Coming, Part II

A half hour from midnight, I peered into the back seat of my Toyota Camry and thought that if anything could be more of a turn-off to a hyper-organized, almost-OCD workaholic like Chu, it’d be this: a portable dump of file folders, broken backpacks, old Playbills and magazines (with the occasional scattering of uncapped pens and—more dangerously—markers). I could not let that be my first impression. I scrammed into my bedroom and stole a sheet to cover the whole thing up.

Ten minutes later, I pulled alongside our local Holiday Inn and called him down. In the next minute of waiting time, I set the scene I wanted him to see: I looked away—out my window—instead of waiting to see him at my passenger side door (so that I didn’t look too eager); I programmed my iPod to a playlist of a mellow Sufjan Stevens selection (his Facebook page claimed he was a fan); and I checked my back seat one more time for anything that remotely gave away my messiness (just in case the sheet shifted). All was ready.

As I was looking in the other direction, he arrived at my passenger door. I acted sufficiently surprised that he was there. I unlocked the door, he sat down, and we pulled away from the hotel..

On his part: Small talk. Hesitant eye contact. Nervous laughter. At the time, I didn’t know whether to attribute the awkwardness to him, to me, or to the overall furtive aura of our rendezvous; it even could’ve been the reasonable shakiness of a first live date from an online friend. Heck, the probable truth was that this was a case involving all of the above. All I knew, as I searched for a place to get midnight ice cream, was that we needed to get out of the car, get something to eat, and shake the shakiness off. ASAP.

And then we got caught by a train at a railroad crossing. Stuck in my car. For a good—oh—ten minutes.

And in those ten minutes, he spilled.

“So… is this a date?”

I froze. What was I supposed to say? I laughed out loud, while my mind screamed, “WHO SAYS THAT?!”

I continued with my shrugging, and he continued: Over the past month and a half of conversations, he found himself getting more and more attracted to me. He clearly had been thinking about it: he knew he’d be working in my area this summer; our professional goals were very much aligned; and the conversations we had in the past—although they were online—flowed quick-wittedly. It was a good match to at least explore. His intentions for this random late night ice cream trip: to gauge whether or not the chemistry he perceived online carried over into reality.

With this out of the way, the balloon of tension and unease deflated. His bout of transparency pointed out what should’ve been obvious: our earlier awkwardness was because we had never acknowledged an attraction between us. The lack of definition in whatever it was we were doing—talking online without direction, then meeting up in real life without explicit purpose—left us to inferences. Yes, it was fun to flirt on the internet without relenting to pressure or worrying about risk, but when our LOLs became audible, when there were physical consequences that couldn’t be clicked away, the need for honesty became not only necessary, but also palpable. His confession—as abrupt and forward as it was—was what we needed to get anywhere.

The railroad crossing gate lifted, and with some of the weight removed from the whys of our late night meeting, we had a more comfortable ride to my nearest 24-hour Starbucks (decidedly the closest thing to ice cream). There, I neatly evaded answering his earlier question of whether or not this was a date, deflecting discussion instead to my newly-acquired knowledge of his interest. His willingness to be open opened the door to my own: How long have you been thinking about this? What experience do you have meeting relative strangers on the internet? How do I know you just need an outlet for your homosexuality—something you clearly don’t have in rural Arkansas?


After our drinks were ready, we couldn’t find a seat at Starbucks, so we brought our conversation to the next most convenient place: my apartment. And there, on a loveseat across a table from me, he returned to his question: “Is this a date?”

“Well… I paid for you drink.” As much as I had learned about the evil of forcing inferences, I couldn’t help—out of nervousness or fear or lack of clarity of thought—but be indirect.

He probed further. He was very clear about being interested in me, but what did I think about him?

And I had to admit: I enjoyed this—the back and forth banter, the surreptitiousness of whatever it was we were doing, the interest of someone who actually was pretty much on the same page as me as far as work ethic and goals.

There was a smile of satisfaction.

“So… would I be crossing the line if I kissed you?”

As I did earlier, I laughed and shrugged. But this time, I was able to utter out a small, secretly-confident, “No.”

And as he came over to my couch, I thought about the junk in my car, our awkwardness at the railroad tracks, and the Java Chip Frappucino in my breath. And when he leaned closer, it made sense that I didn’t need to make sense of any of those things at all. He wanted me. He wanted the me that he got to know and not the circumstances surrounding it all.

