I think I was born lonely. It has been engrained in me, has felt so much an inextricable part of me that I can’t imagine life any other way. There is a void. A severe emptiness inside of me I’ve always sought to fill with any number of hobbies, endeavors, dreams, vices…yet they only serve to distract from the loneliness, which always creeps up on me like a shadow in the night. Writing is the one act that does not distract but almost assuages the pain of nothingness, but it can only be temporary. As I’ve gotten older, love seemed the only true remedy, but the pursuit of love can create even more loneliness, more longing, deeper cuts and harsher scars than mere sedentary pining. As if the concept weren’t foreign enough—what the hell is love anyway?—there are barriers in place that prevent, or at least further complicate, its discovery. Until now, I’ve never felt that being gay was a curse but in some ways it truly has been.
The gay world as I have experienced it is shallow and meandering, lecherous and strangely puritan, inclusive and brutally exclusive. There are ghettos within a ghetto, strict compartmentalized identities with rules and regulations – bears, twinks, muscle daddies, draq queens, trannies, bull dykes, lipstick lesbians, sexually permissive hipsters, jocks, fashionistas, and other made-up, inconsequential labels and scenes that the queer community has placed on itself. One must get in where they fit in, or would like to fit in, but all this division and restriction is hopelessly unromantic. What often ends up happening is two people who look, dress and act alike date one another, Narcissus drowning in his own reflection. But what happens when you feel there is no one quite like you, feeling essentially alone in the world? Or what if you don’t like what you see in your reflection? I’ve grown to accept the fact that I’ll never be white, I’ll never be 6’1 and I’ll never have the body I want because I like to drink and smoke too much. But I’ve also grown to love my own eccentricities and quirks, the enormity of my emotions and the depths of my pettiness, as if the self is an archaeological dig housing all these inner layers of being. Who I am, I don’t think, is not easily labeled or defined and I hope I never am…I just doubt if someone will ever be able to love me for those qualities.
Moving through the gay world, at a bar or a club, I can’t help but feel horribly self-conscious. I think that everyone is judging me, sizing me up, deeming if I’m worthy or not of their flattery and attention. The gay bar, after all, is zoo and supermarket all in one, where one can come to gawk at all the animals from a safe distance, but then also pick out what they would like for dinner that night. This level of scrutiny is unnerving and my social awkwardness only compounds the issue. For some, the bar or club is paradise and those who cannot reap its benefits do not deserve entry. How lucky they are and how blissfully unaware of their windfall. The Internet is an alternative, but it is no better. The problem with the world of Internet dating is that it is not a world at all. There are no laws governing the virtual reality as there are this one. Anyone can be whomever they like, say whatever they like, do whatever they feel without fear of repercussion. There is a remoteness to the Internet that has always emboldened its users. If someone becomes too pesky or bothersome, one can simply close the chat box, block the user, completely shut down communication without warning or explanation, without having to worry about whose feelings may or may not be compromised on the other end. I’m certainly guilty of ignoring messages, though in fairness, they were often lewd solicitations from older men. Without a level of accountability and with profiles detailing what scene you are into, what kind of person you are, what kind of person you want, all in 500 words of less, internet dating is the least romantic form of courtship. It’s the fast food version of love; temporarily filling but ultimately empty, but as long as its cheap and delivered in a timely fashion, why not indulge?
Who cares about romance, though? At this point, I am terrified of becoming the older men I despise and pity so much, who sit at the bar after everyone who has come to pair off has, their waistlines widening, their hair thinning; those men who send me messages online offering to pay for it, claiming they look a lot younger than their picture, idolizing my youth while simultaneously lamenting the loss of their own. There’s nothing sadder than a lonely, old queen. They tried, didn’t they? To find love, to fall in love, struggled to find themselves, only to find themselves alone. Perhaps some humans are just meant to be alone. People like me, who idealize and want too much, who would so readily and easily give their entirety of self over to another, are too susceptible to love’s charms and would only be ruined because of it. If love is not meant for me, or I not meant for it, I just wish someone would tell me now, to save my time, and more importantly, spare my emotions.
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