What can I possibly write about online hook up sex sites that hasn’t been said?

I’ve been off them for a couple of years since a guy I was seeing made me delete the last of the profiles I had, which was basically to stay in touch with a lot of guys I know in Europe.

The last straw for me came when this guy I was with looked at me and said, “Ya I took some GHB, didn’t I put any in your drink?” I’m no prude, but since I put “NO PNP” in my profile, and the fact I’ve O.D’d on this stuff before, I didn’t take kindly to the prospect of nonconsensual drug use.

Fortunately there was none in the drink, as I know all to well what it tastes like and its effects. It was the fact my choice could have been taken away from me that hurt.

For the last couple of years I’d rely on a couple of dwindling fuck buddies that I could call up. Slowly this was turning into a pretty sexless life.

My return to the avenue of online shopping was prompted by my trip to Tel Aviv. First the guys are super hot there; I had to meet a few. Secondly, I don’t go to bars to meet people anymore, and I don’t drink.

Feeling not that confident anymore, I snapped a webcam shot of myself thinking that at least if they message me it will be the most recent photo I can have. To my surprise, I learned that being “fresh meat” in Tel Aviv, even being me, means there’s a lot of demand. I think over the month I got about 70 messages. I was shocked!

The problem in Tel Aviv is that everyone has their heads buried very deeply in their asses about HIV. Despite there being over 7,000 positive guys in the area, when I disclose I’m treated like I’m the first poz person they’ve ever encountered. I get the questions. I tell them, there are 7,000 guys here who are positive, you’ve fucked many of them, don’t treat me like I’m the first.

Suddenly there is a concern about doing this or doing that, even though they are happy to do this or do that with those who don’t disclose. This different environment that I’m used to took me back a bit. I had to decide what was the best way to do this.

It wasn’t like I have having sports sex on the hour.  I didn’t mention it at fiirst until we were talking face to face. It’s not my favourite way, but at least if someone is going to be an asshole, they can do it to my face instead of just ignoring a message I’ve sent.

Coming back to Canada I decided to create a couple of profiles. I’ve always thought there is something odd about gay Torontonians, and going back online really confirmed it.

Suddenly, (fresh-meat syndrome excluded) on the first site, there was no interest at all. Something happened to me over the course of flying those 6,000 miles back home. This site is exactly the same as it was several years ago - stale with the same 60 to 70 odd guys parked waiting for someone to message them.

The second one is marginally better as I will log on and see a few messages. In each I’ve said I’m positive at the end of my written portion.

I don’t like the sites that force me into disclosing. I usually do anyway, but I’d like that choice. It feels like I’m being outed to be avoided.  I like to have the choice on how I disclose such issues.

The lay of the land has changed quite a bit. I highly suspect the D&D free people are negative looking to bareback “safely.” So in essence we have many barebacking sites even if we don’t call them that.

There is a bit of dishonesty there, as they go out of their way to exclude, but can’t say it’s because of barebacking.

One guy I met off of this site, during our email exchange asked about my status. He’s very young, in his twenties. I wrote him back and expected to hear nothing back. Instead I received a nice reply saying we could still play “safely.”

What I didn’t realize is our two-tiered sex reservation system. Namely, the best sex (first class) is without condoms, flying economy, you use condoms; both of these will get you to your destination, just one is more desirable. So the HIV status question can be more about determining what kind of sex is available. But it's hard to know what are someone's motives. 

Perhaps with Israeli HIV-stigma fresh in my mind, I began to feel like an outsider looking in and much more so than I had ever in the past.

As per a friend’s recommendation I went on a barebacking site. I never ever contemplated such sites before in my life.  To my surprise I got 30 messages in a week. 

Even with people condemning such an act, I did it and was surprised to see that I was no longer on the inside looking out. This is a very low stigma site. I don’t use condoms with other positive guys anyway, so what the hell.

The irony is that the sites that I once scorned and judged are the very ones that I find the most affirming. Really who wants to be at a party where nobody wants you, which is how Manhunt & Gaydar etc. begin to feel like.

I’ve now successfully turned around my sexless life, one of my goals I can cross off of my "to do" list post-Tel Aviv. 

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’.