A half hour after midnight, within hours of meeting Chu for the first time, there it was—our first kiss.

To be continued…

(...to the full post)

The invisible queer woman!

Recently, I got out of one of those "unofficial" kinds of relationships. For the past six months or so, I'd been going back and forth with this woman who was in another relationship and yet, she told me, would rather be with me. Still there were a bunch of other complications, like the real fact that there were other people she'd rather be with, too, and not in the sense of setting up a polyamorous sort of deal where we'd be honest with each other and upfront and all that practical and necessary stuff. It was more like every time I turned around when we were out together, she'd be hooking up with someone else, and occasionally even a friend of mine. My begrudged and broken heart notwithstanding, I found it really difficult being in this pseudo-relationship without actually being able to answer in the affirmative whenever anyone asked if she was my girlfriend, and not just because I really wanted to say she was (there, I admit it!). Rather, as a feminine-presenting woman, my sexuality is often made invisible when I'm single.

I've struggled with this for some time, even going so far as to try to attempt to genderfuck, but what ends up happening is that a) I feel ridiculous and uncomfortable, like I'm acting out a part and b) well, I kind of look like a feminine woman trying unsuccessfully to genderfuck. Furthermore I feel like this totally negates the entire reasoning behind genderfucking; namely, that in playing with gender roles, we interrogate their limitations and why they exist in the first place. Interestingly, in the queer community I currently belong to (downtown Toronto), genderfucking and androgyny have become the standard to which queer women are expected to measure up. Thus it's not surprising that those who don't fit the paradigm (i.e. me) feel like this supposedly supportive community that is so rich in and tolerant of diversity might not be all it's cracked up to be.

I find it very interesting that our gender presentation and our sexuality are so inextricable, and I wonder why that is. Historically, this isn't really new in communities of women who sleep with women. This isn't the first time that the ways we express our gender have been used as "evidence" of our sexual behaviour. For instance, I think it's important to note the history of butch/femme identities, which supposedly denoted what kinds of sexual practices a woman might be into. However, many butches and femmes have argued that their outward identities had less to do with sexual roles than simply finding comfort in one's own skin. So why, then, if that's where our history lies, are we homogenizing a queer identity?

Something in me wants to cry out, perhaps naively, "This isn't supposed to be happening amongst queers!! Aren't we all about self-definition and a radical dismantling of the rigidity of sex and gender?!" Still, in the Toronto scene, it seems there is a pretty small margin of people who fit into what a queer woman is "supposed" to look like. Recently I attended a workshop on queerness and body image. While I was expecting a discussion that largely focussed on body type in terms of size, I was necessarily reminded of my white privilege when the discussion turned to racialized bodies. Many of the participants were people of colour who began to articulate the concern that for them, Church Street (the downtown strip that used to be known as the gay village, though increasingly less so), and other queer enclaves in the city are actually pretty inhospitable environments. Someone mentioned that while we homos like to believe we are inclusive and progressive by virtue of our sexual marginalization, our communities are by no means immune to the many other forms of oppression out there (ie. racism, ableism, etc.). One of the participants spoke about how this racism is often hidden under the guise of "preference"; he said he couldn't even count the number of times someone he was hitting on had responded, "Sorry dude, I'm just not into Asians".

There is absolutely a problem of representation and a lack of a sense of inclusion in these spaces, especially considering that this is a community that rallies around the word "diversity" as a way of getting the hetero world to acknowledge and accept us. There is evidence of this everywhere. How often do we see queer characters of size, of colour, and/or with disabilities in television and movies? How often do we see these people having any kind of sexuality at all, for that matter? Sexuality is sort of a tricky thing to be unified by. We aren't understanding of marginalization overall by virtue of our sexualities, as much as I'd like to believe that's possible. So I'm rolling up the sleeves on my girly shirt, because we've got a lot more work to do.

(...to the full post)

On The Move

In October, I began to think about moving. As an organizational nerd, I formally brainstormed the pros and cons of the possibility on a Microsoft Word document, weighing factors like job satisfaction and professional development, cost of living and contact with friends and family. Among these attributes, I listed under pros: “perhaps better dating scene elsewhere.” I sent the list to some of my closest friends here in Texas and asked them for additions, revisions, and feedback.

After analyzing my list, one of my friends replied: Your personal life is something severely lacking, apparently, and you seem to really want to find someone to date.

No shit.

