I always get a little weirded out when I encounter new gays on campus.
I didn’t really realize it until now, but I totally have this uppity sense of being the big man on campus who knows all the gays and has connections to everyone and shit (one of the perks of being an EIC), so when I see someone new that I don’t know, I automatically question how they were able to remain under the radar so well for so long (or in the case of newer students, why I haven’t noticed them before).
My roommate asked me how I know people are gay because he honestly couldn’t tell and wanted to know the secret or something.
I was thinking about it and realized that I also feel like I have a pretty damn good “gaydar.”
I used to think it was a bullshit concept, like astrology and zodiacs, but now I realize that at some point after coming out completely, I subconsciously bought into the concept and fully believe in it.
And the problem is that gaydar is very much based on offensive stereotypes, so this practice of mine is actually really problematic.
I usually figure it out by looking at someone’s face, because somehow that always gives it away to me. I don’t really know how or why I know, but if I look into their eyes, I can almost always tell.
Their appearance and mannerisms usually come second and only serve to further prove to me that I’m right, so I always just roll with it.
And I read once that people who are “Aquarius” (aka me) always have to be right about things. So even though that itself is a…trying…issue for me, I guess this just means that the stars (and my therapist) were right all along.
I don’t know how to feel about any of this.
Everybody keeps slinging shit at Jodie Foster on the internet today and it’s really starting to piss me the fuck off.
Like, first of all, she’s under NO obligation whatsoever to tell anyone anything about her personal life, nor was she EVER. I understand her coming out can prove to be important or beneficial to the movement of our community in many ways, but at the end of the day, she doesn’t fucking have to tell you that she has a female lover if she doesn’t want to. It’s HER life and HER decision, NOT YOURS.
Second of all, it’s fucking ridiculous to act as though we’re entitled to have her tell us these things, or worse, have her literally say, “I’m gay” on TV. Everyone is giving her shit over her word choice in her Golden Globes speech and even though she basically has said the same thing, it’s apparently not good enough for anyone.
Yeah, maybe some of us came out 20 plus years ago and are the same age as her (HUFFINGTON POST I’M LOOKING AT YOU), maybe some of us came out a long time ago with a bigger speech or were more explicit about it (ANDY TOWLE I’M LOOKING AT YOU), maybe some of us just came out or haven’t yet. Whatever. It doesn’t matter. Everyone’s coming out story is different because we’re all different people. Just because her experience wasn’t like yours doesn’t mean you get to be bitter about it and slander her for it so calm the fuck down and stop whining about something that ultimately doesn’t affect your life directly.
Nobody made this much of a shit show over Anderson Cooper coming out, and his situation was VERY similar to Jodie’s. They’re both well-known public figures/celebrities who everyone figured were queer for years already and have even been outed by people prior to their “official” coming-outs. It’s like we all just want them to do so because we want the satisfaction of being right about it, which is pretty fucking selfish if you think about it.
In the case of other queer people who are complaining, it’s also pretty fucking shameful, as those of us who’ve come out know firsthand how stressful, draining, and fucking terrifying it can be. When you’re a CELEBRITY, a person whose every move is scrutinized by the general public much like how a scientist observes cells through a microscope, it’s even MORE stressful! Famous people can’t go to the fucking grocery store without being heckled in some way by us “normal people.” Our overall insensitivity to the issue says more about us than Foster’s coming out ever will, and Jodie probably knows this very well.
Let’s not forget that she once thanked her partner in an award acceptance speech YEARS AGO, which is technically a coming-out speech in itself already (it did the same job and we all know it). So I’m not even sure why people are upset or expecting her to do it again. They wouldn’t have done this to Anderson or Neil Patrick Harris.
People APPLAUDED those men for coming out (even if, in Anderson’s case, they also said, “About damn time” under their breath), but they go and condemn her for doing the same thing, just in a way they don’t like well enough. What kind of fucking double standard is that?
In short, just calm the fuck down, stop whining, and leave Jodie Foster alone. She doesn’t owe you or me or anyone else anything, and her level of acceptance with her sexuality (which I’m pretty sure is very high, as she seems to feel as though she shouldn’t have had to do this to begin with) is nobody’s concern and ultimately affects nobody’s life but her own.
Fuck me the way I can’t fuck myself.
Love me the way I can never love myself.
Help me the way I don’t know how to help myself.
