Lately I’ve been reminded of what someone told me years ago.  The only thing worse than being single is dating.  Sure that seems way too cynical, especially for good old grateful-to-be-alive me.  And while I’m hoping that a New Year and some new dates will inspire optimism, in the meantime I’ve got a new appreciation for that famous line in Woody Allen’s Annie Hall touting the benefits of self-pleasure.  ”Don't knock masturbation! It's sex with someone I love.” 

Of course since I live in San Francisco my complaints about dating deserve some scrutiny, if not disdain.  Could it be I’m like a rich guy whining about how the lousy gas mileage on his yacht is costing him a fortune?  Yet while our proverbial Richie Rich’s bank account is packed, my little black book is empty, maybe overdrawn, especially for someone living on the North Left Coast of America.  

So what’s getting in my way?  Laziness?  Medical marijuana?  My new sofa?   Smoking medical marijuana on my new sofa?  A bad attitude?  All of the above?   

Attitude adjustment.  Certainly that’s one area that as they used to say in elementary school report cards Needs Improvement.  As does the motley assortment of poorly lit pictures I have on a few personal ad sites. 

Of course life’s roller coaster too might be at cause.  After all life has its way of creating reduced expectations.  That is if you’re lucky to live long enough and be part of an economic class where expectations and aspiration is allowed. 

When I left a great office job in 2006 to work freelance I never expected that I would once again be passing appetizers in 2012.  Don’t get me wrong, I actually like working as a cater waiter and am grateful for the work. But I thought that I was supposed to be sipping the champagne not passing it.  

After all wasn’t freelancing at the heart of that so-called new economy?  Yet that myth lived only as long as the economy did. 

An End to Taking Things for Granted 

Even without the collapse freelancing had its risks, especially as the labor force in Bangalore got more expert.  But so what?  Sure I’m desperately hoping I can get three gigs out of my black slacks and white shirt before I need to take them to the cleaners, but passing the canapés isn’t that painful especially when compared to what others run down by the recession are dealing with. 

Economic hard times has had its way of making me grateful for things I used to take for granted. Take health insurance.  Not counting the pending improvements from ObamaCare in 2007 I lost 30 pounds over four months while suffering from severe stomach distress.  I went to the emergency room but was told I needed to see a specialist, something I couldn’t afford.  Six months later and with help from some friends I was diagnosed with a mild form of colitis that a prescriptions steroid cured in just over one week. 

In most of America I’d be uninsurable but being lucky enough to live in San Francisco I am part of the city’s health plan (it’s not insurance because if I get hit by a bus out of town I have no medical coverage) that makes life drastically different than others I know who pay upwards of $1,500 a month for coverage, if they are lucky enough to be able to get it.  

And there is nothing more humbling then when calling your home clinic to make an appointment when the phone menu option includes “Press 3 if you’ve just been released from prison.” 

So I can deal with life’s up and downs.  I’m no diva except when it comes to coffee.  I’m high maintenance and travel with my own French Press. 

Yet scarcity in my dating world is vastly different.  In other areas hardship makes me appreciate things more.  Yet an empty horizon on the dating game leaves me unsettled, unhappy and unable to muster any energy to kiss all those proverbial frogs before I might find a prince.    

Dating reminds me of a recent wrestling match I had with some pistachios.  The ones you kept putting back into the bag, the ones that never opened up and seem to taunt “Screw you buddy, you’ll never have me.”  

But when it comes to food, I’m persistent in getting my way.  The promise seems worth the struggle so I pried and I pried.  Finally I succeeded and opened the first of many unopened shells only to accidentally launch the nut halfway across the room.  I feared I’d lost it forever, wasted all that time and effort for nothing in return. 

But all was not lost.  By good grace, good luck or good eyesight, I found it under the radiator.  I laughed giddily while popping it into my mouth, but victory was sour. That pistachio was no nut.  It was merely an imposter, a cruel poser, merely a dust bunny the size of a nut. Ppphhssspphhh ugggh.  Yuck, double, triple, quadruple yuck times four.  

Yet when eating’s involved, I keep up the fight.  After rinsing my mouth I steadied my nerve and wrestled the remaining pistachios to submission. Those nuts were mine. Rich with salty goodness, they were exquisite – the harder the work, the sweeter the reward. 

But substitute the chase of culinary delights for carnal  ones, and I’m a quitter, tapping out early in the first round.  Call me Eeyore not Ishmael.  I’m as dour as that donkey in Winnie the Pooh. Eeyore, I understand your pessimisim and gloom, Eeyore you are me and I am you.   

So what gives? 

Recently, with the help of two friends – absinthe and weed – things came into focus.  Of course I won’t bet a meager cater waiter paycheck on their exact role in this revelation but I do believe that the outer-body/outer-mind experience made seeing the daylight much more possible.  

