A Gay's "Guide" to Online Dating

Over the past few days, the Technological Universe has found a way to show me just how slutty I am: I have received roughly 30 or so odd emails from all the dating sites I have profiles on. With subjects like, "James, your next love is literally RIGHT HERE ON OUR SITE!" or "James, open this email - it's free and you're easy", it's hard to ignore the fact that

a) I am dreadfully single
b) I'm not important enough to get regular and personalised emails from friends, and
c) the cosmos are trying to tell me that the next love of my life has a perfectly instagrammed and airbrushed profile photo and is waiting for me somewhere out there.

In our technologically booming society, online dating isn't just a trend, it's basically the way we are resigned to find love. Statistics don't lie, and as a man who appreciates proper numbers I can't help but feel slightly bruised by statements like "People with online dating profiles are three times more likely to find a relationship." The fact is, most of my dates within the past three years have been procured from online sites. And I am no more closer to finding a relationship than I am to stumbling across a cave opening in the Sahara in the shape of a tiger's open mouth with a magic lamp hiding somewhere inside promising three wishes (a nicer ass, an unlimited supply of Neutrogena Combination Skin facial moisturiser and the elusive perfectly-fitting pair of jeans).

With the massive glut of online dating profiles - especially gay online dating profiles - has technology actually done us in? There are literally thousands of these profiles and everyone somehow finds a way to make their lives sound ten times more fabulous, make their skin look eleven times smoother and their personalities shine like gold.

In a completely self-indulgent and retrospective mood, I mapped out the online dates I have been on in the past few months. Some of them procured ongoing "things" (the word things is used very loosely here to mean multiple hook-ups, free dinners or - deep breath - actually dating) while most of them led to absolutely nothing but futile attempts at second dates and bouts of hair-pulling rages where I realised a man who described himself as "good-natured" probably meant "fucked up, three years older than I claim on my profile and a whore."

The really sad fact is that most of these profiles offer completely false hope and most of the men actually never respond, or even better, respond succinctly with "Ok", "Good" or "Fine lol". There have been multiple times I've become completely blown away and excited by reading a man's profile, viewing him scantily clad in his photos and reading the probably-fucked statistics saying we are a 98% match. I should know better, after all. If I wanted a 98% match then I would sit down with an extra-50%-free bottle of Vaseline moisturiser and masturbate for sixteen hours a day.

And once you get to the first date, it's a complete 50/50. The person can either turn out to be a distant relative of Sasquatch or Ryan Gosling's long-lost second cousin. And that's just physically. First date conversations are classed in two groups: good or fucking deranged and terrible. And if the conversation itself isn't deranged and terrible, the acts following said conversation can be disastrous.

For example, I once messaged a guy on OkCupid late on a Sunday afternoon and we met an hour later in Chelsea (I should have known it was going to be bad from the moment he suggested a bar close to W 19th and 9 Avenue aka the whores' playground).

After spending literally two hours sharing margaritas and great first date rapport (wherein I made it clear I wasn't really into the sex-on-the-first-date thing because, foolishly, I was on the quest for love or something), he invited me back to his apartment two streets away. We went, he pulled out his incredibly large cock and got all kinds of bent out of shape when I refused to sit on it. He asked me to leave, said he hated guys with no follow through and then sent me an angry text after saying that he felt jilted because he footed the margarita bill and I couldn't even show my appreciation by giving up my anus. I explained that my anus costs more than five margaritas, thank you very much, and that I had made it abundantly clear - in English, which I was pretty sure was his mother tongue - that sex was not on the table.

Of course, I had no one to blame but myself because I had gone back to his apartment to "watch TV", I looked incredibly good that night in particular and - in his words - I kissed the way vanilla smells.

The worst part about it was his dating profile said (I'm actually copy/pasting here for full effect): "I am respectful and enjoy great company and conversation. Hook ups aren't my thing, I'm looking for something more substantial" yada yada bull fuckery.

A few weeks later, I met an Australian who was roughly the height and size of Atilla the Hun (which was very sexy, aesthetically). We had spoken numerous times on the phone after our online exchanges, his accent was a Madonna-esque hybrid of Australian/American, he had a gorgeous, gravelly laugh and  his profile said something to the effect of "looking for the one" - in not so much a gag-worthy tone.

We met in the West Village for tea late one night and immediately I sensed the chemistry wasn't right. He barely shook my hand, called me "Jack" which is as insulting as smearing dog shit on my cheek and refused to let me pay for his $3.75 cup of tea, which especially annoyed me since I had to break $20 on my own $3.75 cup and wouldn't it have been easier for me to just pay $7.50? We sat and spoke for some time, although I was a little miffed by our initial face to face interaction. By 10PM, he was ready to hit the road and I was ready for a large glass of a mixed vodka drink. As we stepped outside, he informed me that he had just procured a large art installation piece (which I really didn't give a fuck about because in my mind, large art installations and large men who call me "Jack" really don't interest me individually or in conjunction with one another) and would I like to come see it, his apartment is literally one building away.

