A Movable Third Place
Longing For & Finding Closeness As A Late Bloomer
This is Sitting Queerly, a newsletter focused on the late blooming queer experience, the lofty goal of opening up conversations and celebrating those who embrace their full selves.
If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a movable feast.
-Ernest Hemingway, to a friend, 1950
I recently consumed TJ Klune’s novel Wolfsong.
Some friends recommended it. The primary character is bisexual and there’s plenty of other fluid sexuality going on around him. I read it in just a few days, and considering it was 500 pages and I had two kids still home for the summer, that’s quick. So much of his journey resembled mine, if not in events than in feelings, perceptions. It was fast-paced and gripping.
Oh, and the queer werewolf smut was pretty great.
But that’s not what I want to talk about. I want to talk about the bonds between the characters.
A band of friends with strong connections to each other is so common in storytelling it’s pretty much a trope, whether it be in a rom com or a fantasy novel. They grew up together, they witnessed the same traumatizing event, they have a common enemy, whatever.
Those all apply to the main characters in Wolfsong. But their relationships go far deeper than that, especially considering that romantic love is only in play for a few of them. Rather, what they have is intimate but not sexual. Familiar yet respectful. Loyal but independent.
“You can’t leave again,” I said, voice rough. “Not again. You can’t. You would do anything for me? Good. Fine. Don’t leave.”
Carter and Kelly exchanged a look before shrugging almost in unison.
“Sure,” Carter said.
“Fine,” Kelly said.
I stared at them. “That’s it?”
They tackled me even before I knew what was happening.***
We lay tangled on the ground, Kelly with his head on my stomach, rising with every breath I took. Carter clung to my arm and hand, palm to palm, fingers gripped tight.
The anger was melting away.
I struggled to hold onto it, because I thought it was too easy to let it go.
That there should be more to it than this.
But it was green in its relief.
The book’s setting is largely limited to the same small town in Oregon, which I have a sneaking suspicion is an analog for the community of Oakridge on Highway 58. But the effluent emotional connection demonstrated above can occur between any of the characters anywhere there. No one’s home is the exclusive domain of affection. No community space is the only location where they come together. No matter where they are, they are close, touching each other, physically and emotionally, as much as possible.
I understand the inference that this behavior is derived from an implied canine nature of werewolves. But not everyone is a werewolf among the protagonists. And they all feel the pull of each other, all seek out—need—that closeness on multiple levels.
And whenever I came across a particularly powerful passage I paused, eyes stinging, heart quickening, my thoughts sad and warm and jealous and longing.
I spent the first weekend of August family free.
Before kids this would have inspired me to be a slob, play video games without end, be completely unproductive. As a father of two it usually would have kicked my need for achievement into high gear, giving me a chance to finally clean the house, catch up on laundry, do a thorough job on the lawn work.
And I would have told myself that was exactly how I wanted to spend it as I sat on the couch each night switching between the same three or four social media apps
But this time, an opportunity presented itself: some of the guys I’d gotten to know through an online group for queer men who were or had been married to women had planned an in-person meetup in Seattle, just a couple hours away from me. One of them reached out to me and offered me the sleeper sofa in the hotel room he’d booked, saying “it’s either getting used or it’s not.”
I had spent time around one of the guys in the past—we both attended a conference of sorts for a similarly-themed support group. But that was a more formal kind of event, with workshops and table-top discussions and motivational speakers. It was fine, I had some great conversations and experiences. But more often than not I just listened to others’ conversations. Tagged along to what they were going out to do. I was just there.
For whatever reason, I felt this Seattle weekend could be different. We could be different.
The sociological term “third place” is barely older than the U.S. War on Terror.
Schools, libraries, theaters, coffeeshops and churches, among others, may be considered “third places.” Bars fit this criteria for many people. A VFW post. A pub with darts and maybe shuffleboard. A pool hall. And, of course, gay bars.
