I was beginning to think that perhaps this post would never come, but this season of the Dating Game—it seems, and I hope—is, okay, very well could be the last. The season finale in Greece found Stavros taking my heart and everything else that’s attached to it. Actually, to be on the safe side, let’s say that the season ends with a cliff-hanger, the two of us taking tentative steps towards bridging the distance between us. Meanwhile, I secretly pray for the continued collapse of his country’s economy and a future together somewhere beyond 60% pay cuts and 23% value-added-tax on food.
I’m writing this on the airplane from Athens to Philadelphia. Since leaving him at the airport I’ve been crying, for a few hours now, my already red face even redder, my glasses fogged, face puffy, like a big puppy, the door clicking shut as my master goes off to work, for the day, maybe forever, will he ever return, who’s going to fill my bowl, pat my head…
Stavros is beyond anything I’ve fantasized about, a contemporary and breathing incarnation of the statues of Hercules, Apollo, Silenus, Hadrian, Poseidon, italian river gods—representations of idealized male beauty and virility that have spurred my erotic yearning and artistic production for years. But physical perfection isn’t all that is contained in this magnificent vessel, he’s charming, witty, smart, honest, good teeth, a vibrant presence so thrilling to be around. There’s nothing else I can learn about him, nothing more needed to confirm or validate the overwhelming desire I have for him.
He’s a little more practical. Even though we’ve already talked about marriage, and he brought it up, not me, when I told him I loved him, he didn’t reciprocate. I started strangling him and said, “Say it! Say it! Say you love me! I know you do!” He responded that love takes time, that he would tell me in 2 years. 2 years?? Not content to wait that long, and fully aware that his reticence had only to do with his lack of experience (he’s never told anyone that before. As you all know, I fall in love pretty swiftly and decisively. Sometimes, well, often, it’s the guy that’s not right, but never my feelings, they’re always authentic and deeply felt. This time, though, my feelings finally landed on the right guy), I took his head in my hands and, stroking his beard, said for him, “Chris, I love you so much, I want to spend the rest of my life with you.” He didn’t protest. He just slapped me and said “Snap out of it!” in his Greek-Cher Brooklyn accent. I am Ronny Cammareri.
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Last week we took a few day trips, a beautiful boat ride out to Agistri island, where we kept missing the bus to the other, potentially more interesting section of the island with the isolated nude beaches, walking back and forth on the hot road between our tiny little sliver of desolate beach and the bus stop. Another day we drove to Sounio, and the lovely ruins of the temple of Poseidon. Byron was there and carved his initials on the temple and wrote a poem. Everybody else started carving his initials, too, so now it’s roped off. Supposedly this was the spot where the distraught Aegeus leapt to his death after his stupid son Thesseus sailed into port under a black sail, rather than the agreed upon white one, which would have sent the message that he had slain the minotaur and was alive. Like how do you forget something like that? The Aegean is named after him, this loving father of our stupid hero.
We went to several open-air cinemas in Athens, one with the lighted Acropolis as dramatic backdrop, another with comfy couches, all serving beer and food, the stars twinkling above.
We spent a few more days swimming in the sea off the rocks near Vouliagmeni. Stavros has a special spot on a stretch of secluded rockiness peopled with naked sunworshippers, segregated into groups of young gay, young straight, old straight, and our group, the sagging graying daddies. These guys must go out there every day, for their skin is the color of rich Corinthian leather, and of course no tan lines, just dark honey skin dramatically setting off their gray pubes. There’s no beach, no sand, just rock and blue crystal clear water and the occasional voyeur.
One night we met up with some friends and stood around and drank beers in a bar called “Big” where everybody is big and nearly everybody smokes. Stavros spends hours and hours doing this. Except for the smoke, I was in heaven.
Six more hours to go on this flight, not even half way. Ugh.
So my dear readers, thanks for tuning into my dating adventures all these years. My narrative trajectory will now be called The Stavros Chronicles and will concern my new interest in furthering positive Greek relations. When will we see each other again? When will he tell me he loves me? Will I ever learn Greek? Will we indeed get married and live happily ever after? And where, exactly, is this happy-ever-aftering to take place?
I expect everyone of my crowd to make fun
Of my proud protestations of faith in romance,
And they’ll say I’m naïve as a babe to believe
Every fable I hear from a person in pants.Fearlessly I’ll face them and argue their doubts away,
Loudly I’ll sing about flowers in spring,
Flatly I’ll stand on my little flat feet and say
Love is a grand and a beautiful thing!
I’m not ashamed to reveal
The world famous feelin’ I feel…