Dating can be a bitch, take it from someone who does it a lot. After the first and possibly every subsequent date there after is over you try to sort out how you feel about the guy as well as try to gauge how he feels about you. You don’t want to be too exuberant nor too apathetic if you are interested in pursuing him further. Nevertheless, those that don’t turn into relationships eventually end some way or another. Here’s a quick guide of how you can tell that it’s over before it began, and how you can let him know too.
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EVERYBODY DOES IT | I probably should have known that when a 76 year-old man in a 1990 powder blue Toyota Camry slammed into the side of our car on a rainy day, in L.A., that things were definitely not going to go as planned. The freak ‘weather’ and accident aside, the very act of riding in the front seat of a car with someone you’re not paying by time or distance is enough to make any New Yorker feel uneasy. As the debate between NY and LA always concludes, they have the sunshine, but we don’t have to get behind the wheel. Though I enjoyed my own brief journeys coasting slowly down the Hollywood boulevards — it is the one factor that seemed to truly separate us.
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EVERYBODY DOES IT | I don’t think it’s a stretch to say that New Yorkers think we’re smarter than the rest of the country. We work in the most creative industries, run the financial markets, and find ways of purchasing exorbitantly priced footwear on our (usually) meager salaries the majority of which usually goes to rent. So when it comes to dating we eschew the impulse to settle down with our college sweetheart and begin reproducing before our 30’s and instead take our sweet ass time dating a seemingly endless carousel of potential til’ death do us parts until we find someone who meets our requirements for eternal bliss.
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EVERYBODY DOES IT | I don’t usually write about my job, but yesterday I was surprised to realize that today happened to be World AIDS Day, something I never would have forgotten the last couple years. Before I started a new position six weeks ago, I worked for a publishing house where I represented a handful of authors for speaking engagements. My biggest client in my two-year tenure there was a young woman named Marvelyn Brown. You may have seen her on ‘Oprah,’ ‘Tyra,’ BET, CNN, in a PSA on MTV, or as one of the “Divas on the Rise,” which aired during ‘VH1’s Divas Live,’ but if you don’t know anything about her, please let me introduce. Marvelyn is a beautiful 25 year-old African American woman who contracted HIV from her boyfriend at age 19.
EVERYBODY DOES IT | Whenever you get together with long-time friends, it doesn’t take long to see just how much and how little you’ve changed. This past weekend, I didn’t just see any old friend, but one of my closest friends who happens to live on the other side of the world.
Since I began writing this column she’s inspired a lot of my themes and provided me with plenty of anecdotes, and for that I am eternally grateful, especially because each anecdote usually got her in trouble with her boyfriend at the time. As usual, there was no steady boyfriend to introduce her to during this visit, but I guess in a lot of ways that’s better, because too often we let our friends’ opinions of our lovers color the way we see them.
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EVERYBODY DOES IT // Like waking from a dream, the transition from summer to fall always unsettles me. Though I may be jumping the gun, fall doesn’t officially start for another few weeks, once the calendar turns to September I can’t help but feel that fall has arrived. On the one hand I love the heat and fun of summer like every other red-blooded American, whatever that means, but fall has always been my favorite. Though it begins inauspiciously with cooling temperatures and rain fall, you can’t deny that the air is charged with energy as it builds towards its crescendo of brilliant leaves and the promise of cozy socks and sweaters.
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EVERYBODY DOES IT // No matter how old we get there are some habits from our childhood that are hard to break. Though I broke myself on the last minute animal crackers or candy bar purchase in the checkout line, and I no longer hold my breath when passing a graveyard, when getting into a pool or the ocean, I still have to go inch by inch.
You dip your foot into the pool, and determine, it is quite cooler than the concrete surrounding. So you begin down the steps, foot-by-foot, knee-by-knee, and eventually you’re up to your waist. This is usually when I hop on my tiptoes and hold my arms out perpendicular to my body. Though the water feels refreshing and comforting even, it takes just a minute to adjust.
