Recently I was invited to my friend Mike’s birthday celebration. He decided that he wanted to relive his childhood. For him that meant renting a soccer field at the local sports complex. For Soccer? No, for dodge ball. That’s right, dodge ball. 

Imagine, if you will, a soccer field filled with roughly fifteen gay men reliving their junior high gym class nightmares. We rocked out to Taylor Dayne, Michael Jackson, and Madonna and to top it off, some of us took the 80s reference to the max by wearing sweatbands and florescent tights. If you haven’t yet, do yourself a favor and just sit with that image for a minute. Now imagine us being gawked at by group of hard-core South American soccer players who just finished their game. 

As much as I would love to joke about the actual event, because it is kind of ridiculous, I can’t remember the last time I had that much fun! The fun increased doubly when halfway through our game, two new players arrived: Brad and Mark. Both were incredibly handsome, built, and just plain hot. I assumed that they were a couple and did what any adolescent minded person would do: I made them my constant dodge ball targets. What was it that our parent’s always told us? “Those who pick on you, like you the most.”  Soon it seemed that Brad felt the same way. Did they want me to be their Lucky Pierre? Well, either that or he was hired as some sort of dodge ball hit man and I was his only target.  I was so confused. 

After the last balls were thrown we decided to head to a local sports bar to boast about our day, like any good jocks would do. From across the table I heard Mark talking about his boyfriend. So maybe no Lucky Pierre, but there was still the possibility of Brad! Two beers down and as we were falling off our chairs reminiscing about the day, Mike looked at me with wide eyes and mouthed, “Look at your phone!” It felt like I was in study hall all over again when I picked up my phone and there was a text from Mike: “Brad is crushing on you. Hard.” I felt like writing on my napkin, ‘Do you like me? Circle yes or no.’ 

I didn’t even speak to Brad for the duration of our time at bar. Around 5pm and we all decided to disperse and meet up again later at another friend’s birthday party at Bamboo 52 in Hell’s Kitchen.  After much deliberation on what to wear, Mike and I arrived to the second birthday party. Brad finally showed up about an hour later and as if we were back in Junior High Mike said, “Brad, why don’t you sit next to me?” Which landed him right next to me. Unfortunately, the Junior High quality of our interactions did not end there.  All of a sudden, with no more than three words spoken to each other, we were a couple. There was no in-depth conversation.  There was no courtship. There was no copulation. Hell, we hadn’t even played MASH.  But there we were and he would be draped over me for the entire evening.  

At first I didn’t mind it: I actually enjoyed having all this attention being paid to me. Very soon it became quite annoying. I couldn’t go anywhere. I couldn’t talk to anyone else. Before too long I was trying to make eye contact with my other friends hoping they would rescue me. I assume they were trying to be polite and not looking at us afraid they might interrupt. 

As that party ended and we all left for another bar, I decided to make a break for it and head home. I thought at least this way I could finally find some peace. Alas, Brad said, “I have to get up early and I will go with you.” Mike patted me on the back and walked away without seeing the obvious look of distress on my face. 

We hopped on the train home and I made it obvious that I really was exhausted and had an early day, so I was going straight home. The one thing that kept on going through my mind was something that my father said to me when I was a teenager. I didn’t have the best relationship with my father, but god was he right…

‘Be careful what you ask for’.

As we try to maneuver through this dangerous sport we call dating, we all create rules for ourselves. Rules that help us define the guys we will date. Rules that help us to know when is the appropriate time to reveal our status. And even rules that help us when pants are down, literally. Those same rules that can save us can also hinder us. 

As you may have noticed, I have fallen off the map. There are various reasons for this, but the main culprit is that I just wasn’t dating. This was not because I didn’t want to - I was trying, I was just hindered by my rules. 

I was chatting with the guy on OkCupid for some time and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to actually meet him. But one Saturday night I was out with one of my best friends and we ran into him. Sometimes this city can be smaller than you can imagine. We started chatting and I actually was having a good time with him. So we set up a date for the following week. 

We met at a wine bar and talked and talked and talked and drank. Then he said that his favorite singer was Celine Dion. Now I know this is being published in Canada, so I might get some hate mail for this, but that was an affront to all of my rules - so I vowed that was the end. 

When I expressed this to various friends, they all laughed at me. One in particular said something I’ll never forget. Paraphrasing: We have friends to share our commonalities with. If you truly like this guy don’t let some French Canadian singer stop you from seeing him. With that sound advice, I promptly set up another date with the Celine lover and even though we didn’t work out, it made me stop and think about all of the other potential dates I stopped because of some offense to my various rules. 