When I first was diagnosed as HIV+, I remember being thankful for all the infrastructure in place to help me ensure that I wasn’t going to die of AIDS.  Whether it was through Philadelphia’s AIDS Activities Coordination Office or my initial visits to Philadelphia FIGHT, I received a care and attention that, just a decade or two ago, would be considered remarkable.  And, thanks to scientific advancements by pharmaceutical companies like Gilead, in part because of the United States government’s tardy, but right, confrontation of HIV/AIDS, my life expectancy is around 70, and I experience mild, if any, side effects.  Even more gratifying is the fact that these side effects have seemingly subsided now that I’ve been on medication for several months and am, happily, undetectable.  This means that, so long as I keep taking my once-a-day single pill Complera, there exists no measurable amount of HIV in my bloodstream, that I am, effectively, neutered from passing on HIV to anyone else, even if I have bareback sex, and that HIV cannot hurt me, generally. 

At the time of my diagnosis, though, I remember thinking, “Now, how am I supposed to have sex?” 

Notwithstanding all the tools, helpful professionals, and worthy mission-driven organizations here in Philadelphia, I was still at a loss as to how, exactly, I was supposed to navigate the gay sex and dating world in modern, iPhone hook up app based society.  In fact, I effectively tabled this personal discussion I was having with myself in favor of overtly sexual, overtly bareback, and thus only HIV+ majority population, sexual situations.  For example, there was a solid year where I would only go to bathhouses and sex parties for sexual gratification; after all, in an environment where everyone is barebacking, where everyone is specifically there to have sex, and where everyone, like it or not, has implicitly offered their informed consent to engage in these behaviors by their very participation in these behaviors, there is no need to say, “Excuse me, sir, but before you put your condomless penis into my anus, I’d like to show you my most recent results from Labcorp in Raritan, NJ, which detail that my CD4 count is a little low but that my HIV viral load is undetectable.”

Frankly, personal health matters are of little relevance or concern in overtly sexual, and bareback, environments, and anyone who claims anything to the contrary either doesn’t participate in these activities, and as such has no stakeholdership in the discussion, or they are complete and utter hypocrites (reformed pigs who hilariously take a “Do as I say, not as I have done” attitude in relation to HIV prevention, and who often make a living offering bad advice that won’t be used by anyone, I’m looking at you.  Many of you are HIV+ for a reason, and it isn’t because you had conservative sexual tastes.)

Even so, the longer I’ve been HIV+, the more traditional and, admittedly, boring I have become in relation to my sex and dating.  After all, at the end of the day, you can have all the piggish fun you want in a sling, but nobody who happens by your room at the bathhouse is going to want to cuddle or make dinner for you.  That isn’t to say these behaviors are bad; in fact, I routinely affirm that these exploits in bathhouses and sex parties are natural, fun, and, if done for the right reasons, perfectly healthy.  Yet, I still grapple with the best way to figure out how to easily normalize my relations with monogamy, dating, and more traditional concepts of coupling with my HIV status.  This tightrope walk of being honest with potential sex partners and boyfriends while still casting a net wide enough to actually engage in sex and dating is one that, I think, a great many of us who are HIV+ table, like I did, in favour of situations where we don’t even have to address it (like bathhouses.)  And, when we do try to be open, honest, and informative with our sex and dating partners, the results are, quite often, disheartening.

For instance, recently, I got a man’s number in a local gay bar.  We flirted relentlessly, and we both were obviously sexually attracted to each other.  So, just as our later text conversation started delving into matters that were the standard precursor to engaging in naked time together, I disclosed my HIV status.  His reaction was, at least in my insecure HIV focused insecurity based mind, predictable.  Feigning ambivalence, he, nonetheless, tellingly grew rather cool in the previously hot rapid fire text messaging conversation.  Then, he stopped messaging me altogether.  And, finally, in an attempt to salvage his politeness, said that he was tired.

Now, as I stated, I could entirely be infusing my own preconceived insecurities onto this man who very may well have been tired and entirely fine with my HIV status.  Or, as is the case with a large enough number of potential partners for me to write about it today, situations of which I have literally scores of conversation screenshots that I could chronicle in annoying detail here, he got spooked at the my mentioning of HIV and, in order to play the part of accepting, open-minded progressive, he feigned ambivalence, ran for the hills, and blamed being tired for our 180 away from having sex.  This approach, if that’s the case, while well-meaning, is annoying and compounds the difficulty those of us living with HIV already face in relation to sex and dating.  Frankly, I would much rather someone say, “Ick, gay plague,” and dismiss me summarily rather than “Oh that’s fine *oh god please no*, I’m okay with it *oh god can you get it from kissing?*”  After all, time is a premium for those of us facing death if we don’t continue to have wide, and free, access to antiretroviral medication.