And so, when I applied for jobs, graduate programs, and other transfer opportunities in the following months, I looked at the potential to not only move forward professionally, but also, with the extra fuel (read: slap in the face) from my friend’s reply, move forward personally.

In February, gold: I heard about a new offer. Although I’m still in the process of making an official decision, it looks like when my contract with my current employer is up in July, I’ll be packing my bags, selling my current IKEA furniture, and leaving the Texas heat for the breezy liberal bastion of the San Francisco Bay Area, a new five-year opportunity to work with great leaders in my field, and, hopefully, some sort of reinvigoration to my personal life.

Indeed, my friends wonder if this move will actually revolutionize my dating life. I haven’t been a California resident in years—and never for an extended period in Northern California. Picture it: Gay men everywere. Asians everywhere. Rainbow flags and left-wingers galore. Five years in the homosexual heartland literally would mean fishing in the biggest, gayest sea on this side of the Mississippi. The larger the menu of men, the more likely I’d bite or be bitten. Think of it: The nights! The romance! The fodder for this blog!

Pause. While I’m excited about the possibilities, I really wish I were that enthused about my chances. Instead, I remain hopeful but not completely convinced that my work-centric personality will burst onto the San Fran social scene with a bang; I remain optimistic but not cemented in the idea that, within these next five years, I will meet someone with whom I, by the time I’m thirty, will be in a long-term—if not very long-term—relationship.

I worry that being in a big city means finding the reality of stereotypes. In the Bay Area, this means being engulfed by the Castro and its nightclubs, bars, and bathhouses, none of which are completely up my alley. I may not be “fabulous” enough for the hordes. I may find that the racial boundaries I’ve observed in other gayborhoods will become bolder and more delineated; I almost feel like it’d be easier to be the only minority in a small town rather than being lumped as “one of the minorities” in a huge city. It means being faceless and blurred.

I worry that I’ll be drowned among the masses. The larger overall population will mean a larger population of hotties and a larger population of non-hotties. I foresee less of a premium on being average and rather, a push toward reaching for and mimicking those at the top of the heap. Because there are, in fact, masses, it may be more important to assimilate and fit in than to actually retain individuality.

I worry that this will be exacerbated by the cost of living in the Bay Area. Imagine the standards of class: perfectly-styled hair atop a faux-tanned Adonis robed in an outfit from Rodeo Drive. I like nice things, but that level of high maintenance isn’t going to align with my tastes so well. It’s just not me.

I know, I know—I shouldn’t be doing some much analysis upfront. I haven’t even given the place a chance. And really, come on—I’m currently in Texas. If I had stopped myself from making a move to Texas simply based on my pre/mis-conceptions of the Lone Star State, I never would have realized how fun it actually is down here. My dating scene anxieties are definitely not going to stop me from going after my professional aspirations.

Yet I can’t ignore the fact that I’m from Southern California. And on each return visit to West Hollywood, it hits me how plastic and manufactured things can be—the fashion, the vernacular, the music. I’m not saying there won’t be exceptions, but if the Bay Area is anything at all like that, then I’m going to have to do some digging to find my niche. And I don’t really feel like moving for work, only to find more work on my plate.

(...to the full post)

Online Dating: Clutch or Crutch?

My friend Michael first ventured upon online dating more than two years ago. He started with chat rooms on gay.com, and at the time, he deemed this as an acceptable way of growing a circle of potential gay friends as he moved into a new city. Despite gay.com’s reputation as an internet quick stop to hooking a lay, there was no way, he assumed, that every chatter on there was a sex fiend. In an east coast city ripe with young professionals and graduate students, he was bound to find others like him who weren’t necessarily looking for hook-ups, but instead found themselves online in search of friends, conversation, and actual, old-fashioned dating—albeit sparked through a new medium.

From what I know, it worked in spurts. Over the past two years, he’s reported a few dates—even chains of dates—all stemming from his chat room adventures. But unless he’s pushed me out of his Circle of Trust, none of the results I’ve heard from him has extended past four outings. Hook-ups? Yes. Dates that ended in sleepovers? Yes. Pursuits that looked promising until date three? Yes. But friendships or relationships of the long term variety? None of that.

And so the same went with Dlist.com, Adam 4 Adam, and even mixed-audience sites like Facebook, MySpace, and Match.com: his participation in sites aimed at both social networking and sex left him, for the most part, empty-handed. He wondered where he went wrong. After all, he put up his best pictures, carefully worded his profiles, and dutifully depicted himself with the sense of humor, intelligence, and fun that make up a generically attractive and mature gay guy. And though I may be biased as a friend of his, I think he’s a pretty good catch. And yet—nothing.