Let me feel good for being a horrible human being
the way the world and I never will.
There was a time when I was just like you.
I know it’s hard to believe. I know you don’t.
But it’s true, you know.
You and I are much different now. I and myself are much different now.
I used to give in to the dream we all had,
that collective Disney fantasy
"Keep believing, never stop wishing,"
"True love conquers all,"
"Dreams do come true,"
"If you have it bad don’t despair because someday soon a beautiful rich man will fall in love with you and sweep you away to his castle and you’ll live happily ever after."
I wanted my own Prince Charming once.
I thought it was the only thing I wanted.
The only thing I ever needed.
It became my sole reason for being.
Everyone else seemed to have theirs, why couldn’t I, too?
When I finally knew it was safe to be me, I tried to find my Prince.
I waited much longer than most people I know now.
Where I came from it wasn’t safe to be who you really were.
And back then, I was weak.
I was weak. So very, very weak.
And I was afraid. Of everything, all the time.
I had just grown up being taught to be afraid.
No, nobody ever outright TOLD me to be afraid.
That’s never how it happens.
They say it without saying it.
They say it with their faces, with their arms and legs, with their discussion of other topics and reactions to the world around them. Their body language gives you all the answers and more. You learn to read people from a young age and you learn what is “good” and “bad” and since that world is all you know, you just assume that’s the way of the universe.
That’s how it was for me.
That’s how it is. Unless you ARE a “girl,” you can’t be a girl. Being a girl is bad.
And if you don’t uphold the status quo, well… Nobody likes someone who rocks the boat.
I’ve always rocked that boat.
You do, too, don’t you? You always have.
But you stopped. Because you knew what rocking the boat meant.
So did I.
I didn’t want to deal with the consequences. I couldn’t deal with the consequences.
So I changed.
I just wanted everyone to like me.
I thought, “maybe if they like me, then I’ll like me, too.”
I don’t know why, but I could never do that.
I guess I was just born that way.
Anyways, my point is…
I changed who I was so they’d like me, so that I would like me. And I thought it worked.
But it really didn’t. I still wasn’t happy.
And they didn’t buy my act, either.
I had to learn how to act, but I guess I’m not a good actor.
Mom always told me not to lie or steal.
And boy, did I lie and steal. Used to do it all the time. Kept getting in trouble, too.
I was always this whirlwind of emotions, too.
Nobody really liked me. I wouldn’t have, either, had I been them. I know I didn’t like me then.
Anyway, my point is…
they didn’t believe me, so they said things.
So many things.
I lost my friends.
My family started to treat me different.
My brother wasn’t my brother anymore.
I still don’t talk about it.
the children i called my peers saw my weak heart and cut it out with the biggest knives they could create with their mouths and carved a hole in me so deep it can never be stitched back together. then they took my heart and ripped it apart and ate the pieces they held in their hands.
i was left with just a hole in my body that i couldn’t close. it’s just there now. empty.
it just festers.
I ran around like a frenzied animal, screaming to anyone who would listen,
please help me
what do i do?
And of course no one could help.
They couldn’t see the hole the others had left behind.
Even my family couldn’t help.
Even my father, who’d had a hole blown open on his entire body by Life and Family, who should have known better than anyone what had happened to me, how to help, and how to heal, couldn’t help me.
Mom just said get over it.
She didn’t know what else to do. She wasn’t raised to know. It wasn’t really her fault.
My brother still wasn’t my brother. He had become another invisible victim to circumstances that we don’t need to worry about just yet.
So I bled to death, slowly, for years. Never knowing what had happened, what was wrong with me, or what to do about it.
I slowly realized I no longer knew who or where I was.
I would just see darkness. My head felt funny, I couldn’t look people in the eyes anymore because I knew I could never trust anyone again. I couldn’t give out my heart because I knew if I did I’d have nothing left.
I was here, in the Void.
Do you see it? We’ve been here the whole time.
I was here the whole time.
For six years I was down here.
Then one day, my eyes got used to the darkness, and I knew where I was.
I was in the Void, staring into the abyss, I’d been tasting the Infinite Sadness and longing for it to change to Death’s flavor. I realized I didn’t want to be there. I wanted to go home, or to at least lose my vision so I could feel the warm, calm, quietness of sleep.
Sleep was the only thing that could protect me.
A makeshift womb.