This type of experience, of trying to do the right thing in disclosing and receiving little, if any, benefit to disclosing reinforces my, unfortunately relationship limiting and hostile-to-cuddling, default attraction to overtly sexual, overtly bareback outlets through which to meet men and have sex.

 Make no mistake, I am not complaining about this reality, nor am I demanding that the world do something.  Instead, I’m simply politely suggesting that we should be a little more candid with each other; I truly would never want to put anyone in a position where they were tolerating having sex with me under the ridiculous notion that they had to prove their compassionate bona fides.  Conversely, I would hope that others wouldn’t want to put me in a position where I see little benefit to disclosing my HIV status or where others blatantly lie about their status in order to have sex.  This latter group is rampant, based only my anecdotal and admittedly unscientific, personal knowledge, and while I agree with these men in that there is no statistically significant or scientifically probable chance of their transmitting HIV to sexual partners, and thus the idea of HIV status is, essentially, moot, I still cannot very well reconcile my own demands of candor and honesty along with finding sex partners and dates under false, and disrespectful, premises.

Then again, the guys who don’t talk about HIV whatsoever are also the ones who are, seemingly, having a lot more sex than I am.  So, what do I know?

This article originally appeared on Josh’s own blog here. 

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! 

I leaned my chest against a door in his apartment and slid my jeans and briefs down over my ass and presented my hole to him. “Fuck me” I whispered. My boyfriend didn’t move towards me. “I want to feel you inside me with no condom. Fuck me,” I repeated. “No,” he softly said back. “Don’t ever ask me that again.” He walked away from me, angry. I stood there silently for a moment and then slowly pulled up my pants.

We didn’t have sex for a long time after that.

My partner told our mutual friends I had ended it, but truthfully, he left me no choice. There are things you should never say in a relationship, things you can’t un-hear, and your partner telling you he is afraid of you sexually is one of them.

I cried when he said it, and then I cried for an hour in the shower afterwards thinking about it.

In the beginning our sex life was fun, mildly kinky, and I was confident that as our intimacy grew and our relationship strengthened, our sex life would become more adventurous. But then I told him I wanted his cum in my ass, and suddenly I could feel him looking at me differently. Whatever narrative he had constructed about me in the beginning of our courtship was being challenged by my acknowledgement that I loved barrier free sex, the exchange of fluids in my rectum, and the sense of intimacy it brings. He felt I shouldn’t want those things, nor ask of them from him. Condom use was not open for negotiation he said, and what right did I have to suggest otherwise he wanted to know? I was HIV-positive and he was HIV-negative.

In his eyes it was clear. Me wanting to bareback with him made me a ’bad’ person, maybe even a criminal.

In serodiscordant relationships there is sometimes a surprisingly low general knowledge about harm reduction and HIV. From the very beginning I made sure we talked about PEP, PrEP, viral load and infectiousness, sexual positioning, and a myriad of other risk reduction techniques. I offered to take him to meet and speak privately with my HIV Specialist. I made space for him to talk about how he was feeling about being in a "magnet" couple and his identity as an HIV-negative man. I wanted him to be as educated as possible about the Human Immunodeficiency Virus. And then I wanted him to fuck me raw.

The San Francisco State University‘s ‘You And Me’ Study , surveys by the University of New South Wales in Australia, numerous Swiss sex researchers, and so on, are all showing that gay men are increasingly practicing harm reduction techniques in the face of condom fatigue and the changing nature of HIV in the West. They're rejecting the traditional one-size-fits-all Public Health approach and weighing the pros and cons of a life taking pills. A recent Australian study from 2010 estimated that my circumcised partners risk of transmission from topping my HIV-positive ass was 1 in 909 or 0.11%.

Somewhere in the last few years HIV had become less a gamble, and more a numbers game, but my HIV-negative boyfriend still wasn’t willing to play. 

