J. R. Chapple

I spend my evenings watching vintage porn, or better, those old movies where people fall in love and touch each other in public spaces, or my favorite, the kind of romcoms where someone has two lovers to choose from and kisses them both in the span of a day or a week, letting this physical contact be the deciding factor in what their future relationships will hold. It’s a glimpse into a different world, but it wasn’t so long ago that this kind of behaviour was mundane. I often wonder what it was like for my grandparents, witnessing the waves of illness sweep across the globe, having to transition to a new way of living. People say that my generation has it easier because we never experienced anything different, but I’m not sure I agree. At least they had a chance to live recklessly, at least they had the memories to comfort them. I’m nostalgic for a time I never knew.

In recent years, much has been written about the eroticism of abstinence. I guess you have to work with what you’ve got, but I can’t stomach contemporary entertainment with all its intense eye contact and climactic moments where potential lovers get within three feet of each other for the first time. Most people my age take medication to dull the urges, or find someone, anyone, and get started on the process as soon as possible so they can be partnered up before their libido drives them insane. I have friends in this camp, on a frantic mission to find a person good enough to chain themselves to forever, utilizing the plethora of matchmaking services, meetups and speed dating events available to facilitate such desperation.

I usually have no taste for this kind of thing, but when a friend asks me to join her at a depressing singles night downtown, in the spirit of not entirely succumbing to my antisocial inclinations, I agree. It’s one of those organized events where people are paired up and spend a predetermined length of time sitting across a wide table from one another making awkward small talk, and at the door, I check all the preference boxes on the screen. I’m not even sure who or what I’m attracted to. Sometimes, alone at home, I browse an old internet archive for personal ads called casual encounters. The people who posted there were so in touch with their sexual desires they could get hyper-specific to a degree that is unfathomable to me. Let me do you from behind while you play mario kart. Looking for a couple to join me in a hot tub full of marinara sauce. I wonder if these fantasies arrive fully formed, or if these posters experimented with enough creativity that they uncovered their unique inclinations in an organic progression.

A warm electronic tone over the sound system signals the beginning of the uncomfortable courting ritual, and I fall heavy into a metal chair across from a woman around my age. She has a no-nonsense style, dark hair pulled back and minimal eye makeup. I think about those old movies, how the women on screen are all dolled up with lipstick and nail polish. I can barely see this girl’s mouth through her respirator, but she doesn’t seem like the type for significant cosmetic embellishment. I can’t imagine she might be hiding polish under her latex gloves. I wonder what her online ad might be. W4W, looking for a life partner, cuddles and hikes, must want children. Or maybe I’m jumping to the wrong conclusion. Maybe her clean-cut appearance is indicative of a focus that could be directed toward vulgarity. If we could go back in time, she might be looking for a slave she can dominate or a casual night of fisting. 

I don’t know how to have a conversation with a stranger. I have no desire to talk about our jobs. No one does anything interesting these days, and it seems like a waste of time to describe what manner of sitting in front of a screen we both engage in and how our keystrokes might have some semi-abstract bearing on the physical world. I ask her about her hobbies instead and by the time she is rattling off names of video games and types of crafting projects she enjoys, I realize that I don’t really have any hobbies of my own to talk about. When she asks, I say I’m a cinephile and hope she isn’t going to try to get a conversation going about Citizen Kane or something. The only strong opinions I have around film all have to do with Meg Ryan’s fake orgasm in When Harry Met Sally and how close together everyone was standing in that New Year’s Eve scene.

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