I’m thrilled for all the happy gay and lesbian newlyweds, including two of my friends who recently–and legally–tied the knot. But man, I want in on the action. This is my generation’s Stonewall, after all, and here I am on the sidelines. I’m single with no prospects in sight, but maybe I could just pick some random guy off the street and rope him into it. Hell, I’ll even marry a Log Cabin Republican. Or even a straight Republican. Just to say I did it. Yes, I was there, see, here is my wedding certificate and here is the picture of me with my groom, whose name I can’t remember because I paid him $100 to marry me and after the ceremony he wandered off with some crack whore.
I mean, it would be nice to marry someone I was deeply in love with, but I’ve been single for two years now and my dating track record over the past eight years has been spotty at best.
My past boyfriends include:
1) The one who hated kissing and insisted on wearing latex gloves the first few times we had sex.
2) The one who took me out to Harris Teeter to buy ice cream, hot fudge and sprinkles one night–just as Hurricane Fran was hitting. Oh, he also couldn’t stand to be touched.
3) The one who always talked like an overly enthusiastic TV host, thus reminding me of that hyperactive Sesame Street news anchor, Guy Smiley.
4) The one who had a shoe fetish–a sexual shoe fetish–and hoarded boxes and boxes of photographs of men’s shoes.
Now, I have to say that No. 4 was perfect in every way. I couldn’t care less about shoes–and the sight of them definitely doesn’t give me a woody–but because I loved him, it wasn’t a problem. But, sadly, I subconsciously sabotaged our relationship.
Because I have intimacy issues. And seeing my therapist on a semi-regular basis for the last eight years has only just recently begun to help. Oh, now I get it, my dad is a narcissistic bastard who yelled at me 90 percent of the time and my mom never matured beyond age 13 and my brothers and sisters all have Borderline Personality Disorder. No wonder I can’t have a loving, stable relationship!
So, along with my epiphany of how my royally screwed-up family has affected me, and then the epiphany that I have to fix myself and can’t blame them forever, I’ve realized that I’m in love with my therapist. I’ve even tried to coax him into going out on a date with me. But unfortunately, he has professional ethics.
Maybe I only want him because he’s unavailable. Or maybe I want him because he’s stable, sane, a good listener, smart, funny, handsome, accomplished, calm and refreshingly unlike any other gay man I have known.
Jesus Christ, maybe I should just marry myself. Is that legal yet?
So, being a gay single man in this town kind of sucks. I know about 5,000 gay men who are in relationships, which led one of my lesbian friends to comment: “If you’re a gay college student or an older fag in a relationship, RDU is a great area. Otherwise, you’re fucked.” I’ve always thought that if I lived in New York City I’d meet my soul mate in a New York minute, but maybe I’m just fooling myself.
It’s difficult to meet guys in the gay bars, because the gay bars–just like the straight ones–are cliquish meat markets. It’s difficult to meet guys online, because the online scene is all about instant hook-ups. Granted, there’s nothing wrong with that, but if you’re looking for an LTR, or even some conversation beyond “How big are you?” forget it. On Gay.com there are at least 400 men within a 30-mile radius of me who meet my basic search criteria: 1) liberal or left-leaning; 2) looking for “love & relationship”; and 3) between the ages of 30-50.
Here is what I found:
My friend Rebecca says all the gay guys she knows in this area are monks by default. They’ve given up on finding relationships and spend all their time alone, cultivating fascinating habits like knitting and playing online solitaire. I seem to have pretty much given up myself, although I always keep my eyes open when I’m in public places. Despite myself, I still foster the hope that I might meet the man of my dreams at, say, the grocery store, as we’re both trying to decide which kind of toilet paper to buy. Excuse me, sir, have you tried this brand before? Does it make your butt burn?
I try to believe–really believe–that I can find true happiness all on my own. And I know the whole theory that you have to love yourself before you can meet someone else blah blah blahbity blah. But I know a hell of a lot of dysfunctional people who are in relationships. I have the dysfunction part down pat–and I am at least aware of the baggage I carry. Maybe that’s my problem. Maybe I should be unaware of my baggage. Or maybe my expectations are too high. Maybe sex with latex gloves is perfectly fine and I should shut the hell up and be happy.
I don’t want to be alone, but I also don’t want to spend hours surfing online personals or hitting the gay bars every weekend. But I think it might be easier if I just boycott gay men everywhere and declare myself a lesbian. Or get a sex change. Although I’d make a hideous woman, and the electrolysis bills alone would bankrupt me.
It does give me hope that my therapist has been single for many years now. And he’s pretty much the greatest person I’ve met here, or anywhere for that matter. If he can be single and happy, so can I. I think. In any case, I’m adopting a dog soon, and maybe that will help fill the void. And hey, gay marriage is just the first step in the homosexual plan to create a nation of depravity. The second step is legalizing marrying pets. (Or is bestiality the second step?) In any case, I eagerly await the day that my dog and I will walk down the aisle together.