In my relationship I could tell my boyfriend almost anything. I could tell him how I wanted to be treated, my dreams, the meanings behind my tattoos, and how my parents divorce had hurt me, but what I couldn’t tell him was how much of a risk he should find acceptable in our sex. I had to respect his decision, I told him, but he also had to respect mine. At 30 years old, I wasn’t ready to never again experience the joys of condomless sex.

It must have felt like an ultimatum to him, but to me it felt like a stalemate. Then, coupled with issues within the relationship, and his confession of fear, it ultimately became a deal breaker.

Two weeks later Tom stood over my bed and yanked off my briefs. He poured Gun Oil down the crack of my ass and then slowly worked his bare, uncut, HIV-negative cock into my asshole as I clenched my fists and bowed my head while grimacing. I sucked in air through my teeth. He smiled proudly at my discomfort.

Tom and I had met at a local queer pub named Swizzles. I told him I was newly single, HIV-positive and really wanted to get fucked raw. He asked me what my viral load was, I told him it was undetectable, he smiled at me, and then we went back to my apartment and fucked without a condom.

It felt like a healing act to get fucked raw again. To be treated as wholly desirable. As Tom’s cock rammed my prostrate, I thought of my ex, and imagined it was him that was inside of me bare, as I jerked myself off onto the sheets. Tom reached down, scooped up my jizz on his fingers, and then put them in his mouth. “Delicious” he said.

Up & Coming  is a sex magazine published independently in Toronto, Canada. On April 2nd, at swingers sex club Oasis Aqualounge (231 Mutual St, Toronto ), the third issue will be launched with Dj Scooter, queer porn icon Courtney Trouble, Burlesque star Axel Blows and others in attendance. Pre-sale tickets for the event are $20, or $25 after March 29th. You can purchase your tickets at www.off-the-record.ca or at the door the night of the event

Michael Burtch has previously contributed to PositiveLite.com as the columnist The Tattooed Activist between 2010 and 2012. 

I don’t know what possessed me but it was a Friday night and I’d been stuck inside for what seemed the whole winter. I had a severe case of cabin fever and had to get out. It was nine thirty in the evening; a time when I’m normally fixated on the box and longing for my bed because the feet are playing me up and I feel like crap. Then out of nowhere came this urge to go out and meet people - gay people.

There was another motive. I’d been contacted via the internet by an attractive man just a couple of years younger than myself. Cultured, interested in the arts, music, seen a bit of life and wanting to get to know someone at least superficially before hitting the sack; you know the type. He’d expressed interest in a meeting and said that he was in the bar on Friday nights and specifically, this Friday night.

Now despite my dotage, I’m not stupid and fully realise that that is not a date under anybody’s definition. He hadn’t arranged a time, so clearly wasn’t so interested that he wanted it contractually bound. It was a vague, ‘maybe I’ll see you there’ sort of thing. Nevertheless, it was the deciding factor and I decided to give my need for social contact and the possibility of something more a go; you should never give the needy half a chance!!

The last time I’d been to a bar in Amsterdam was probably two or three years ago. I can’t be more specific because my memory about that sort of thing’s shot to pieces these days. One of the reasons is that the bars are soulless deserts until about ten thirty at night and don’t get busy until after the witching hour. By that time normally, I’m in a medication-induced half-sleep and battling the demons in my feet and legs. This particular evening however, I was wide awake; in less discomfort than normal and seized by the need to take advantage of every window of opportunity my neuropathy gives me. Nevertheless, I knew that just getting to the nearest bar wasn’t going to be easy, requiring some walking and a tram ride and taking the walking stick wasn’t an option, so I took an extra pain killer just in case.

Now I’ve learned a thing or two over the years and in preparation, gave myself a serious talking to. I awarded myself ten self-confidence, bonus points to start off with, with the aim of hitting more before the evening was over and knowing that point zero was the time to come home. For those who don’t understand, these are the single guy’s imaginary boosts to his confidence designed to make him feel good enough about himself during the evening ahead and help him through the first hour or so, or at least until drunk enough not to care anymore. 

Then came the hour of primping and preening in the bathroom. Don’t laugh, the older you get, the longer it takes to achieve even looking your real age! So nose hairs, ear hairs, wayward eyebrows, goatee and side burns were all dealt with. Showering, scrubbing, hair washing and personal hygiene all scrupulously done. 

