A Single Man’s Guide to Applying Sunscreen
There’s a small patch of skin just below your shoulder blades that you’ve probably never thought about until this moment. Anatomists call it the “teres major,” but I know it as one of my greatest vulnerabilities. As a single gay man and frequent solo traveler, I often find myself applying my own sunscreen, and never am I more aware of my being single than when trying to reach this spot (or when it inevitably burns due to my unassisted hands). The resulting red patch is my single man’s scarlet letter — proof that I came, and will leave, alone.
Over the past few years since my last relationship, I’ve developed a number of tricks for time spent shirtless in the sun. A good spray bottle allows for the “Don’t Need No Mister… Mister” technique, or spraying (and then rapidly backing into) a thick sunscreen cloud. When there’s liquid sunscreen to spare, I recommend the “Descent to the Southern Valley,” applying a generous glob to one’s back and allowing it to slowly crawl downward, protecting the swath of dermis in its path. And for those of us flexible enough (and with a good sense of humor about being alone in this world [but ultimately aren’t we all alone?]), I recommend the “Solo Makeout,” a middle-school classic that involves slathering your hands and forearms in sunscreen, giving yourself a bear hug, and going at it. (If you’re feeling frisky and gathering a crowd, try slapping your own butt — guaranteed laughs from strangers to fill the hollowness!).
With this bag of tricks, I can almost cover the entire patch. Almost. Despite my contortions, there’s always a small area that burns, prompting a perennial worry: are there parts of myself I just can’t reach alone?
My relationship with this patch of skin is complicated. At 29, I no longer think twice about whipping out the “Solo Makeout” before heading into the water, or backing into a protective cloud of Banana Boat mist. I’m proud of my independence, and comfortable in my own skin. With every smear, I reaffirm that I don’t need something, or someone, to make this moment whole. I reaffirm that I am, with my freakish flexibility, far-reaching grasp, and good attitude, enough.
On the other hand (the one with the dollop of sunscreen on it), that patch still burns, stirring sensitivity and itch. In these moments, I wonder if I’ll ever find him, or if every relationship (like that of my parents’) is destined for failure. Even more unnerving is not a fear of being alone, but that of indifference: the nagging worry that this patch, after years of repeated UV attacks, will harden and callous, leaving me inert and indifferent to love. I’ve spent so much time prothletising the joys of being single and reaffirming my need for no one, I sometimes worry what happens when I start believing it. And despite my best mental contortions and self-reassurances, these fears always seem to trickle back, like the red flush of a handprint on a sunburned shoulder. In these moments, I know part of me far bigger than that patch of skin itches for someone to have my back.
Don’t get me wrong , I’m not complaining. These moments (like most burns) are short-lived, and I inevitably return to a place of optimism and gratitude. Besides, with my application skills and fierce attention to detail, I probably have better total-body coverage (and fewer burns) than the average person in a relationship. For the most part, I’m genuinely happy being single.
Besides, I’m confident I’ll find this person eventually, just hopefully not before I’ve mastered my own art of self-application. I’ve seen too many relationships buckle due to learned codependence, where neither person has experienced the joys (and humiliations) that only can come from struggling and stretching alone more than you thought possible. I have difficulty relating to those who equate being single with being incomplete, to those who don’t understand the sublime state born from solitary moments in the sun.
My journey of sunscreen self-application has been as much about how I relate to others as I relate to myself. Only when I’m confident in my direction and abilities as a single man can I accept another’s cover; the most meaningful sunscreen exchanges I’ve seen and experienced occur when each person is perfectly capable of applying his or her own. How wonderful and rare to give and receive the cover of another while honoring their powerful individuality, to know that neither needs, but rather chooses the other’s protective touch. The art of self-applied sunscreen teaches us that this is something worth waiting (and burning) for.
Sometimes, during my moments of sunny, solitary bliss, I close my eyes and imagine what he’s doing at this exact moment. I imagine him wondering the same about me, both of us connected by distant whispers of something wonderful to come.
I imagine him perfectly alone and content on a beach, self-applying his sunscreen in a creative, hilarious way I’ve never considered. I imagine him one day passing me, content on his own solo adventure, and pausing to appreciate (but not disturb) my joyful independence. I imagine him one day teaching me his best sunscreen application moves, and asking to learn my own.
I imagine him out there right now.
And if he’s not — I can always just put on a shirt.
