My Fifty Years As A Gay Man: Was It Worth It?
If you’re polyannic, wear rose-colored glasses 24/7, or are an alcoholic, meth head or druggie, don’t read this. You may want to throw yourself in front of a train.
I’m too self-centered, maybe a defense mechanism for having been shunned socially as a teenager, but I think I would have made a lousy husband – to a woman – and a lousy father. But life as a gay man? I can sum that up in two words: profoundly disappointing.
Maybe I just had the bad luck of meeting the wrong guys or attracted them, even after I went through the Gay School Of Hard Knocks and should have read people better. But
sooner or later it was all about THEIR needs, not OUR needs. (The web has only made this worse.) Or they were grossly immature to the point I began to believe some of the old psychologist’s tales that gay men are gay because they’re in some form of arrested development. (You’re 48 years old and don’t have a pot to piss in? What the fuck happened?)
Leading a closed relationship with another man for decades who I should have left after a year of incompatibility didn’t help – you get comfortable with splitting the bills so shoot me – because when I did have time to do my thing it was limited and I ended up in all the wrong places – the sex clubs and bathhouses and the orgy parties – where good people were a rarity.
And making friends was difficult when both my ex-partner and I were working hard and G was antisocial to begin with. You meet gay buddies on vacations and cruises and activities like bowling or softball or jogging, none of which G wanted to do, and so I did my traveling alone with no one to share my experiences with, and when I attempted other stuff I soon felt like a fifth wheel with other guys, often coupled off with their other halves, viewing me as some kind of threat. So I eventually just dropped them for the quickies of the sauna room and sex club dark hallways. The tinsel part of gay life – the white parties and the club circuit and the drama – never appealed to me.
Also being halfway decent-looking was a problem because many times I wanted to be friends – just friends – with guys who thought a conversation would eventually lead to the bedroom. So I just stopped doing it.
I did end up with three reliable fuck buddies in NYC but was alone my first ten years in Fort Lauderdale until I entered the meth scene where everyone was you’re buddy – if you had the stuff. And they’re were some handsome fuckers to get high with. I knew what I was getting into but I was lonely, till I gradually dropped them all including a guy I had fallen in love with but had told me directly and indirectly he didn’t want a relationship. I wasted three years and thousands in drugs before two degreed and former professional me got the message.
The web that I played heavily and which was pretty successful in its early years has diminished to one big carnival joke. Most of the guys who hit me up don’t even read my profile, or are so fucken ugly I’m beginning to wonder if some enemy of mine is paying them to hit me up just for laughs.
I am in love with a very handsome guy, thirty years my junior – no drugs – but his being married to a man for whom he is deeply obligated has made our half a relationship difficult for me to cope with, but at my age cope is all I can do. I should be happy as shit someone like him is interested in me and I am.
But gay life? Baby, you can have it. And the fellow faggots I’ve met along the way? Nine out of ten you can put on the Titanic II and sink it.
Photo: It’s my birthday Sunday: me at 71.