Clothing was the next problem. It’s still winter, so showing off the hairy chest under the T-shirt ‘V’ wasn’t an option and I needed a top jacket that would have enough pockets to stuff the cap, gloves and scarf in when I got there. I settled for good-fitting jeans and a shirt big enough to hide the spare tire. Both jeans and shirt were dark coloured. I wanted to blend in, not stand out like a geriatric peacock. So, finally satisfied that no matter what I did, I wasn’t going to improve the best I could be, I set off on my little adventure.

I was heading for a bar that I thought would be the most comfortable and least intimidating for a first venture out in a long time. From what I remembered, the patronage was a mix of bear types, bar flies, bored tourists and Asian boys with their mentors, plus the odd complete psycho to liven up the proceedings. More importantly, it was generally a slightly older crowd and I wasn’t going to expose my fragile ego to a bar full of narcissi (is that the plural of Narcissus?)

When I arrived outside the bar the feet were playing up, the butterflies were doing the fandango in my stomach and I nearly turned around and went back home. I had to lecture myself; ‘For God’s sake, you’re 63, not some virgin teenager hitting the scene for the first time!’ The virgin teenager in me was screaming to get the fuck back home but bravado won out and I walked in.

Now body language is everything during the first two minutes when you walk into a bar. I knew this and had rehearsed the casual confidence and natural half smile that were necessary but still stumbled in with two left feet; fixed my rabbit-in-the-headlights stare on the row of stools at the bar and flew, jet-fuelled onto the nearest vacant stool. One of my ten self-confidence bonus points already gone and the evening hadn’t even begun. Not a great start and the disinterested glances that greeted my arrival seemed to go on for hours. Nevertheless, once ensconced on my stool, I felt more at ease and ordered a beer from the grizzled barman. The last time I’d been here, this barman was on my wish list for Christmas but time takes its toll on us all,l I guess.

A beer wasn’t a good idea considering my medication but it was ordered before my rational brain kicked in. Oh well, one wouldn’t harm. Actually, after five minutes, most of my fears were ebbing away. One thing about gay bars in Amsterdam is that they never change, never! The bar owners are too tight to invest, the few tourists that still come find it quaint and the local clientele is not that demanding. The only thing that moves with the times is the price of drinks. Three and a half euros for a small beer; good grief!

My favourite begin to an evening had always been perching on my stool, with my back to the wall and with a good view of the circus. Taking time to case the joint and see what, who and where was essential, especially if I was on my own. See but not be seen was the motto, at least in the beginning. I began by looking around to see if internet guy was here and then realised I wasn’t entirely certain I’d recognise him if he was; there’s a certain generic look that I find attractive but lots of guys have that look and no matter how much I tried, I couldn’t really recall his profile face clearly. I had to hope that he would find me first. Actually, the bar that Friday was not exactly teeming with ‘my types’, so I was pretty sure I hadn’t missed him.

There were two guys whom I recognised from twenty years ago. The difference being that now they were both bursting out of their T-shirts like Arnold Schwarzenegger and were probably just as old. Always intimidated by muscle Mary’s, I bitchily concluded that these guys were steroid queens but nevertheless still slumped over my bulging stomach on the stool. One more point lost!

There was a clique of a few really young guys acting like humming birds round a feeder. They were hyperactive and alternating between frenzied chatter amongst themselves and flitting to the bar to flash impossibly long eyelashes at whoever might buy them a drink. 

Another group was gathered round the pinball machine. These were lads in their late twenties; smartly dressed, short hair and street savvy. These guys are at the peak of their game and know their own pulling power. I used to be like that for a few short seconds in time. However, that didn’t shake my confidence; I’ve never been into younger guys so I didn’t see them as intimidating, until that is…

…I’d been staring for too long. I realised it at the very second that one of them turned to meet my gaze but it was too late. The lip curled into a Presley sneer and the eyes narrowed, gimlet-like, into bullets of sheer venom. As he turned to inform his friends that the perv in the corner was eying him up, another self-confidence point bit the dust. The collective group glare that followed nearly lost me another point but by that time I was ordering another beer I shouldn’t drink and considering flight.