I used to have a litany of rules – enough that could fill up a novella! Not just a disdain for guys who have an opposite taste in music than I have.  But with age, comes knowledge, or so they tell us, and I have since whittled my list down to a precious few. One of those is age limit. I have always had this rule that if I can vividly remember the year of your birth, I will not date you.  I was born in 1976 (yes, I am a bicentennial baby) and can vaguely remember images from when I was roughly six years old.   It’s a stupid rule, I know – but I have since cut off anyone over six years younger than me.. It is one rule that I have followed for sometime, but since I had made exceptions for other reasons I thought, “What the hell!” and lowered my age bar. 

A week later I had gone on a dates and ‘dates’ with a couple guys in their 20s. It was extremely weird having a conversation with people who never watched the Jem and the Holograms or who never wondered who would win in the epic musical battle between Debbie Gibson and Tiffany (I am full away of the irony of these being my musical tastes). But I managed to get over their intrinsic lack of knowledge of the things I hold dear to my heart and tried to enjoy them for who they are.  Surprisingly enough, some passed the test and some did not (we will touch more on that later). 

As fate would have it, I randomly saw that wealthy guy I dated last year but ended it mostly because I didn’t want to feel like a kept houseboy.  He asked me if I wanted to hang out again and  I was over the “youngins”.  As I took stock of my rules, I said what the hell.  And just like Foreigner tells us, it feels or felt like the first time. Like before, there was just something missing. It wasn’t the fact that he had money and he was a III^rd, there was just no proverbial spark... outside of the bedroom, that is. So maybe it wasn’t the fact that he had money that was turned me off originally -  it still wigged me out a little, but I came to realize  we were incompatible in so many other ways. 

So I vowed to keep my rules a guide but never let them hinder me from the potential of something great happening. The following week I got a text from one of those “youngins” that read, “Bad news. Just tested positive for syphilis. TTYL.” Ain't that a kick in the head  - or should I say a shot in the ass! 

After my recent dabble into domestication I was determined to start actually dating again. And I don’t mean the kind of dating that happens from a gentlemen’s socializing network - you know the ones where you are lucky if you get their first names. Don’t get me wrong, I had enjoyed those for quite some time, but I am just looking for something real now. I am looking for those 1950’s inspired kind of dates. So I dusted off my OkCupid account and took a gander at who is out there. 

I saw the name and I was drawn in like some classic literary reference. Then I saw the pictures. Wait can this be true; smart and sexy? I started with a small note telling him that I enjoyed his profile. Low and behold, he responded. We chatted back and forth for about a month. We tried to get together various times, but first his schedule did not cooperate, and then my schedule did not cooperate.

One night I was stuck at the office till 4:30am finishing up a project, and he even offered to bring me coffee so we could finally meet. I was so tempted… it was so romantic that I didn’t care that I hadn’t slept or brushed my teeth quite some time. But even that didn’t manage to work out.   

Then he went home to Vermont for three weeks. Three weeks? We exchanged a couple emails but then the emails stopped. I was afraid that he was loosing interest. Then one night, out of the blue, he called me at 10pm.

You know how sometimes peoples voices can be such a turn off? Like they sound the complete opposite of what you have been envisioning... This was not the case with him. Actually his voice was even sexier then his profile and pictures. His voice was so amazing, we ended up chatting for six hours. Yes, you read that correctly: six hours. 

We talked about everything you could imagine. First we just made random chitchat, like holiday plans, music, tv, theatre, and literature. But then it delved to what we want out of relationships, then to a deep discussion on how we each had a parent who had passed away and how that has affected us. 

You know how sometimes talking to someone on the phone for ten minutes can seem like three hours? Well, talking to him for six hours felt like ten minutes. We couldn’t get enough of each other. And no our conversation did not get sexual. Ok, it did get a little sexual, but not in the way you perverts are thinking. It was the best conversation I have had in, well I can’t remember when. Yet, I didn’t get up the courage to tell him that I was HIV positive. 

The next day, still partly exhausted from staying up way past my bedtime chatting with him and part reeling from the amazingness of our pseudo first date, I knew I had to tell him. I was already falling way too hard for him. I know it was an impractical feeling to have after never actually meeting him, but that’s how I roll. 

He was grateful for my honesty but he made it clear that he could never date me. He pretty much said that he would not be able to kiss me deeply, blow me, or have me cum on him. I am paraphrasing a bit, but that is the overall gist. 

I became incredibly upset. I felt unworthy and somewhat not human. And if I wanted to touch him I need to be in a hazmat suit or a plastic bubble. I know it was stupid. I hadn’t even met him yet to give him that kind of power, but that is exactly how I felt. I look back on the situation and I know it wasn’t him that I was upset about. It was the prospect – the idea – of him. Just the very idea of being in a real relationship with someone who I had hit it off with on so many levels was something that had my heart singing.   It so rarely happens in this city and the only thing I could think of was that he shit on my dreams. 