That chamber we all want to return to.
Let’s face that truth for a second, shall we?
We all want to return there, to the darkness of peace.
But we fear it because we got so used to life that we don’t want to stop existing.
And returning to the womb is returning to being unborn. Which is in turn, returning to oblivion. Which is in turn returning to nothingness.
Which is, in turn, to no longer exist.
We are too afraid of not existing to go through with achieving our dreams of being reunited with the womb.
Not literally the womb, I guess, but more so the idea it represents.
That’s how it always is, by the way. It’s never the thing itself, but what it represents as a metaphorical device.
Anyways, my point is…
I wanted to die.
I wished I would.
I wished I could.
I fell behind in life because I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
Did you know that they used to ask me in high school,
"What do you want to do when you grow up?" or "Where do you wanna go to college?"
and that I never had an answer?
I was convinced by the time it was time to grow up, I would finally be dead by then.
Just like her.
I always thought it would be me. But she beat me to it without even trying.
I hated her for it.
I hated her so much I stopped thinking about her, because it wasn’t supposed to be her it was supposed to be ME, and she ceased to exist in my world until her friend brought her back by saying her name,
and I realized that even though I sat right across from her every day in art class for months, and that even though thinking about her still makes me hurt everywhere inside my body until my eyes can’t take it anymore and they break open no despite all that I realized that no matter what I ever felt about her after she was gone there were people who felt the same thing only so much worse and for so much longer and it’s a pain that I know I’ll never be able to feel or fix because she didn’t mean to me what she meant to them and that’s the type of Infinite Sadness you only find down in the deepest core of the Void
and I didn’t deserve to say that I hurt when she was gone.
So I took the pain she gave me and I sealed it in a bottle that would never break, and I’ve never opened it except when I know I need to remember. I stick my tongue in and taste it to remember, and then I seal it back.
But I’m still here.
I was still there and she wasn’t anymore.
So I had to figure out what to do.
I retreated into a world of books. A world where I could be content living vicariously through the lives of people who weren’t real, living fake lives that weren’t real, and finding that fairy tale happy ending that I so desperately wanted for myself so that I wouldn’t end up like her even though it wasn’t real.
It slowly became too much to bear. It left scarring worse than anything I could do to myself with the razor cartridges I used for the Schick Quattro Titanium that I bought one day and taught myself how to use because Dad never did it for me.
Both of those types of scars you can hide, but the former were scars I didn’t know how to conceal.
I had to figure out what to do all over again.
I decided since it was time to grow up, I’d go with what Disney taught me.
My life is meaningless without someone to love me and share it with.
We are two-sided spider creatures that are born missing halves that we have to search for in life and find so we can reattach and climb Mount Olympus and reach Heaven and Salvation.
Or something like that. I think that’s how the story went. That class was a long time ago.
Anyway, my point is…
I went crazy looking for love because I thought that was the point of my existence.
It was just as bad a time as growing up.
I fell so easily for anyone who had a nice smile and was nice to me.
The first time I fell in love was actually the first time I developed an obsession over someone.
I learned from that mistake. But I didn’t learn enough.
So I kept searching, growing more and more frantic with each failure.
I dated so many boys. Never being able to land a second date.
And I never noticed or appreciated the ones who stood right in front of me and actually wanted me, too.
I was too busy chasing that Prince Charming.
Prince Charming is an illusion.
Let’s face that truth for a second, shall we?
He doesn’t exist. He’s a lie. The sooner you understand that, the sooner we can move on and you can get better.
Disney lied to you. They lied to me, too.
They lie to everyone.
The truth is almost always unknowable.
That’s how you know they were lying.
Because they told you they were telling the truth. And we all bought it.
Anyway, my point is…
I was a fool.
And I was still weak.
I was still stuck in the Void.
I couldn’t get out.
I had to scream for help. And after screaming enough, I finally broke through the Void’s atmosphere and someone heard me.
I got some help. I kept getting help.
And I still get help now.
There’s nothing wrong with admitting you need help.
Don’t ever forget that.
Anyway, my point is…
I spent my life thinking I needed someone else.
But I was wrong.
What I needed
was the truth.
What I needed
I never trust other queer boys who say they’ve never been to the Void.
The ones who say they’ve never felt the Infinite Sadness
or felt the taste of Death.
They always seem so
disingenuous to me.
