Ten years ago I fell head first out of the closet, and I still have a concussion.
I fell for a friend I mistook for gay, or at least bi, but I was so far off the mark, he was merely French. Some may ask, what’s the difference? Let me tell you: beaucoup!
I was living in San Francisco when I dove headfirst into the dating pool to find very shallow waters.
The first phone number I got was from a guy named Jose, who I met at a street festival when I was still closeted. I finally got up the nerve to call him one day, and he invited me over to his apartment for drinks. Jose was nice enough, and before long things got physical. We fooled around. We got off. We went to sleep.
Around bedtime, his friend Randy, who’d been carousing the straight bars, was too drunk to drive home and stopped by to crash on the couch. Apparently, this was not out of the ordinary. But at least he didn’t snore.
In the middle of the night, cuddling turned to making out, and by the time I got off again, I realized it was not with Jose. At some point, Randy had crawled into bed with us. I should have been clued in by his chest hair, but my learning style was more visual than tactile. Furthermore, I was still drunk, which also explained the cracked toilet in the bathroom – a first for me, but not the last.
It was only my first night as a gay man, and my first twosome had escalated into a threesome. You’ll find no advice for this situation in Steven Petrow’s Complete Gay & Lesbian Manners, and it purports to be the definitive guide for every LGBT occasion.
From that first date, I realized the rules of the gay world were not as straightforward as straight dating. Never did my single female friends encounter this. Never did a college buddy happen to get into bed with a roommate and his girlfriend. And if he had, I could not imagine it would be met with nonchalance, a warm welcome, or a happy ending.
Despite doubling my pleasure – and partners – in the course of one Ambien, I realized I was navigating uncharted waters with no map, no lifeguard, and no clue.
I am such a dating disaster, I once joined the matchmaking site Chemistry.com, and despite living in a metropolitan area of over seven million people, they found no matches for me within 300 miles. If Dr. Helen Fisher couldn’t help, I’m afraid science and fate may be stacked against me.
But that hasn't stopped me from the noble pursuit.
This blog is my ignoble track record.
It’s often said that when it comes to being gay, it gets better. But when it comes to gay dating, it gets worse. Much worse!
In the same-sex dating world, straight rules are discarded like condom wrappers. Hookup apps have replaced dates. Friendships follow sex, rather than precede it. And personality disorders are exacerbated by decades of denial, shame, and disapproval. It's a place where one’s sense of self is far too often insensible. And a normal date is not only relative, it’s rare.
The purpose of this site is to chronicle the craziness of gay dating, to share stories so absurd they could never be experienced by our straight counterparts.
Bad dates may be universal, but gay dates can be universally bad.
Coming out sucks. Dating blows. But laughing about it makes it better!