So what did I do about it?  I locked myself in my apartment for the next couple days feeling completely sorry for myself - completely drowning my sorrows in take out and Jane Austen.  Then someone who I had met from one of those gentlemen’s socializing networks texted me. He said he was in my neighborhood and asked if I wanted company. It didn’t take much arm-twisting for me to say yes. I used to live by the saying “The best way to get over someone is to get under someone.” I don’t think I actually wanted to have sex – I just didn’t want to be alone. 

I knew something was wrong from the beginning, but my determination to get rid of my sadness made me push on. And push on I did. Big mistake. Huge. Because when he left, I noticed that he had left me a present  -  he left shit on my white sheets! 

I put myself out there twice – and got shit on both times! Ever determined, I brushed off my sadness and then bleached my sheets so I can start with a clean slate.

Loneliness can drive a person bonkers. I mean, look at all the cat ladies of the world.  Much like those feline lovin’ females, I found myself taking in a stray. No, not a pussy - I’m allergic. I took in boy. 

Philip, my ex-crush and current bestie, had torn the meniscus in one of his knees. For you and me this wouldn’t really be that big of a deal, but for Philip it is his lifeblood. He is a dancer and uses his legs for more than just putting them behind his head. Since he now lives in Portland, Oregon, he needed a place to crash so he could feign New York residency to qualify for free surgery at a dancer’s clinic. Since I am such a good friend, I allowed him to crash on my couch.   

Having an ex-crush as a friend is fine when you see them on occasion. Having an ex-crush sleeping on your couch for two months, after not dating and being alone for sometime, well that is a horse of another color. 

To be honest it really wasn’t that bad. There was only one time that really drove me over the edge. I woke up one morning and he wasn’t there. He found a little something that evening and at first I thought I was upset. But then I wasn’t sure if I was just jealous of him for getting some. Other than that minor glitch, I found myself enjoying our time together. I always had someone to do something with. I had someone to calm my nerves during hurricane Sandy. It was almost like we were playing house except that we kept our peckers in our pants. I guess we were not unlike most couples that suffer from LBD (lesbian bed death).  

During his stay, I tried to set up a date or two with some other boys. After a cancelation, I found that I didn’t even want to try anymore. I would rather go home and hang with someone that I know would make me smile - even though he left crumbs on my couch cushions. Don’t get me wrong; it’s not that I gave up on sex completely. I had to rely on afternoon delights because Philip was at my place all the time.  But they stopped being as fulfilling as they once were, so I even gave up on those after a while. 

Wait! Oh. My. God.  I have been domesticated! The thing of it is, is much like Margret White when she was taken with the stink of filthy roadhouse whiskey on her lover’s breath - “I liked it. I LIKED IT!” 

This slight stint of domestication has made me realize what I really want. A husband! If I am a really, really, really good boy, maybe Santa will bring me one for Christmas. 

Just like Lucy, I guess I have some ‘splainin to do. Where have I been?

Oh, I have been around. My day job had me quite busy and that left me no time to date, “date” or even think about anything in between.

After my workload was alleviated, I realized that I wasn’t dying to venture back into those murky waters. I think during my time away, I fell in love with the idea of not trying. I don’t know if it was a product of those last two awful dates (you remember the boring guy from Barcelona and the guy with the exaggerated view of his endowments, right?) Or maybe it was not having to go through the troubles of telling people of my HIV Status; Or maybe it was because I am a closet spinster, but I was, and still am, loving it. 

I have had various offers for dates or “dates” but I turned them down.  Yes,  I even turned down dates with extremely handsome men who were sincerely into dating me. Obviously, I don’t know what was wrong with me! I mean how could I turn them down when there are children starving in China (excuse my seemingly insensitive and politically incorrect mixed metaphor, but I’m sure you get my point).  I guess I just wasn’t feeling like it. I wasn’t feeling like becoming the best possible version of myself to go on a date with someone who I would probably not be interested in.  And conversely, if I were interested, they would either not be with me or be scared off by my HIV status. 

And to make matters worse, the occasional “date” that I have gone on could have made the sports section of a high school newspaper seem far more interesting!   

I briefly considered not engaging in any sexual activity until I started really dating someone.  But by the third day I was having horrible night terrors and then, every time I saw a cute boy I would break in hives from head to toe. I figured out that this was not the best course of action for me.  

Then I decided to go organic. No, not food. Boys. I’m a Virgo and I have always been a person who works well with structure, so I put that structure on my dating life. I’ve now decided that isn’t working. So, no more: “You have to have one date a week!” No more: “You need to go out and mingle!” No more: “Weekly manscaping sessions!” Oh, hell.  Who am I kidding?  I am totally keeping that last rule!! 