I suppose it’s a personal problem,
being unable to look past myself and my sphere,
but I just can’t understand it. I can’t see it being true.
How could you not have seen it?
You must have.
You probably just didn’t realize you were looking right into it.
Sometimes people don’t know that they’re looking into an abyss when they’re in that state.
Sometimes they don’t even realize they’re in that state.
Sometimes, with some people, it just happens so often that you think it’s just part of who you are. It never occurs to you that you can say or think,
"Maybe I need help," or,
"Oh, wait. I’m sad."
"Oh, wait. I hate myself."
"Oh, wait. I want to die."
How can you not have felt that at some point in your life?
I know you’re lying to my face. I know. And I hate you for it.
I know you’ve felt it.
I can tell by the darkness in your eyes, the sharpness of your curt tone of voice, the way you walk so stiffly and move using your legs as little as possible so you’re practically reaching outward when you point your finger, like an old tree threatening to uproot itself from the sidewalk it’s been trapped by.
The face will always give it away.
When you smile and you look exhausted, or when you cut someone down on the internet and then make artwork that says all those tragic things about finding god when you got hate-fucked by your ex, or when you put something up and take it back.
You think nobody saw it?
Someone always sees.
And you don’t fool anyone but yourself (nobody ever does).
Especially not me.
You and I are the same. So I know all your tricks.
I used them once, too, you know.
I can see you.
I can see through you.
I know you’ve been to the Void before.
Nobody ever leaves that place without some kind of scar to take home as a souvenir.
Yours are all over your face (they usually are, so don’t feel bad).
Maybe you hid them from yourself and convinced yourself that it didn’t happen and that it isn’t, wasn’t, real. You do a lot of hiding, don’t you? I can tell; you’re awfully brave from behind that computer screen.
It was just a bad dream. It always is.
No it’s not. No it wasn’t.
It never was. Never is.
You and I both know. So stop lying to me.
When was it?
When did they first tell you?
Were you a child?
Was it in middle school?
Maybe it wasn’t until you were an adult…?
No, it’s always when you’re younger.
One of the first lessons we teach each other without knowing it is,
"A boy who likes boys is a dead boy, unless/he keeps his mouth shut."
and yes, it goes both ways, so us “boys” aren’t the only ones.
That was your first trip to the Void, wasn’t it?
When you felt the Infinite Sadness after they told you you were a freak, or that you were going to Hell, or that you weren’t even a real human to begin with.
God has that effect on people.
But it’s not God. It never was. Not that it matters now.
What does matter is it affected you. You tasted that sadness when they hurt you and you fell into the abyss and landed on the ground at the edge of the Void and looked up when you picked yourself up off the ground and saw it because that’s all you really can see down there
just the Void
so you stared into it because it has that effect on the eyes—you just can’t stop looking at it—and you kept staring until it stared back and started speaking to you, asking you to feed it with your blood and soul
and what did you do then? Do you remember?
You probably asked for Death
But since you’re still here, Death never came for you.
Or maybe they did.
But they didn’t want you
so they threw you back into the light?
Death gave you a kiss,
just a small, short one,
open-mouth, of course,
so you could taste them
and know what they felt like
and that was all it took.
Now you’re addicted.
It’s like a drug. Anything’s like a drug, if you think about it.
Don’t give me that, you know I’m right.
You’ve tasted Death from the times you were in the Void and you know it’s true and that now nothing can save you except yourself but at this point you don’t even want to be saved anymore because you realize you never thought it was possible to begin with.
But it is. Just not that way.
You know what you need?
You need a guide. A Virgil to your Dante.
Take my hand, and I’ll guide you through the darkness of Hell and to the light of Heaven.
But be warned, Heaven isn’t like what they told you. And neither is Hell, for that matter.
They all exist on the same plane.
Let me hold on to that knife of yours for a while. You won’t need it, and I can keep it safe for you. Give me your gun and rope, too. You can keep the bullets if you’d like.
Can you show me your smile?
That’s okay. You don’t have to. The healing process takes time.
You know, to go through Hell, we have to visit the Void again.
Oh, don’t look so thrilled. You really shouldn’t be.
But don’t be afraid. That’s what we’re doing this for.
I’ll hold your hand through this as I guide you
and when we leave, you won’t be afraid anymore.
You’ll be free.
Are you ready?