Though by adolescence we usually could muster the courage to dive in head first and just get over with in one fell swoop, sometimes we become more cautious with age and revert to childhood shyness. The same can be said of the way we approach relationships. When we’re new to sexual activity we grab impulsively for whatever treat we think will easily satisfy our craving, definitely fret over any encounter with lovers that have since passed on, but as adults we learn to tread carefully into any relationship we think may be a success, instead of diving right in like we may have done as teens or in college.
I thought about this recently as I began to hang out with a boy that had more genuine potential than I’d encountered in the 18 months since my last boyfriend. He possesses nearly every attribute I’d come to consider as negative since my tenure of dating in New York, but yet I can’t deny that being around him seems to comfort and refresh my weary attitude. So much of me wants to be daring and just belly flop my feelings, splashing him with everything I’d kept reserved for so long, but I knew that it would be much safer, and ultimately more satisfying if I let develop one toe, one foot at a time.
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EVERYBODY DOES IT // When I agreed to go to Ft. Lauderdale with my old college roommate, his boyfriend, and a cadre of other gays I thought it would be a mix between a bachelor party and my senior year spring break in Palm Springs. I learned on that spring break that gaycations and Gays Gone Wild type adventures don’t end in college, but rather, as evidenced by the nude and rowdy middle-aged guests at our all men’s resort, extended as long as you wished it to. Though I knew no genitals would be exposed poolside at the W in FTL (probably) I thought the same air of abandon and sexual proclivity would ensue. In reality I discovered that vacationing with mostly couples leaves little chance that you’ll hook-up within your party, or that you’ll have a committed group to go out and procure strange ass from the locals.
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In New York every relationship feels like long distance. Potential dates are spread among the boroughs and hectic schedules keep you from seeing each other more than a couple times a week, if you’re lucky. In the interim you’re relegated to chatting online, texting, or maybe late night phone calls so it’s easy to feel like you’re dating remotely. Those familiar with online dating websites know that there are constantly new prospects to consider not to mention that any event or evening out with friends could bring another potential mate to your attention, creating an endless cycle of fits and starts. And with new people constantly coming in and out of the city it’s not unreasonable to assume your next crush may even hail from somewhere far beyond the city’s seemingly endless boundaries.
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EVERY BODY DOES IT // A couple weeks ago I decided I’d be attending my friend’s birthday pool party in Ft. Lauderdale. The problem was the party was exactly a month away and my half naked body had not seen the light of day in more than a year. Those of you that know me know that skin tone was not my concern, my flabby torso on the other hand was very much so. At the perfect juncture of approaching Pride and Mother Nature’s decision to begin easing up on the rain (kinda) I began a new diet and exercise regimen that I hoped would take me from saggy to svelte in the few weeks I had.
I should probably mention that being in a bathing suit was not my only motivation for weight loss and toning. Since I’m going to FL with my best friend and his boyfriend, they also invited one of their friends to come along as well. (Un)fortunately for me said friend has nothing to be ashamed of when he takes off his shirt, and I didn’t want to spend probably my most significant getaway this summer feeling like the fat kid at camp. It may sound superficial, but then again what isn’t when we’re talking about gays and the W in Ft. Lauderdale?
They say it’s good to have a goal in mind when you begin a new diet and/or and work out plan. I didn’t have any specific goals beyond looking hotter, so I try to focus on just following the online programs I’m using and making a conscious effort to improve the health of my diet and shape of my body. Since this is quite vague, it helps that I at least have a deadline to meet. In the mean time all this exercise in the last couple weeks has given me a lot of time to think. Athletes prepare for competitions, actors rehearse for plays, and our education helps prepare us for life and careers. So what is supposed to prepare us for relationships?
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Ralph Ueltzhoffer Text Portrait
EVERYBODY DOES IT // In the wake of Michael Jackson’s death there’s been an abundance of specials, marathons, and shows devoted to his musical career. In watching these it is clear that though his immense talent is undeniable it is absurd that anyone ever believed he was straight. With a voice that rivals Minnie Mouse and dance moves more astonishingly fluid than a Cirque de Soleil performance on acid, how he ever elicited hordes, nay entire populations, of screaming female fans seems almost unfathomable. Riddled with accusations of child molestation, absurd marriages to rock n’ roll royalty, and surrogate children of suspicious background, his personal life made little case for heterosexuality. But yet to the bitter end the King of Pop never came out as a queen.