I quickly found out that going organic is a slow process. It is an especially slow process if you spend your Friday nights all alone, sitting on your couch eating icing from the container, without utensils.  Imagine Goldie Hawn in Death Becomes Her, I'm not kidding.   

While I was waiting for something to happen, organically, and suffering from sugar shock, I had some time to think. Time to think about all the guys I have dated in couple of years. And I had to question myself. I thought: Oh my god, is it me? Am I ready to date? Do I really want to date? Do I ask myself too many questions? 

As of now, I really don’t have any answers to those questions. I mean, yes I want a boyfriend. Yes, I would like take advantage of that right bestowed upon us by governor Cuomo and get married.  But honestly, I just don’t know if I have the energy or the will power right now to put myself back out there. 

(Then again, maybe this all a subconscious ploy. They always say they show up when you’re not looking, right?)

It is too darn hot to even try.  Here’s a picture for you: In weather like this, all I want to do is lay on my couch in my underwear with my air conditioner on high with an industrial strength fan directed at my ass, while watching bad romantic comedies from the 80s. So needless to say, dating is far, FAR from my to-do list. 

This is not to say that I haven’t had the occasional ‘fling’. I mean, we all know this boys got some needs!  Even so, there has been nothing of interest to report. I even had my very first trip to Fire Island.  The beach was gorgeous and the boys were hot. But lets just say that once they opened their mouths I no longer found them attractive.  I was surprised when my Fire Island day trip turned into an over night jaunt, but even so, there was still nothing of interest to report. Seriously. 

I’m not sure if I had given up on dating or if it was just too hot to try, but finally after two months of being one-with-my-couch, I slapped myself, got my ass off the couch and get decided to get back out there! 

"They both were completely fine with me being positive . ."

As fate would have it, I landed two first dates in the same weekend. One with Miguel, a college professor from Barcelona.  The other was with Dayton, a quick-witted writer who won me over with his sarcasm. I met both of these new prospects on Manhunt, so initially I was unsure of their intentions and quickly disclosed my status.  They both were completely fine with me being positive; Dayton was also positive. So everything was set and I was ready for my dates…  and whatever else might happen. 

I met Miguel for dinner on Saturday night at a small Brazilian bistro in SoHo. He was incredibly handsome and his accent had a certain sex appeal. Unfortunately, there were just no sparks.  We had a nice dinner and fairly decent conversation, but that was about it.  After dinner, I quickly said goodbye and sent myself home to get rested for my Sunday afternoon date with Dayton. 

Dayton and I met for margaritas at a trendy bar in Chelsea on that Sunday afternoon. We chatted for hours and we threw back quite a few margaritas. He was funny, charming and mildly attractive.  Dayton then asked me to his apartment and I said yes. I am blaming this on the margaritas.

 "If you are trying to get in my pants, don’t tell me I have a deadly disease; It just doesn’t put me in the right state of mind." 

We sat on his couch and started talking. We talked about us both being positive. This is where the first of various disappointments started. He kept on referring to being positive as “having the deadly disease”. Now, I realize that he was just trying to lighten the mood and to be funny. But if you are trying to get in my pants, don’t tell me I have a deadly disease; It just doesn’t put me in the right state of mind.  Thanks. 

Then I started rambling. I don’t know if I was nervous, or drunk, or both but I was completely rambling like a fool. Dayton did the only thing he could to shut me up. He kissed me. The kiss started off pretty good. Actually, it was great. Then it seemed like he unhinged his jaw and tried to swallow my face whole. 

I would like to point out that while I am not a Roman god, I represent pretty well. When he removed his clothes, his body did not live up to the potential that his clothing allowed me to imagine. I am not so shallow that I would let that ruin any romantic and/or good time I have with a boy, but it was just a bit of a shock. 

"While I was on my knees, I couldn’t help but notice that he was not that well endowed . . "

And then when he said to me “Suck that big cock,” while I was on my knees, I couldn’t help but notice that he was not that well endowed.  It took every ounce of my acting skills not to break out in giggles while staring his not so big appendage in the face! . To cover up my almost laughter, I went to it.  Then he embellished again:  “Suck that big, fat cock.”  I laughed. I couldn’t help it! Thankfully my mouth was occupied at the time so it sounded like I was choking on his not so big and fat cock. Looking back, I can only imagine this action only further propelled his delusions of grandeur.  

Even after our rocky start, I was hopeful that things would improve because he smart and he did make me laugh - and not only when I was on my knees! Alas, I was disappointed again. So I straightened myself up and giggled all the way home. 

I guess I am meant to spend these hot summer nights alone. Honestly, I am perfectly fine with that. I am content to spend my nights with Goldie Hawn, Diane Keaton, Meg Ryan, Meryl Streep, and Julia Roberts because they rarely disappoint.