Get set. Take my hand, now.
Second thoughts? Leave them behind. “‘Tis doubt which leadeth thee to Purgatory.”
Take a deep breath. Relax your mind. Don’t tense your muscles.
Close your eyes.
Here we go
This post I’m dedicating to the issues I said I’d address in my last one. This one is more focused on the films and their creators than the audiences themselves.
I mentioned previously that a lot of gay pornography contains performers or scenarios that fit a certain mold because the people who make those films think that’s what sells the best. That’s partly our community’s fault, but blame also lies with these studios.
So much gay porn nowadays has this fucking fake-ass, glossed-over, Jersey Shore aesthetic to it where everyone looks like someone out of that show (I don’t want to use their term for it since it’s offensive, but you get what I’m saying). All these tattoos, limited facial hair, little to no body hair, obvious fake tans, bodies by steroids (c), etc. on performers that are primarily gay-for-pay actors (read: straight people) that engage in “scenarios” that are more traditionally present in mainstream straight pornography (like the sexy repairman/teacher/pizza delivery man/pool boy/guy at the gym/friend/sibling/random guy encountered in a bathroom or other public place, etc). The only reason it’s gotten so out of control is because it’s been such a successful business tactic.
I know there are A LOT of people who aren’t into the kind of look I’ve described here and want something different (I know I do). But the fact of the matter is that WE as a community responded so well to it (because surprise! We’re horrible people!) that these studios (which are a business, after all) went along with it and just started providing more and more of it because that’s what sells.
That doesn’t make it right, but that’s how it is.
However (and I’m gonna get a little more “Film Theory 101” again, here), there comes a point where it’s not just one party’s fault for something happening. Yes, these films might not have come into being if people didn’t ever create some kind of demand for them, but eventually the ones we demanded it from supplied so much of it that we just started demanding it in response to the abundance of supply (how’s that for a mouthful?).
This applies to film theory because films create their audiences. A lot of times this comes in the form of merchandising and advertisements, but it also comes in the building process of the product itself. If you make a film that will appeal to certain viewers (or in the case of porn, you make a film with performers that have a certain look or do certain things in a certain scenario) and it sells well enough, eventually you’ll get more and more people who will want more of those kinds of films. So then you’ll make more and more to keep them happy so they keep giving you money. The problem with that is that eventually, a lot of studios lose touch with their audiences and just get into a routine of making the same thing over and over again, and people keep buying it because by that time, they’ve come to expect studios to do so and have even been socialized into thinking it’s normal, acceptable, attractive, what have you. So when studios like Sean Cody or Corbin Fisher decide to break from the norm and do something different (like throw viewers a bone and include a token black performer), everyone gets upset over it and throws a fit on internet forums.
As a means of solving the problem, if films of a certain genre stopped being made there would no longer be people who would go to them (that of course would require the films to continue NOT being made despite initial protests). That, however, isn’t really the most realistic approach.
In the end, we’re both at fault, and we both need to make efforts as businesses and as a community of people to address the issue and put a stop to it.
I’ve never been a big fan of him, as he seems to have assumed this position of self-imposed all-knowing ambassador to queer people in the US (which of course I don’t really like), but at the end of the day I know next to nothing about him, other than he’s like the concept of Social Justice, in the sense that people seem to be either all-for or all-against it.
Anyways, I’m trying to do “research” on him but it’s difficult, because most of the stuff I see is either Oakley Appreciation posts or Oakley trash talk.
I’ve noticed that he does a lot of problematic things (one of the more specific examples I’ve been told about and sorta seen for myself is that he unapologetically appropriates AAVE, among other things), but I don’t feel like I know enough about the guy to make an informed opinion, though, so I’m still skeptically on the fence with him.
If you see this, I want to know your opinion: Do you like or dislike Tyler Oakley, and why do you feel that way?
My brother made me watch a clip from the show “Tim and Eric’s Awesome Show Great Job!” yesterday. It was some sketch featuring Zach Galifianakis as some kind of acting teacher for children. He starts off pacing a small stage as the children watch him, his hands clasped together with his pointer fingers extended in a steeple form and touching his lips. As he paces, he knocks over the decorative ferns on the stage with his bare feet. Every time he does this, he quietly tells the children, “Write that down.”
My brother told me he wanted me to do that someday; tell them to “Write that down.”
