Gay sober dating
“But I can’t seem to get anyone to stick around.” I hesitated. To me, this was a shameful secret — what was wrong with me that I couldn’t meet guys out in the world, like a normal person?Certainly, I still met men in bars and clubs sometimes, as a teenager living in New York City with a passable fake ID, but I was unmistakably jailbait and any man who picked me up had to know it.My partner, a man I thought I would marry, left me unexpectedly, and I ended up fleeing New York for Los Angeles, though I still went back to New York sometimes for work and there I went on dates too.I didn’t want to be alone in my new life, free as I was from the shackles of a long-term relationship.I was grateful for this shift, the collapse of real and artificial spaces into one another.There was still something about first corresponding with guys online that I would always prefer to a real-life meeting, with all its vulnerability and exposure. ” people used to say when I would cop to meeting someone online. The risk that I’d get catfished by a sociopath who’d chop me up into little pieces and dump me in the Hudson paled in comparison to the realer, more urgent risk of a guy in a bar who might reject me: The former was the stuff of paranoid late-night news specials, but the latter could actually happen, and , to me.I heard people say sometimes that they weren’t dating so they could focus on themselves, and I always found this curious, maybe because my identity as a single man was so slippery.
I slipped in and out of identities as nimbly as I changed clothes.One night, not long after I moved to Los Angeles, after having dinner with a handsome but dull young man I’d met on Tinder, I drove up into the hills to my friend Debby’s house. So you welcome their arrival, and you surrender to their departure. And when the visitors go home, they might take something from you. It wasn’t revolutionary, but there was something unusually elegant about how Debby had distilled this, her theory of visitors, and even sort of spooky. Tucked away in a corner booth at a wine bar with a guy who had followed me on Twitter (and I had thirst-followed back after looking him up on Facebook, stalking his tagged photos and determining that we had enough mutual friends that he was worth going out with), I might have looked like I was seeing him as him, but I wasn’t.