Gay bars started as the one kind of place where queer folk could have any semblance of safety and acceptance and in our present age they loom large as a part of queer culture. I appreciate the criticism by some that they foster an unhealthy obsession with youth and hedonism, not to mention alcohol and other substances. But they also host game nights, figure drawing sessions, poetry readings and drag shows.
Oldenburg laid out criteria for a location to be considered a “third place”—it has to feel like a home away from home, needs to be low profile, offers a playful mood and so on. But it’s the people who are there—the regulars, the ones generating conversation, the ones setting that playful mood and that homey feeling—who really make somewhere a “third place.”
We started at a bar on the very southern edge of the city before haunting three establishments south of Capitol Hill for the rest of the night. A hole-in-the-wall that caters to bears. A more trendy, preppy spot full of folk mostly younger than us. And a loud, dark club that was hosting its monthly kink/fetish night.
I liked things about each. The first bar happened to be hosting a birthday party when we got there and then its organizers offered us leftover cake. The bear bar was cozy and not too crowded and the bartender didn’t even have to say anything when I saw what the well vodka was and instead immediately poured me a drink with the call. The trendy spot had very nice bathrooms1. The club had lots to look at2.
None of us really engaged with other patrons, aside from basic acknowledgement while at the bar to get our next drink or to avoid running into someone. We were, after all, late-bloomers, new to this scene, still painfully aware of how unsure we can be about ourselves. But we did have each other. We talked about our lives, made jokes, leered, “you need to eat something, dude,” laughed as we tried to not stumble along streets and through parks, made sure everyone was accounted for and had a ride home and was safe. Throughout it all we had arms on each other's shoulders, leaned against each other, let our arms and legs brush against each other.
The next morning we gathered for brunch in various states of put-together-ness. We talked about the night before and what awaited us when we got home and what we were going to do next time (“We should rent one of those hot tub boats!”) and lingered at our table before walking along the lakeshore in a nearby park trying to draw out our time before we all hugged goodbye and maybe hugged again.
To someone observing from the outside, it probably just looked like a bunch of middle-aged men cosplaying as college students again, a last gasp at youth. And yeah, it was reminiscent of that for me. I had a crew in college and we’d be idiots together and look out for each other.
But those guys didn’t know me as I truly was. These men did. And that made this something different. Something…more.
I think Oldenburg would object, but “third place” is also being applied to digital spaces, such as subreddits and Facebook Groups. On the one hand, the internet has allowed people to connect with others and built communities based on shared interests and values. However, I think many would agree that the relationship we have with someone who we’ve only read messages from and maybe seen photos of is not as deep or familiar as someone whose hand we’ve shaken or table shared.
But it’s getting more difficult to find those physical third places. Gay bars have struggled mightily since the COVID-19 pandemic and many have closed, including (allegedly) the one “official” gay bar in my mid-sized metropolitan area. And while gay villages and destinations are increasingly visible, not everyone lives near the West Village or Castro and/or can afford to spend a weekend at Provincetown, Fire Island or Guerneville. I think this is especially true for the late bloomer, who has the considerations of family and career to consider. We may be reticent to become a part of our local queer community because of latent fears (real or perceived) that being known as not straight would impact our careers, our friendships and our opportunities. Our spouses may object to us broadcasting our queerness.3
My reality is that unforgettable weekend wouldn’t have happened without a digital third place. None of us would have found each other, none of us would have been able to spot us across the bar as we first walked in and wave us over, none of us would know each other’s stories, none of us would have been comfortable squeezing into booths with each other or helping lead each other to a waiting Uber at the end of the night.
I now find myself thinking about the warmth and familiarity that night instilled in me and in the others I was with. I’m not sure if we’ll be able to get together for a day in a hot tub boat like we talked about. But I know we’ll find a way to gather once again. And the location won’t matter.
After all, it’s the people that make a third place truly feel like a home away from home.
Get your minds out of the gutter.
Now you can put your minds in the gutter
I want to be clear this is not my situation. My wife is incredibly supportive of my journey. But I have known a good number of men in my same position whose wives are adamant that no one else know they dig dudes as well as ladies.
Oh what a night!
Your wife is a treasure