I can’t imagine myself teaching an acting class for children, though. I’m not a fan of most kids. I like my siblings enough, and the occasional child that I run into for whatever reason, but overall I’m not a big fan of them.
The kids in movies are cool, though. I tend to want to kidnap them and raise them as my own when I go to see movies that have children as main characters. I’ve had this fantasy for a long while where I’d adopt a baby and raise it as my own, but only if I got to name them myself. I don’t think it works like that, but I still think about adopting a Cheryl or a Dante or something. Maybe when I’m 35 and have the money to afford a child I’ll do it.
I think in order to adopt a child, I would need to be part of a couple, though. Adoption agencies seem to discriminate against single-parent households (and against queer people if you aren’t as famous as Neil Patrick Harris), which would mean if I’m successful and old enough, I’d also need to be in a happily committed monogamous relationship (because they probably discriminate against polyamorous households, too).
My mother tried giving me dating advice yesterday. I was legitimately pissed off by it, even though I know she meant well. She said that my saying, “Nobody wants to date me,” makes me sound needy, not bothering to think that perhaps she already raised her firstborn child to be smart enough never to say that out loud in public (much less to potential suitors). Which is to say, I only say that to close friends and relatives when my love life is brought up in conversation (because it usually is at some point). I didn’t let her get any farther than that, though, because I was too offended by it all, even though she probably didn’t mean to offend me.
I just don’t think my mother is in much of a place to offer me advice. She isn’t a gay man, so she can’t offer any insight to my experience. Like it or not, it’s different for people like me than it is for her as far as dating is concerned (it’s different for everyone, in my opinion). She doesn’t realize that it’s really fucking hard to meet other people who are queer, even in a liberal place like Portland or Seattle, because society still doesn’t accept gays (they only accept sexually adventurous, normatively-attractive white girls acting in soft-core porn). So the only places left for us to meet each other are the Internet and queer-oriented bars and clubs. And even then, those are (in my experience) some of the worst places to meet people.
When I first “came out,” I tried looking for other like-minded people by using the internet and various iPod/iPhone apps. I tried to make friends and see if there was a possibility to find someone who could be more, but it didn’t always work very well. I made a good number of friends, for sure, but I also had a lot of bad experiences. I think that’s to be expected with dating, though; you’ll have a bad experience at least once when you try it. Write that down.
I sometimes find myself thinking back to a year ago, or even two years ago, and start thinking about what I was doing at that time. A lot of it is me remembering how I attempted to go through a “slutty” phase (I know that isn’t the right word to use, but it’s the closest equivalent), where I met people on Grindr and ended up having quite a few weird experiences. In retrospect, things probably would have been better if I’d undergone a medication change sooner, as the Zoloft I was on kept me from really doing anything sexual with anyone, and most of the time things ended with me getting bored of trying to get it up and I would just go home at 2am and sneak back into my parents’ house (I stay there during the summer, and would always go out to meet people telling them that I was hanging out with my friends) and go to bed, as if nothing had happened. In a way, I’m a little embarrassed by those experiences, as I always slut-shamed myself afterwards (I just felt so horrible and dirty when I tried hooking up with people) and would silently berate myself for being unable to get it up and over the edge. But I feel like they helped broaden my horizons and I probably wouldn’t be where I am today if they hadn’t happened.
My point, though, is that eventually I started having more bad experiences than good ones with web apps and networking sites, which I more and more began using as a means of combating the perpetual loneliness I felt, so I stopped using them altogether.
Two of my most memorable experiences were when I met one guy through a friend I made on Grindr that had the same name as me. The guy kept trying to get me drunk, which I wasn’t comfortable with, and then kept trying to get me to bareback him, which I was very uncomfortable with. Then I found out he’d lied to me about his age, which I suppose isn’t really a huge problem now, but at the time, I decided it meant I couldn’t really trust him, so I stopped talking to him. To this day, he’s still the only person I’ve encountered with a dick that big, though.
I can’t listen to the song “Americano” by Lady GaGa anymore without thinking of that night (it was playing on loop when he started blowing me). I can’t listen to “S&M” by Rihanna anymore, either, because it reminds me of the collapse of my friendship with G just months before. I’ve been having trouble listening to “Starships” by Nicki Minaj, too, because of this business with C (although “Call Me Maybe” by Carly Rae Jepsen has proven to be much more triggering). There was a moment that Pride Weekend when we were at a club (Neighbors?) and started trying to dance to the music while a group of amateur drag queens performed to bits of contemporary pop songs. I remember hearing and enjoying one queen’s performance to “Starships” and C was holding me very close to him as he danced slowly, so at the time I was very content and felt like things were just right.