Against my better judgment I said fine, why not? It was in the direction of the nearest bar anyway and I couldn't get the thought of a vodka/club soda/lemon out of my mind. As we entered his apartment (which was the most impressive thing about the night up until that point, it was huge), he lunged at me and started kissing me like I was a concubine from the Old Testament. He pushed me against his exposed brick wall (was that maybe the large art installation he was speaking about?) and grabbed at my hips with his huge hands. Immediately, I was turned on and extremely confused. After about ten minutes of clothes-dropping against his wall, he stopped and asked me if I wanted a bump. Looking at the large, luminescent creature in front of me (he was very sun-deprived), I asked if he meant what I thought he meant.

Yes, he meant coke.

Ok, I'll take a bump.

Just one?

Yes, just one.

It's pointless if you take just one.

How many would you suggest for it not to be pointless?

At least five or six.

I'm not taking five bumps.

Never mind, then.

Ok.

That was it. I dressed myself, I left, got my vodka drink and purposefully lost his number and never responded to his text to meet for another cup of tea (really, a man who thinks five bumps is the least amount of coke one should do in one go-around can't even go out for a proper drink?) and haha, wasn't it funny that I never did get around to seeing his art installation?

On the other hand, men I've met in the more "traditional" sense have turned out to be less neurotic and more charming. One day I was biking in Prospect Park when I had to hit the brakes really hard to avoid killing a mother and her child crossing the bike path. The bike skidded and I fell on my side in front of every morning cyclist and jogger Brooklyn has ever seen, scraped my elbow pretty badly and wished I could evaporate into thin air. A guy who was riding behind me stopped and asked, "Did you just have a bi-hicular accident?"

It was cute, I laughed and he offered me a hand up. After my fall, we pushed our bikes around the park and had lovely first date conversation - which was simply chalked up to "conversation" considering it wasn't even a date. He lived around the area, he was very handsome and had the kind of eye/smile combination that makes panties vanish in a puff of sexual energy. He even made a makeshift bandage for my elbow scrape with some tissue and saran wrap we got from a nearby hotdog vendor. I didn't even mind walking around the crowded park on a sunny morning with an elbow wrapped up like a piece of pork - he was that disarming. When I was ready to leave, he asked for my number and sent me a text later that day to ask if we could meet for a drink in the neighbourhood.

I loved this particular interaction because it was very romantic, the way we met was worthy of some Bridget Jones hi-jinks and it was easy. There was no "will he/won't he?" online exchange, no fighting to try to meet - we didn't even have a conversation about being gay. The chemistry was instant and our subsequent dates were fun. I met some of his friends, he liked to hold my hand in the street and he knew the oddest tidbits of information about old New York which I love hearing about.

The only reason it fizzled was because I was dating another man and Bike Guy, while charming, intelligent and beautiful, didn't hold my attention in the same way.

The other guy, Ren (who I've written about before) was actually a hybrid: I had met him outside a club once before with very minimal dialogue, then messaged him online only for us to realise we had interacted months before in person. This was also by far the most fun, interesting, personal and deep connection I had felt with any man in New York. So maybe this is the trick? Maybe a mixture of the real world, coupled with cyberspace is what makes a proper click? Maybe reality coupled with the online fantasy is what can really push a relationship into hyper-drive.

Indeed, an online profile is stilted, intangible and can be misinterpreted in so many ways, we should have a tarot card reader next to us while we're on the hunt. And as true a representation we may all want to give, how honest are we really on these profiles? Even if the information is honest, is our relaying of it the same? Information has a funny way of being mistranslated, pictures can be completely skewed (and, in some cases, over ten years old when the subject was fitter, younger and had actual hair colour) and even the online statistics can be fucked depending on the subjects' honesty when answering the questionnaires that are responsible for these percentages.

And even knowing this, I still log on to get my flog on. It's simple, there's a ton of choice and hey, it's easier than approaching some hottie in a bar with Adam Levine's beard and arms. But I have resigned myself to expect the worst. At least then when I meet someone who is everything I want and more, I can pretend that I never really hinged that much on it because I'm too cool and it was all by chance... even if the website said we were a 98% match and his self-summary said, "I am searching for true, irrefutable love oh, and by the way my diet consists of eating anything yet my body still manages to resemble every hot Italian sculpture you've ever seen."

Now, that's honesty.