The morning after my excess I consumed two large glasses of water, three ibuprofen and a large French press of extra strong coffee  - and my focus was clear.  And suddenly the mystery of why dating, even here in San Francisco, seemed as hard as finding sunken treasure in the Pacific was revealed. 

Rejection.  Wanting to look good.  Not wanting to look bad. It’s as simple as the first time I went to a school dance and stood on one side of the gym with all the other boys staring at those girls by the bleachers.  

Yet the New Year calls for a new attitude. After all do I really want to end up doing the Sunday NY Times Crossword puzzle all by myself for the rest of my life? 

But what about those scariest of folks, those drug and disease free ones who are seeking the same? Give them a break. Don’t disdain them and don’t take it personally. Dating is scary. People are especially clumsy when expressing their needs on the internet.  Their fears, like mine are mostly irrational and inherently human.  

And one more thing, there are plenty of fish in the ocean. Some might look like me, others like you or your mother or father or that guy who got away. Whoever they are, whatever they do, we’re all in the same game.  One with no guarantees. 

So I’d rather play than watch. Doesn’t  matter if I can’t always tell the dust bunnies from the pistachios, it’s better to play than watch, no matter how cozy the new sofa is or how much I love Double Purple Gorilla from the cannabis club. 

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?)

One of the interesting features about the grant that we received was that this was a “capacity-building fund.” Capacity building is really about acquiring resources – in this case knowledge, skills and networks – that give a person or organization the ability to do something new. In this case that ‘something’ is the ability to conduct community-based research (CBR). 

I believe that having some basic understanding of research methods and process is important, because it empowers people to be able to evaluate incoming information. This goes hand in hand with scientific media literacy.  In the information-age where we are absolutely inundated with information, including news about latest research findings, the ability to understand research methodology is an important skill. It helps prevent people from misunderstanding research findings or from being “taken” by false claims.  But for organizations, the capacity to conduct community-based research is even greater than that - it creates the ability to learn more about the community’s needs and create closer connections and relationships with them. In fact, the research process itself can be a gateway to empowerment among the client population.

People living with HIV have been studied a lot! Bob has written about this before.  Anyone who has been living with HIV for any length of time is no stranger to research.  And the experience is not always a positive one. In fact, the traditional approach to research is reminiscent of colonialism: a research team enters a community, takes what they need, and leaves, without the community ever directly benefiting from the study.

CBR is a fairer approach to research. It recognizes that research should be a mutual exchange of knowledge, hence the emphasis on knowledge translation (making the findings accessible to people who may not be academics or experts in the field themselves) and exchange (understanding that both parties have something to share, which is different from knowledge dissemination - a unidirectional flow of information).

CBR also ensures that the community being studied is empowered to participate in the research process, in some ways perhaps even having the opportunity to participate in the research design and/or ownership of the data. Because CBR is intended to be inclusive of the community-being studied, it is, in a way, very similar to the principles behind GIPA, suggesting that the community should be involved in the research that potentially impacts their lives. 

Understanding and employing these features has been a wonderful experience and, I believe, an excellent learning process for us at ACG. It has allowed us to execute many of the principles we aim to employ in other areas of the organization to a new goal and process. I believe it has also been a positive experience for our research participants.

Another feature worth mentioning is our experience in having a Peer Research Assistant (someone living with HIV) work on the project. Our peer research assistant, as part of our Working Group, conducted many of the interviews. However, he wasn’t just an interviewer. He helped with the research & methodology design and contributed in many ways, making sure that the interview schedule captured or addressed key issues. He urged us to address issues related to HIV beyond the disease, remembering the impact of trauma and other life experiences, and the way they intercepted with HIV.

He was not the only person living with HIV involved in the research, but I believe that his relationships with ACG clients allowed the study to gain credibility among our client population. Having a peer research assistant who is well connected and respected in the community provided a gateway to having participants trust in the process and open up about incredibly intimate issues. Peer research assistants have to maintain clear boundaries and professionalism while executing research with their peers, but this is clearly possible for people with skills and experience in this regard.  Organizations should not write off the possibility of utilizing peer research assistants because of fear of boundary issues. Our peer research assistant provided an invaluable contribution to the project.

No doubt, I have learned just as much about community-based research as I actually have about the subject of the research itself. From writing a research grant proposal to presenting research in lay language, we have built a great deal of capacity in our organization, gained many skills and strengthened bonds as team members. Our peer research assistant was hired and now works at the agency part-time. I am sitting on a committee to develop another community-based research study under the wing of anther organization. And the project continues to be a learning process, as we move forward with knowledge translation & exchange activities.