By Jo Almeida
A year has passed since the last time we saw each other. Jessica is visiting me in Atlanta, from NYC, and every time I look at her I’m transported back to our times in Australia, when we walked the coastal fringes of Byron Bay gabbing away about life and salivating at muscular Aussie surfers. I’d munch on chocolate Smarties while Jessica sipped wine from a covered Starbucks cup, her ingenious way to circumvent Australia’s open container laws.
A year of kindling our growing friendship over the phone, and now, at last, we get to reap its benefits in full. Because—grateful though we are for technology—what can compare to the sense of belonging that comes with an evening of bonding and being unapologetically yourself in your bestie’s company?
With the living room lights dimmed to a palatable level, Jessica uncorks the first of the three bottles of Cabernet Sauvignon we’ll down tonight. We toast to our friendship and to the adventures we’ve lived and those that await us, oblivious to the challenges and limitations that the looming 2020 will pose.
As we do and alcohol makes its ways into our systems, I’m pleasantly surprised by how smoothly it loosens up our muscles and frees up our minds from all anxiety. Has the world always been this wonderful? I’m used to getting wasted on vodka and tequila, which just scramble your mind enough to mute your inhibitions and spur you to cope with whatever troubles you by making out with additional problems named Chad and Rick.
All in good humor and with Tina Turner belting out The Best in the background, we embark on an experiment of online dating. Fueled by friendship and emboldened by wine, we swap phones and grant each other full access to the other’s Tinder account. An attempt to learn more about men, to learn more about ourselves, and to make heads or tails of the vicissitudes that befall both and make up this mindfuck of an equation we call dating.
Jessica swipes judiciously and consults me frequently on my preferences. Which, if I’m going to be honest, is a better damn job than I’ve been doing with my own account, normally swiping left indiscriminately like I’m scraping a lottery scratcher.
‘Why are gay men so hot,’ Jess asks, her eyes transfixed on my phone. I have a predilection for fellas of the meatier variety and much prefer the assortment I’m seeing on hers. My rather picky right-swipe ratio jumps to a respectable 1/50.
‘I’ll trade you three of mine for one of yours’ I try to bargain as I match with a fella both Jes I agreed on. ‘Ooo. Come to papa!’
‘I don’t even need that many. I just want one who’s packing for three,’ she blurts out, and we almost spill our wine as we slide down the couch howling with laughter.
Despite our imaginary prospects with these sexually incompatible matches, our addled attention spans can only get us so far. With our new friend Cabernet in hand, Jes and I systematically shirk our virtual beaus to engorge ourselves in chocolate and hit the living room floor with our best dance moves. “Best” being a relative term, wine goggles and all.
As the night evolves, so does our pure joy in this moment of camaraderie and self-expression. Both the unsurprisingly aloof gay guy Jes matched with and the unsurprisingly overeager straight guy I matched with fade from brief distractions to the expected unmatches. Nevertheless, conversation and laughter go on unabated until sleep slowly and cozily takes over.
That’s the beauty of losing your senses to wine. Wine makes love to you in cadence with the flicker of candles burning just for you. It pampers you and rocks you to sleep in a warm embrace, and then drifts away as gently as it arrived. Hard liquor bangs you against a vending machine and leaves you passed out on the concrete with cum splotches all over your cashmere sweater. It’s wine’s avoidant friend with a sports car whose passenger seat you get finger-banged on as an attempt to shut your rant about female empowerment.
In the end, our experiment was not quite the didactic experience we had envisioned. We learned very little about dating and even less about ourselves in respect to it, but at least we’ve got a better understanding of each other’s experiences. Something more tangible to draw on during our frequent bitch sessions about our (questionable) luck with (equally questionable) men.
That and the assurance that, with or without men, we’ll always have our friendship and wine, and that’s a combo which makes us feel better than any man ever could.
Jo Almeida is travel writer with a penchant for profanity and chocolate overconsumption. When he’s not traveling, he’s writing about his countless blunders on the road and his erratic love life as a gay expat and globetrotter. Check out his blog www.uncensoredescapes.com for laughs and travel advice. @uncensoredescapes