Brian Francis - Missed Connections: A Memoir in Letters Never Sent

In 1992, I placed a personal ad in the newspaper.

I was twenty-one years old and had just started my third year of university. For any Generation Z readers, 1992 was important historically as it was the year that fire was invented.

It was also a year of pushing boundaries and challenging the establishment. Madonna came out with her book Sex. Sinad OConnor caused a maelstrom when she ripped up a photo of Pope John Paul II on Saturday Night Live. Charles and Diana officially announced their separation after years of scrutiny. And the tribute concert for Freddie Mercury, who had died from AIDS the previous year, was broadcast to a billion people worldwide. In addition, the World Health Organization declassified homosexuality as a mental illness.

In my corner of the world, in a mid-sized city in Southwestern Ontario, some other significant changes were taking place. I had just started the process of coming out. Not that the closet doors had flung wide open or anything. It was more of a gradual squeak, as these sorts of things tend to go. One of my sisters knew, as well as some of my high school friends. And the people Id met via the local gay scene knew. But my parents didnt know. And the straight guys I shared a house with didnt know. So I was in a state of precarious balancing, one foot planted in secrecy and the other foot in honesty, straddling two worlds, not unlike many queer people in their early days of emergence.

My classified ad ran for three issues and cost sixty-five dollars, which was a lot of money for me, especially in those student days. I was perpetually broke. I ate sardine sandwiches. I smoked my cigarettes only halfway to make them last longer. I bought clothes on Friday, wore them to the bar on Saturday, and returned them on Monday. I was constantly on the phone to my parents asking for loans. The money Id saved during the summer while working in Chemical Valley, in my hometown of Sarnia, Ontario, and which was to last me throughout the school year, had suddenly, and inexplicably, run low.

But, Brian, my dad would say. Its October.

As to why I wouldve sunk that kind of cash into a personal ad rather than spend the money on something more practical, like a new pirate shirtthis was the early nineties, after allI can only explain my actions by saying that I was desperate for love. It was something I had never experienced. Lust, absolutely. Hurtare you kidding me? But romantic love, and everything I imagined it would feel like, had eluded me. What I craved more than anything was security and reassurance, of being accepted. A connection. I wanted to see someone looking back at me and know that I was loved for who I was, not for whatever Id been masquerading as up until that point in time.

In retrospect, I dont think I would have recognized Prince Charming even if he had come galloping along on a white horse with a box of Pot of Gold assorted chocolates tucked under his arm. What did I know about love at twenty- one? What could I have known, after having to grapple with the shame, fear, and suffocating isolation that came with growing up gay in a small city? I was surrounded by a brick wall, one that Id been constructing since my childhood, although I didnt realize it. Nor did I realize how thick and high the wall was.

In spite of my feelings of wrongness, of never being good enough, or valued or equal, I still, somehow, believed in love. Specifically, gay love. This desperation is raging, I wrote in my journal. Im clinging to scraps of hope.

But the ad was also about excitement. And adventureI placed it to see what was possible. For so long, Id kept gay men at a distance. It was a guilt-by-association thing. Now that I was coming into my own, now that I was starting to feel comfortable in my own skin, I became increasingly curious: Who was out there?

Before the advent of smart phones and dating apps, even before the internet, personal classified ads were one of the only outlets available for queer people to meet one another. Sure, there were bars, and bathhouses. And the grocery store, if you were expert at casting longing glances across the potatoes. But for many, particularly those who were closeted, personal ads were one of the few ways for queer people to connect. I had responded to a classified ad the year before I placed my own. Id been a bundle of nerves, waiting to see if Id get a response. (I never did.)

Knowing that Id likely be in competition with other ads appearing in the same issue, I didnt approach the wording of my ad lightly. Id need to stand out if I was going to snare the attention of Mr. Right. And sixty-five dollars was a fortune, after all. I could have used that money to pay off some of my debt (university students should never be allowed to register for a Petro-Canada credit card) or make a payment on the car Id purchased a few months earlier. Or spend it on alcohol. So I had to ensure I got a return on my investment. Rather than write something predictable, like Single gay male, brown hair and eyes, seeks same for special times and quiet nights, I opted to showcase my sparkling personality.

Gorgeous blond hunk, 62, 200 lb of solid musclenot! Real cute university student, 21, seeks same. Tired of narcissists and tired of being alone. Princess Di and Rambo wannabes need not apply.

I remember sitting at my large wooden desk in the basement of the student house where I lived, waiting for the moment when Id be alone so I could call to place the ad without being overheard. It was impossible at times to keep anything private in that house, and the threat of exposure was constant. The receptionist on the other end remarked, Oh, thats a good ad! and I thought, Yes, yes it is. If I could charm the newspapers classifieds receptionistsomeone who no doubt wrote down the wailings of the heartsick and lonely day in and day outthen the sky really was the limit.