It’s not uncommon for popular musicians and actors of dubious sexuality to be adored by female fans. Of just the ones to be confirmed you need to only look at Clay Aiken, Lance Bass, Ricky Martin (well soon to be confirmed), Jordan Knight, Rock Hudson, and Neal Patrick Harris, just to name a few. Though they range from the ridiculously obvious to the bit more surprising, they all at least at one time had a legion of followers that would vehemently defend their sexuality. As I once argued with my best friend during a heated debate over Anderson Cooper, does this insistence that they are straight reinforce homophobia and the heteronormative assumptions it fosters, or are we merely reluctant to label someone’s private preference?
As gay men we get a lot of flack for telling our straight (girl)friends that certain celebrities are gay. They assume we want all of the hot guys to be on our team, leaving them with the chubby sidekicks. Though I find this reaction to be understandable, I think it plays perfectly into the homophobia perpetuated by the mainstream media. Though it kills me to say it, if blogs like Perez Hilton or Gawker hadn’t come along, the media would still be so frightened by litigation they would continue to avoid raising the question of someone’s sexuality, a task that had only been left to the disreputable tabloids.
Many will argue that stars are entitled to their privacy and should not be coerced to come out, and I agree. But I also think that their silence only serves to hold us back, rather than move us forward. Online we can speculate about stars, anonymous commenters indiscreetly share their stories, and as a community we at least confirm amongst ourselves whom is one of us. The power of the Internet to answer these questions is largely responsible for the strides we have made in the last decade.
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The one time we all want to be single is summer time, when beach visits, interns, and general debauchery abounds. But the one thing we neglect to remember is how lonely Pride can be when we’re single.
On one hand we’re glad the gay population of our city and half the Eastern seaboard turns out to celebrate. On the other hand we wish we had a man on our arm to show off.
I never thought this particularly applied to me, having spent, pretty much every Pride alone (most notably the year I marched with my parents in Indianapolis for PFLAG). But returning to my college town this year for Pride made me feel like I was missing a plus one. Maybe it was because most of my friends had boyfriends, and I was still single and sassy in the Big Apple. I couldn’t help feel that although I hadn’t always been a visitor I was a bit of an outcast.
Luckily it is a relatively small town and it didn’t take me long to reingratiate myself with the locals. By the end of the second night I had connected with a long lost crush of the past. What I thought was going to be an innocuous evening of catching up with friends and forsaking my liver ended up with an unlikely find: a boyfriend for Pride. It is beyond an exaggeration to call him “my boyfriend,” but it felt like he was mine for the duration of the weekend — all 16 hours of it.
It’s funny how much stress we put on ourselves to have a boyfriend on special occasions that we forget Pride is one of those times we feel that our relationships or lack there of are most on display. With so many homos around we so desperately want to fit into the successful relationship category that we are willing to forget that relationships are only a fraction of what we have to be proud about.
It’s to hard imagine what dating was like before the Internet. Since You’ve Got Mail, I’ve pretty much assumed that was the only place in New York one finally found true love. Countless candidates are dismissed immediately and the ones that meet your criteria for appearance and pique your interest, often languish after only a few dates. The entire process seems so clinical, more like looking for a job than a boyfriend, and with the way the job market is nowadays I don’t think any of us want to be reminded of that undertaking. It may not be an original sentiment, but my recent foray into the 60’s world of Revolutionary Road and Mad Men have definitely got me wondering: Whatever happened to romance?
I don’t necessarily mean romance in the vein of flowers and chocolate, horse drawn carriage rides, or long walks on the beach, but the more chivalrous times of tipped hats, honest smiles, held doors, and polite inquiry. We’re so eager to consume every new club, technology, restaurant, YouTube clip, blog, and everything else that comes across our News Feed we don’t take time to really familiarize ourselves with anything anymore. A potential can be dismissed by age, profession, or height in a matter of seconds, so why should we bother delving deeper?
