the Guerrilla Gay Bar Invasion, sans the lesbians (we love the lesbians, but they can be a little bossy).

I got a shout-out from a fellow I'd had a few encounters with back in '03 the other night, who I remember being one of those guys who makes a big to-do in his profile when he’s found The One. A couple of years ago I saw his profile and it was one of those swan songs you see once in a while. "I've found The One! I don't need this nasty site or any of you nasty, awful people anymore!" You're always gonna regret that. Here it is two years later and his profile actually says: “I’m BACK!” You might as well announce: “I FAILED!” But whatever.

After chatting me up a bit he ventured: “Why did we stop anyway? I recall it being fantastic ;)… I know the sex was fantastic, but I can't even remember who topped or bottomed or what LOL… ” Well, how fantastic could it have been then?

Problem is, I don’t have the luxury of not remembering. I take notes so I won’t make the same mistakes again, or so that when I do I can, um, read about it later. For the public record, no one topped and no one bottomed, as it turned out. Because he was, like, 5'4" and I won't be topped by anyone under 5'5", and he was of the "oh, it hurts! It hurts!" school of sodomy. Well, of course it hurts. I mean, it had better hurt. At least a little. But we hadn't discussed safe words, and I'm not into protest sex anyway, so I took his no to be a no and that was that.

So we had a nice chat online, and after I logged off, I went back to my notes.* I remembered I had kind of just given up on this guy after a couple of weeks, partly because he lived in Eastie, and I only do local delivery. But there were other factors.

First "date":

XJ17-031020.2i had had a really severe case of poison ivy recently, and was on antibiotics. But he was having a reaction to the meds now, and had broken out in hives.

Second "date":

We're walking to the T when suddenly XJ17-031020.2i is seized by this massive gas attack.

But, let me back up here...

We are already sort of like old friends. Though I don’t know anything at all about him. We met at the T and he kissed me right on the lips in greeting. He was a little skittish about walking through the little corridor that runs from the Mass Ave T to Back Bay. But I assured him I could protect him. I don’t think it’s particularly dangerous right around there, but I suppose after dark most anywhere could be, if that’s how you’re inclined to look at things.

It’s funny, I’m a paranoid type, but I don’t have any fear of walking some place like that after dark. I’m only paranoid with people I know, I guess. But looking at him I could see he was a mugger’s wet dream. He’s sort of small—I mean, he’s short, and not really all that imposing. And the whole time we were walking, he kept checking over his shoulder sort of nervously. Well, you walk around like that and people want to jump you just for the sheer fun of it.

Turns out when he was going to college in New York City he was mugged a couple times. Once on the train—and that could’ve been anyone—but then once on the street right in front of his apartment house. He said it was late and there were two twenty-somethings, and he passed them and they followed him and one went to the right and the other to the left, and the one on the right asked him for a smoke.

Well, he had heard you could escape muggers by screaming and running, so that’s what he did. He screamed and ran. I have too much pride for that. I would rather be mugged than to scream and run away like that.

Well, they caught him, and the one on the right held him in a headlock (so tight he crushed XJ17-031020.2i’s glasses), while the one on the left emptied his pockets. The whole time the one on the right was whispering, ‘shh… we ain’t gonna hurt ya, baby, we just gonna rob ya a little.’ He said the way the guy was calling him baby made him fear he might be ‘sexually assaulted’. I raised an eyebrow. Were they cute? I asked.

We had dinner at a little Mexican place. He invited me back to his pad, and I had to think about it. I wasn’t too keen on the idea, partly because he’s still having this allergic reaction to his antibiotics. He had this patch of poison ivy on his leg, down near his ankle, and he had scratched it so much it was just a big, bloody mess, and got infected. I was like, dude, show a little restraint. He said, when I have an itch, I scratch it.

I used to have the same mentality when it came to bug bites, since I tend to have a bit more severe reaction than a lot of people to them. But I realized if I could bear it and resist the urge to scratch for the first ten, fifteen minutes, it went away. It really is a fact, the more you itch the more you scratch — the more you scratch the more you itch. It’s a vicious cycle.

Finally I said, why not? Let's go back to your place.

So we're walking to the T when suddenly XJ17-031020.2i is seized by this massive gas attack. I mean he’s clutching his chest and wailing about heartburn and flatulence, and God knows what all. And I couldn’t just abandon him there on the platform. I mean, if it was something serious I’d hate for him to, you know, die or something.

He said he needed some milk. I was like, you need some Mylanta. He was grimacing all the way back to his place. We dropped into a Store24 on the way and he got a bottle of chocolate milk. He drank it all down, and then grimaced.

It’s not working like I thought it would, he said.

We got back to his place. His chi had obviously left him in disgust.  I was like, dude, you could use the Fab Five. 

You know, the question here is, why would you invite someone back to your place when it looked like a remnant from the London Blitz? 

But then, why would you be looking to hook up when you're breaking out in hives from the antibiotics you're taking for the infection you got from scratching the holy hell out of the poison ivy you got from romping around somewhere you shouldn't have been in the first place? And then why would you go and eat something that was going to give you a massive gas attack on your second date?  I was beginning to see a pattern here, somewhere...

He has a cat named CK007.213v2.0. I liked CK007.213v2.0 all right, for a cat. The older I get the more I like domesticated animals. They have the perfect situation. All their needs are met. They are kept, but they maintain their dignity. They have simply to be themselves. Their masters love them for their color or their coats, for attributes, at any rate, over which they have no control. Just for being themselves. They don’t have to prevaricate in the least.

This cat liked to watch. He just sort of perched on the arm of the sofa sphinx-like and watched what there was to watch, which wasn't much. But then cats don't seem to need much in the way of watching.

Before we went to bed we had to go back out and get some antacid for XJ17-031020.2i. I mean, it was pretty serious, I guess. He picked out a toothbrush for me, too. I was like, whoa, there, little buddy! Who said anything about brushing any teeth here? That’s pretty serious.

I tucked him in when we got back to his place, but decided it was probably best if I split.  I mean, when somebody's got gas like that, nobody wins.

We actually saw each other a couple more times. Date Three was the angina episode, and then Four was a very memorable hemorrhoid event.  Nice fellow, though.  Salt of the earth.

The other night when he suggested maybe hooking up again, it was tempting.  I mean, in the Age of Acid Reflux. 

I took a rain check.
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*Just so that any prospective lays aren't frightened away by these intimate disclosures, my policy on slogging is to wait at least one year before engaging in it. And of course, instead of names, I use a top secret inventory code of my own design, and certain identifying details are changed to protect the identity of the slogged and to make me look better wherever feasible.