The last (and most memorable) time I used Grindr was when I began talking to some guy whose name I can’t remember. He worked at some kind of country club, I think, and met local celebrities quite often (I honestly can’t remember whom). For some reason, I remember being confused when chatting with him because I was never sure if I was bothering him or not, so I’d always say something like, “Hopefully I’m not bothering you” during our conversations (which now seems really stupid to me). He eventually told me that he honestly thought I was really weird and annoying or something and didn’t want to talk to me anymore. I’m glad he was up front with me about how he felt, but it still hurt enough to make me decide that Grindr wasn’t worth it. I was tired of being told that I wasn’t good enough, or that people who initially sought me out all of a sudden no longer were interested in me (one boy I went out on a date with said he didn’t “feel the love dove” with me, a phrase which has always stuck with me since then), and I was tired of going on dates where I took people to Jake Gyllenhaal movies as a result of not knowing what else to do (I later noticed that a bunch of my failed dates involved me taking them to movies that he was in; somehow I’d never seen it until after I left Grindr).
There’s no manual available for how to find and date people if you’re gay. Write that down.
So I left dating web apps and never went back. I don’t expect people to understand, but for me, there are too many painful memories associated with their use to justify me using them again.
Because of this, I am at a loss. I’m done with trying to meet people at clubs (the only other means of meeting other queer people that I know of) because my latest efforts have proved fruitless, and I’m not willing to try the internet again. I guess you just meet the same douchebags in a club as you do on Grindr. Or maybe I was just unlucky enough to attract all the bad ones. One of us is a magnet for trouble, but I’m not sure who.
Real life isn’t exactly an easy way to find other people, either, if you’re gay. Write that down.
So then what do I do? And how could my mother possibly understand this or help me, when she’s never really been in the dating game herself, and only just found out about gay dating apps a few months ago, when Grindr made the local news because someone was using the app to rob people at gunpoint (much like the Craigslist Killer of a year or two before)? My father at least admitted that he was unable to help me, but tried his best, which I appreciated.
One of my friends has suggested Ok Cupid to me many times, which I looked into the other night out of sheer boredom. As I was perusing its app page on the App Store from my phone, I noticed I was starting to feel sick to my stomach just by looking at the app description. It wasn’t from the app itself, I realized, but more from the realization that I was legitimately afraid of putting myself out there again. Because I don’t want to go out on dates. I mean, I do (I really do), but I don’t at the same time. I know it makes no sense. I can’t understand it myself. But that’s how it is. I’m still definitely lonely, sure, and I want to have a boyfriend or someone to be with, but at the same time, I want to be alone for a while so I can finish healing. I honestly don’t want to get back into the game or put myself out there.
I suppose maybe I need to stop thinking of the world in terms of equivalent exchange, where you get if you give. It’s proven to be largely false in many ways as far as things like dating is concerned. I have unwisely put too much effort into finding someone and have consistently come out empty-handed, like an unlucky gambling addict at a casino. So in that case, I don’t think jumping back into the game is a good idea right now.
I think instead it might be better to do what my mother did and focus on my education/career/not-love-life for now, and then be wary of things as they come along, but overall not turn them down altogether. Because things will only get better in time if you work for it.
Write that down.
I don’t want to end up like my mother, though, even if it appears I’m destined to become her anyway.
Write that down, too.
this is just how it’s always going to be for me, isn’t it?
boys are just going to want to fuck me, never date me, forever.
i’m supposedly such a catch but nobody really seems to care.
it’s like they’d rather use me and then throw me away like a condom.
it’s what’s always happens, what continues to happen.
and then there’s the few who say they’re different.
after all of this, how can you expect me to be able to believe you?
i’m sorry, but i can’t. it’s not you, really. it’s more them and me than anything else.
i’ve just learned that love is only ever one-sided. it can never be mutual.
and nothing lasts forever, especially not things that never existed in the first place.
guess i’d better figure out how to become a horrible person so i can be like everyone else and just use them as a means of meeting my sexual needs as i try to get used to being alone forever.