I suppose what I find discouraging about the acceleration of our love lives is that unlike dispensing with a new viral video by closing out the window, much more emotional disappointment goes along with dispensing a potential mate, though we may have put little more thought or effort into bringing them into our lives. Nevertheless, in New York we know there are always more options, another bachelor to review, or another party to cast our net at. We seldom want for entertainment, merely yearn for longer lasting satisfaction.
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I don’t know which I hate checking worse some mornings: my inbox or my outbox. Like many actions performed under duress, desperation, or inebriation, ‘sexting’ is often regrettable. Reviewing the sample of five or six boys in my phone I deemed most likely to fulfill my carnal desires feels like playing Russian roulette with a fully loaded revolver. Some I haven’t talked to in months, one or two I’ve probably never even met, just chatted with online and exchanged numbers, and the others would probably do the same to me if conditions were similar. My inbox reveals that only 50% even bothered to respond and then only to figure out if I was in their immediate vicinity. Upon finding otherwise, I assume they resumed their lives, severing our already thin electronic connection for the night.
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It’s happened to all of us. You wake up in the morning and are completely surprised by whom you see lying next to you. For our generation this idea may have been illustrated by ‘coyote ugly,’ or waking up in bed with someone you find so repulsive you would rather gnaw your own arm off than stay in bed with them another moment. This idea is predicated on the idea that you would only be disappointed to find yourself in bed with someone if they are a stranger, a very unattractive stranger at that. But the gays are not unfamiliar with finding themselves in bed with a random, and whether we want to admit it or not sometimes that stranger is well outside what we’d consider to be attractive.
I’m sure there are plenty of hetero guys and gals that awake one morning to find themselves next to a friend they’ve known for years, or their best friend’s ex-boyfriend, I’d venture to say that for us this is much more prevalent. There are boys in our circles that may appear randomly at parties or bars whose sexual history or connection to our friends, well known to us, precludes them from being a viable option for dating or even a one-night stand. Nevertheless occasionally under a full moon, when the planets align one night, we imbibe too much, or simply make the rash decision to invite one of these ‘untouchables,’ into our bed, or we follow them into theirs.
With the passage of Gay Marriage laws in Iowa and Vermont in the space of a week, bringing the grand total of states to four, it seems like the spirit of ‘Yes We Can,’ has been carried into a couple of the state courts and congresses. This recent burst of activity is certainly encouraging as we continue to wage the war of equal rights across the nation. With all the news of death (shooting after shooting, earthquakes, and wars), and the flaccid (at best) economy, this bit of politics is a welcome ray of sunshine in an otherwise bleak forecast. Needless to say, we have a long way to go, 46 states to be exact, but for the sake of careless optimism feel free to take a moment to imagine just how your dream wedding may play out in the great cornfields of Iowa or the bear-friendly backwoods of Vermont.
Like any ‘normal’ boy growing up, I didn’t give much thought to my wedding, though I was interested in what came after. I spent a vast majority of my childhood playtime building forts in the basement or down by the creek, and playing house with my neighbors. Sometimes we’d be married to each other (me and a girl, naturally), sometimes we’d have kids, but more importantly we always had our roles, which were decidedly contrary to usual gender roles. When I wasn’t gathering leaves and sticks to prepare rustic meals at our creek abode, I was stocking up on plastic foods and kitchen accoutrements for our basement palace. I pretended these supplies were important for passing the cold winter cooped up while wolves circled outside. Betsy, our imaginary neighbor, had the misfortune of living alone and often fell prey to said wolves. I may have played a homemaker, but I was smart enough to at least make myself a resourceful one.
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We leave home at 18, go to college, and four years later we’re true blue adults. In between, every trip home we try to exhibit more and more how much we’ve grown and changed, and how we have become so much more evolved then the family we left behind. Simultaneously, we may grow closer to our family, finally realizing the sacrifices they made for us while growing up, and recognizing they are more than just our mom and dad, our sister and brother, but are humans themselves. Nevertheless, being around our family at times can bring us back to that state we so desperately wanted to leave behind: the angst-ridden, petulant, dissatisfied, and naïve teenager just dying to emerge as a fabulous, and self-assured adult.
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