It is widely held amongst gay brethren in the immigrant community in London, and by 'widely' I mean 'nearly to a man,' that the best way to confuse, frustrate and perhaps even self-flagellate the living daylights out of one's self - while earning a constantly diminishing return on social investment and losing faith in the general good of humanity - is to date Englishmen. I was not afforded the luxury of tasting the wisdom of these grapes through the generosity of the vine: Unfortunately, I came into this most saddening and perhaps ultimately defeatist piece of vital information empirically.
I've lived in London a shave under eight years, and I've attempted to date several gay Englishmen. I've also studied, from a fairly sturdy North American point of view, the social culture of this country shaped like a sitting person facing to the left (England, not the UK). All I can say about it is that I've never been more consistently dumbfounded by such consistent misbehaviour. And, like a kicked dog emulating a boomerang, I'm still gathering data but learning next to nothing.
Even so, out of moral obligation to anyone who may wish to know, or need to commiserate, I feel I should share the evidence. How you prosecute is up to you. So grab a bottle of red, a score card and sit somewhere comfortable.
Of all human realities, the one whose execution dogs the civilised and polite more than any other is that it is painfully difficult to reconcile the need to let another down. When I have had to do it, I have as a rule listed alternative compensatory actions that I'd rather undertake, simply because they'd be easier: Nailing my hand to a desktop, eating a box of razor blades, stepping on a mewling kitten with golf shoes, e.g. But the act of disappointing another by natural law accompanies socialising of virtually every stripe, and therefore must be acknowledged, accepted and swiftly but surely - but most of all kindly - carried out. I have, to the best of my ability, always tried to do so.
The reasons are twofold: The first is that it's a despicable crime against the self to continue an association that affronts inner harmony (i.e., the alignment of feeling, thought and action). And the other is that stringing someone along is simply a lousy, selfish thing to do. However, it is the ingrained, inexorable, infuriating way of, in my experience, better than 97% of gay Englishmen to ignore these two simple truths in their entirety, especially the latter.
Here's a typical scenario: Meet an attractive Englishman. They're socially very tolerant, often polite to a self-immolating fault and more falsely amiable than any American bidding you 'Have a nice day.' So approach with caution, but be fooled by their charms anyway.
Next, ask him out on a date. He'll say 'yes,' in my experience, about 99 out of 100 times, even if he'd rather step on a mewling kitten etc. It's what he's been trained to do in his childhood home, at school, at the office, in his granny's parlour, at the side of his granddad's death bed and in every other waking, and no doubt many sleeping, moments. It would require hypnotic, drug-enforced, Nazi-sponsored re-education in order for him to respond as he would genuinely prefer, if only he were still able to entertain exactly what it is he does prefer.
Then go on the date. It will most likely be pleasant, if not better than that, and you may arrange a second date at the end of the first. You may even go on the second, and third and fourth and many, many other dates. All will seem to be going swimmingly.
Eventually, however, the water will vanish beneath you as though someone had opened a plug hole the size of Surrey in a riverbed. You will ring to arrange your sixth, or tenth, or twenty-third date, and his voicemail will answer. In most cases, that will be the last you hear of his voice, if he had been thoughtful enough to record an outgoing message.
My American friend M turned up one night at a pub to meet me several months ago. M is in his late 30s, has an MBA, a great job, a physique most gay men dream of achieving and/or getting next to and a wonderfully understated wit. He is, by most measures, a catch. He is a good friend, although the rigours of his work have kept him from getting out much. Even so, I am normally aware of his significant life developments.
He sat down that night and wore a face that signaled either that he'd lost his job or that someone had stolen his bicycle.
"What's up, M?" I asked him.
"I just got dumped," he said, "by this guy I'd been dating for the past four months."
This is a good time to point out a wonderful adaptive mechanism many of us use to try to cope with the rocky waves that dating a Limey kicks up. It is akin to a strategy embraced by many pregnant women, who, for at least a trimester, withhold the good news of their pregnancy in case they should tell everyone they know, only to see the worst happen. Fortunately for pregnant women, the odds of their carriage going beyond the first three months are about 1,274,988 times greater than reaching the same milestone when dating a gay Englishman.
And God bless M for trying.
"I didn't even know you were dating anyone!" I blurted. "So who is this guy? What happened?"
Then I asked my new standard form question number three: "Was he English?"
You bet he was, and four months later, the voicemail hex was cast. In this case, it was even more egregious: he ended with M via text message. No matter the form, the terminus is always unexpected and painfully disappointing, like the day the gene that controls a debilitating hereditary disease you didn't know you were carrying suddenly switches on, and you're left to deal with whatever horror until it kills you - and that's that.
I've dated the Englishman who, for three months, enjoyed every second of our physical relationship until one afternoon, when it simply all stopped. I didn't realise it had stopped until he turned up at my birthday do three hours late, then left an hour later. Sometimes people lose interest. That's fine. What is not fine is being intimate with someone for 90 more or less consecutive days, then not being kind or strong enough to say "I'm sorry, but something's changed, and I don't want to do this anymore."
I've dated the Englishman who seemed keen as Christmas for two months, and with whom I thought I was falling in love, who told me in the end that the timing was off. I found out a few months later when I stumbled upon his profile on a dating website that I was neither equipped with the physique in which he was interested nor in tune with his sexual proclivities, both of which he'd neglected to mention anywhere along the way. Timing indeed.
I've tried to date the Englishman with whom I had one whirlwind 24-hour date, during which he indicated in every manner of word and deed that he was as comfortable and happy spending time with me as I was with him. (He did, after all, spend the night and the next eight waking hours with me in my flat.) When I sent him a text message asking about anything other than getting together again, he replied. When I sent him a text message or left a voice message asking about getting together again, he didn't reply until I sent the next text message about something else again. I couldn't determine if he wanted simply to pursue a light epistolary relationship, or any relationship at all, and gave up after the third try. Communicating with many species of lower vertebrates is easier and often more fulfilling.
Etc.
There are times of course when I wonder if I've become unfairly jaded towards an ethnicity of men in particular while ignoring the sheer difficulty of being human generally. But I don't think so. I've not faced the same issue with Welshmen, Scotsmen or Irishmen, whether Northern or southern. Europeans have generally also let me know where I've stood.
All that I can potentially deduce from my experiences with Englishmen is that actions, and even inactions, speak more loudly than Englishmen are permitted to. So if I have any useful advice, it would be this: Take an Englishman's deeds at face value. If they don't engage, leave them alone and go date someone else - or strike up a conversation with a cat. If an Englishman does engage, you're in there until he doesn't engage. But never, never ever should you expect a straightforward, spoken affirmation or refutation. You'll not hear from an Englishman's lips any of the following simple statements:
"That would be nice, but not with you."
"This just isn't going to work for me."
"I do like you, but not in that way."
Or most simply of all,
"No, but thank you all the same."
When dealing with Englishmen, there is only one reliable truth: "nothing" actually means "no." Vacuums are in fact empty spaces. Silence is indeed the lack of sound. Accept this, and it might just get you through.
I'd like to invite Englishmen to prove me wrong, but waiting for that Godot will all but ensure I have no social life at all.
