I hate admitting it, even to myself, but when I first came to New York a big part of me was hoping to find love. I've been single for the past three years and my relationship before that wasn't much to write home about (although it wasn't terrible either... no offense to the guy).
Within the last three years, I have lived in my home country which I love but which isn't particularly open. You can't hold hands in the street with another man, you definitely can't kiss unless it's behind closed doors and if you grow to be 40 and live with a man, your neighbours say things like, "They're special 'friends'" followed by awkward coughs and a dawning of the understanding that gay men DO live among us.
So you can imagine my excitement when I packed my bags and came to New York for an extended period of time. For one, it's gay New York. It's the home of Broadway, for chrissake, which is nicknamed "The Great White Way". Honey, if that's not gay then I drive a pickup truck and wear muddied work boots.
I've been here for roughly four months now and I've gone on about 20 dates (maybe more) and I just want to express how very disappointed I am. Not in the city - because the city is fucking awesome - but in the men. From the gorgeous men in their three piece Armani suits to the scruffy guys with bright eyes and the whitest teeth on earth to real estate executives who always check their watches when they pause on the sidewalk at a stop sign to lithe dancers who have pierced nipples to the all-American guy with blond hair, blue eyes and an ass that would make any gay man's dick whistle the tune of a Marvin Gaye song - ALL of them really, really suck.
Before coming here my eyes were bright, I imagined a man of my dreams (about six foot, sparkling eyes, hair so thick my fingers would get lost forever in their tendrils, an emotional maturity and capacity far beyond that of a 19-year-old, the heart of Gandhi and mind of Einstein in one and a body that would make Ryan Gosling shed tears. Real tears). Spoiler alert: I haven't found this man yet.
Now, I'm not one for this romantacised notion of what one's ideal partner should be or a fucking bucket list full of haves and have nots. I understand that a man on paper doesn't exist - I may be a writer, not a fucking Republican. But by far, the biggest problem I've encountered thus far is the fact that every single, gay New York male is absolutely terrified. Terrified of life, terrified of their ex, terrified of their masculinity (or perceived lack thereof), terrified of what other gay male New Yorkers think, terrified of affection and commitment. Place anything in front of a gay New York male and they will skittle away in the opposite direction - even a half naked A&F ad will probably bring them to tears faster than give them a woodie. They'd be terrified that their abs don't live up.
Last Saturday, I went on a date with Thom (you decide if that's his real name or not. I really don't care). Thom is a handsome, highly successful, absolutely luminescent and perfect-haired real estate mogul. He's also in his early 50s and fresh out of a relationship with a 27-year-old who, by all accounts, will reside in Satan's left ball when he dies.
Now the last two pieces of information were unknown to me before I met Thom. We met in a sunny side of the West Village after conversing for about two days on OkCupid and having back and forth texts about meeting up. Finally, a man with follow through who seemed handsome enough and knew that the word "your's" doesn't exist.
When Thom walked into the restaurant we had agreed upon I was beyond thrilled. He was hotter in real life, he was just a little taller than me and he was wearing a white button down that showed me he wasn't nursing a spherical stomach (I'm gay, I still care about some of these things. Sorry).
Right away he sat down and ordered choice appetizers and drinks ("These are the best in New York," he assured me sexily) and we immediately started to have great conversation. We spoke about Trinidad - where I'm from - and his family, my family, the things we did on lazy Sunday afternoons, how annoying it was to walk behind tortoise-speed tourists who didn't know their tits from the Empire State building, our conflicting views of the subway (I love it, he is a staunch believer in cabs which I could get over because at least he was ridiculously cute and smart) and a number of other topics that basically led me to the conclusion that our first date - if you could call it that - was a resounding success.
Afterward, we left and went to a bar and continued speaking, at which point we engaged in voracious, gratuitous public displays of tongue thrusting and groping. In my defense, we were at a lesbian bar so who really gave a fuck how ridiculous we were being?
We spoke about what we thought of each other - I complimented him on how cute he was, how very shiny his hair looked, how adorable the little gap between his front teeth was, et cetera, et cetera. To all of these, Thom would shoot me down and say he wasn't worthy of any of my praise. Warning sign number one.
We decided to head back to his place in Midtown West, and we both agreed that we didn't want to have sex, we simply wanted to spend time together. We never did have sex - I don't want you to continue reading waiting for this to become a Harlequin romance special.
We did, however, romp in his bedroom drunk as fuck and have a very personal conversation about Thom's ex who was unfaithful, broke his heart and is unfortunately my age. Already, I knew the art of projection was happening to me. From time to time, he would stop what we were doing and look off into the distance very broodingly. Warning sign number two.
That night we slept close together. To me, that is the best part of intimacy and I enjoyed it the most. The next morning was good, we were pretty affectionate, we watched the news a little, I expressed my interest in seeing him again as did he and then left.
After that, I sent him a couple cute, funny text messages from which I garnered some terse responses such as, "Yes", "Good", "Ok" and, my personal favourite, "Right on". He apologised in one of his texts for getting "goofy" (his word, not mine) about his ex and I assured him it was alright; everyone has bad break ups and are allowed to be in pain. In essence, I was being an understanding and famously lovely person. I tried to make plans to meet up with him but he was never really forthcoming and would always give offhanded excuses.
So my question is, am I the most hideous being there is to lay eyes on (please, as if) or are all New York gays just scared of their pasts and futures? I'm proposing meeting up for a drink or two - which went down pretty nicely the first time around. I assure there were sparks otherwise I would not have ended up with precum soaked into my underwear (his precum, not mine - for reference).
At the end of this all, I just feel duped and pretty stupid. I must also say, I've become so jaded about dating in this city that it is pretty easy to fall hard for someone who seems so different from the rest the first time I meet him. Not in a let's move in together tomorrow kind of way, but in a let's maybe start something up for fuck's sake kind of way. Let's date, let's go see a movie, let's spend the entire night cuddling in front of the television watching BBC America, let's laugh about stupid shit. The beautiful things of courtship are what I crave the most.
And once again - empty handed. Like a wisp of smoke that disappears into the wind. Not really because an ex fucked a guy I like, or because he is too maimed and damaged to know the difference between a good guy and a bad one but because the guy I like is too scared to admit that moving forward is really the only way forward.
And truly, there is no room for fear in love.
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