For the next few minutes, I counted all the spirits bottles hanging behind the bar; fixated on the mechanical porn on one of the TV screens and tried to regain some self-control. Luckily I was rescued by a tap on the shoulder. Thinking it was the guy from the internet, I turned optimistically to greet my saviour. It wasn’t that guy but it was someone else that I half-remembered from years ago and he looked pretty good! After confirming mutual recognition, I bought him a beer and he sat down next to me. My twenty five year old internal man-about-town, returned and the next half an hour was spent chatting, catching up on mutual friends and subtle but unmistakeable flirting. The restoration of a point to my confidence chart came from the fact that he was also flirting with me! And he wasn’t drunk and didn’t seem to have any hidden agenda; yippee!

Okay, to cut a long story short; I’d repressed my needy gene, brought about by a long time without this sort of contact and was playing it cool. I was proud of myself because everything was in control and we had clicked. You know that feeling when it’s just right and you know you’ve read the signs and body language correctly. It got to the point where I was musing on the evening’s end and what I’d do if internet guy walked in. Overconfidence; fatal!

He asked me if I’d like to get out of there and go back to his place nearby. I contained my excitement and feeling like that teenage virgin again, demurely accepted. Trust my rational mind to choose that moment to poke me in the conscience…’Ahem, aren’t we forgetting something!’ I swear to God, I got icy chills but came out with it anyway. Lowering my head close to his, I uttered the words!

“By the way; I think you should know; I’m HIV positive; is that going to be a problem?”

I honestly thought it wouldn’t be but that was completely my own fault. By his look and his conversation, I’d sort of assumed he was too. Big mistake; never judge a book by the cover! He recoiled as if I’d thrown my beer over him and I could see him struggling to remain politically correct:

“ Uhm…yeah, well you see…I didn’t realise…uhm… no I can’t do that, I’m sorry. See you around.”

Two immediate confidence points lost right after the look he gave me and one more after the excuse and I felt as though someone had hit me with a sledge hammer. I was furious but not at the fact that it actually was a problem; that’s a risk we all have to live with but at the lily-livered, cowardly response! This was a guy who had lived in Amsterdam for most of his life; was not much younger than me and must have lived through the HIV/AIDS years and yet he couldn’t get away fast enough, despite apparently finding me sexually desirable just five minutes before. Talk to me damn you!

Only five bonus confidence points left and they were barely keeping me from running out of the bar in hysterics. I decided to wait another half an hour to see if internet guy showed up and had prepared every available barrier to that being a potential disaster too. This time, I would ask him right out first but even then I knew that I’d still have to confess sooner or later. The eternal optimist kicked in then and the third beer was ordered. I was feeling somewhat woozy but nevertheless perversely proud of myself. I hadn’t always disclosed at the right time and realised that I’d overcome a subconscious barrier without really trying. I felt I’d be telling every time from now on; not that the opportunities were falling at my feet but there you go, three beers can work wonders and blunt edges.

It was getting busier but it remained the same eclectic mix that I was comfortable with. I accidently caught the eye of the younger guy from earlier but this time my lip curled first and he got ‘the look’ full in the face. Revenge is a sweet bitch, however small the victory.

Suddenly my sixth sense alerted me to the fact that I was being watched. It was a guy at the other end of the bar and he was staring unashamedly. Not bad looking, if a little worn around the edges. Now I knew I looked more than a little rough around the edges too, maybe there was a match here. I casually picked up my glass and putting on my slightly tipsy, ‘come hither’ look, stared back, more meaningfully. I think the penny dropped when his head suddenly lolled forward. He recovered quickly but the glazed eyes gave him away and when he dribbled as he leered at me, I got the message; he was completely out of it. Another point lost; I was being seduced by someone who needed to be blotto to do it; great boost to the ego that!

Okay, enough already. I looked at my watch and realised I’d been there for less than two hours. I got up, put on my coat and headed for the exit. Of course, internet guy chose that very moment to arrive and despite looking me full in the face, he walked right on by. With my remaining confidence points falling to the floor like leaves in autumn, I stalked out and went home.

It was okay, really; c’est la vie. It sounds like a good old, self-pitying rant but the evening had actually been good for me and I quickly realised it. I’d confirmed my place in the world at that snapshot in time and was okay with it. You’ve got to laugh at life sometimes, because it can never be a Hallmark greeting card: it wouldn’t be so interesting if it were.