Space Invaders

We did make it to the beach yesterday, and what a wonderful break it was! It only took that one session to give me a bit of colour again. No burn, thankfully, since I was wearing a lot of sun screen.

You need only look at the pictures of the beach to figure out that there are ACRES and ACRES of space out there and, consequently, no need to get in anyone’s way. Yet, it happens all the time. Committed hikers or even families with kids are not the worst. For the most part, they go on their merry way and mind their own business. The bothersome ones are the trolls who — I hate to say it since it seems so un-PC — are usually older, closeted, and often married men.

There are several spots I like a lot out there. I like them because they’re quite removed from the beaten path — that is, one has to make an effort to reach the spot — yet I can still see people coming or going on a few segments of said patch. That’s good because no one likes having others sneak up on them. As far as others choosing a spot where to set up camp to sunbathe, good form dictates that if someone wishes to take a spot that is not too far from where somebody else is already sunbathing, that spot should still be a decent distance away and be surrounded by rocks that give both sunbathers privacy. With so much space out there, this is not a difficult feat.

Enter those whom I refer to as the Space Invaders. They are those people who set up camp on a promontory overlooking your own spot. Or just around the rock you’ve found that gives you the privacy you want. Some Space Invaders are even bolder, sitting right next to you and quite literally invading your space. Hence, the term Space Invaders.

It was still nice and warm at around 5 p.m. yesterday, and though almost everybody had left, Indiana Jones and I were still soaking up the rays at our chosen spot. I noticed a solitary character in the distance, coming down the path, and I pointed him out to Indiana, who said that he recognized him as the fellow who was drooling all over him when he had walked over to the sand beach earlier on. To make a long story short, the next thing I know, the solitary guy, fully dressed, was towering above the naked Indiana and me. Though by nature I find it hard to be rude, I just looked sternly at our visitor and finally said:

— Who invited you?!”

— Oh …emm …well, I just came to say Hi!

— Ah, okay. Well then, Hi.” And I put down my head and continued tanning as if he weren’t there. As in, Get the Hint: Go Away.

He protested that we had waved at him, thus why he got the impression it was okay to come over. The thing is, though, we didn’t wave. But after thinking about it later on, Indiana suggested that maybe he confused my pointing towards him (to show Indiana where the guy was on the path when I first spotted him) as waving. A very generous assessment of the situation, if you ask me. And a reminder of why all mothers tell their kids that it’s not nice to point.

Space Invaders are a bigger nuissance than black flies at the beach. (There are hardly any of the latter, but never mind that detail.) But what I find interesting about the Space Invaders is that they are, for the most part, closeted. Put differently, much of the time, they live a lie, namely that they are heterosexual. I find interesting how the gay patrons of the beach know the boundaries, know how not to invade other people’s space. But these Space Invaders, having enjoyed the benefits of their heterosexual lie — I would have loved to use the word “lifestyle” here to poke some fun at the notion of “homosexual lifestyle” 😉 — feel perfectly entitled to make such crude and awkward advances. Or maybe they believe no homosexual would ever refuse an offer of sex, since that’s the only thing we have on our mind, after all. *sigh*

I should hasten to add that my “problem” with Space Invaders is not that the vast majority are considerably older than I am. I’ve dated guys who were 15, 20, and, in one case, 26 years my senior. So their age is not the issue. The issues, for me, are that (1) I despise not being given the same courtesy I give others, (2) I resent being reduced to a cocksucking robot, and (3) I have a huge problem with empowering those fogeys to continue deceiving their wives, their kids, and everyone who, for whatever reason, finds it easier to hear lies rather than truth.

This is Canada, and it’s 2003. It’s not heaven for gays and lesbians. But to paraphrase a Frank Sinatra tune, if you can’t be gay here, you can’t be gay anywhere …so it’s up to you…

Next Target

About two weeks ago, Indiana Jones told me that his doctor is very strongly advising him to quit smoking. Meanwhile, BeeGoddessM and I, whose coughing fits have resumed in earnest since we started smoking again, are getting pretty disgusted with ourselves. So, to the horror of BeeGoddessC who will have to endure not one, not two but THREE people attempting to quit the weed, we are looking at next Tuesday, July 15, as our collective “Get [Back] on the Patch” day.

Let’s face it: On the one hand, any time is the right time to quit in the sense that today is better than tomorrow or the next day. But, on the other hand, a smoker will always find a reason to justify why today is not the right time to quit. I partly blamed work-related stress and the harsh winter we were having for my last failed attempt. Will my excuse this time be that there’s nothing like puffing away on the BeeGoddesses’ back deck on a mild summer evening? I mean, there’s always an excuse, as invalid as it might be.

Are we going to succeed? Who knows! For me, this time, I’m letting the actual cost of smoking be a factor in my decision to quit, for it represents two thirds of my monthly payments on Junior, in whom, incidentally, I haven’t smoked.

Now I’m bracing myself for the return of odd, odd dreams