Last week, Michael decided to reverse years of habit and shut the door cold turkey on this ever-so-emerging pathway in both the gay and straight dating worlds: the internet. Dissatisfied with his lack of a substantial gay social life over the last two years, he concluded that the online dating forum was not as clutch as he initially evaluated it to be in terms of assimilating into a gay community or meeting potential mates; instead, it was a crutch that kept him tied to his computer, where he relied on hope and chance that at least some of the hundreds of people in cyberspace who came across his screen name might contact him, that at least one of those connections might indeed be the connection for which he was waiting. He resolved to erase his tracks, delete his profiles, and ditch the World Wide Web for the real world.

I feel like I’ve been there, done that, and then gone there again. Of the people I’ve dated, I’ve met about half of them online. If I compare guys that I’ve met online versus guys that I’ve met in real life, I can’t detect a pattern that would make real life guys better than internet guys, or vice versa. Each mate had his pros and cons; if there were any real differences, then it may be just this: that with the internet guys, I was able to arrive at those pros and cons of humor, intellect, and interest online; that with real life guys, I was able to arrive at the pros and cons of chemistry more. Behind a computer screen, I could message someone’s profile or screen name with relative ease, whereas the equivalent at a club would involve the risk of approaching someone and being rejected to my face. On the other hand, behind a computer screen, others could also be whomever they wanted to be—hotter than, funnier than, cooler than they may have actually been in real life.

I’ve struggled with accepting online dating. I’ve heard it described as a last resort, the final place to try your luck if real life left much to be desired—or if real life felt you left much to be desired. It connotes desperation, social awkwardness, and abnormality, and the actual act of browsing through profiles and messaging isn’t quite as irksome as having to dealing with those stigmas. To defend myself, I’ve argued that the stigma is anti-progressive: online dating, I’ve said, is not at odds with conventional flirting and dating; rather, it’s the same thing happening in a different place. Either path leads to some sort of live interaction anyway. Yet I’ve gone back and forth with giving it up—like Michael, my luck’s been rare and the implications of being an online dater are heavy. I’ve sworn it off in favor of real life endeavors, only to tip toe back into it half a year later, its conveniences and temptation creating a strong gravitational pull.

Although the traditionalist in me has said that I’ll never meet anyone if I keep “looking,” my inner opportunist has also committed to the belief that I’ll never meet anyone if I let any opportunity pass me by—whether it be cyberspace or the counter-space of a bar. If many of my personal and professional achievements have been founded upon by proactive view of my life, then why make this an exception? Inevitably, what does it hurt that I’ve spent moments of downtime scrolling through potential friends or mates? At its worst, it’s procrastinatory entertainment; at its best, it could be my lucky trigger of fate. Is it the best and fastest road to romance? I don’t think so. But is it keeping me hibernating inside my house? I don’t think so either. So when has keeping my options open and playing all my cards ever been a bad thing? Why close any door that could lead to love, no matter how unusual the journey? At the very least, it’s worth a try.

(...to the full post)

AskFannie: I WANT MORE! or Level up!

Dear Fannie,

I've been dating this guy for the past 2 months or so, but we're not "in a relationship" yet. We've been "dating around," but it's mostly been him seeing other people. I feel like we're really good together and I want to move our relationship to the next level and see each other exclusively. How do I move from his sometime guy to his all-the-time guy?

Wanting More

WM,

I hate to break it to you, WM... but it sounds like there's a disparity in how much each of you is invested in this relationship. You're obviously committed to making this thing between you two grow into a long-term deal. But that kind of commitment is only useful if it goes both ways. It sounds like you're being dragged around like a love-sick puppy. While I'm sure when you're together it's great. But when you're apart, I get the feeling the object of your affection won't object affection from his other beaus.


My advice? It sounds like you're a giver. Which is awesome, the world needs more givers. The problem with givers is that they have a tendency to forget their own needs and are all too willing to shirk their desires/dreams/needs in exchange for their partners/dependents/colleagues/etc. It's a simple game of supply and demand. You're offering up a surplus of love to this guy, and right now, it looks like he has more than enough love coming in than he can handle. If he wants you, make him work for it! I'm not talking about playing games with him, I'm talking about making him come to you for once. He should want to see you as much as you want to see him. If he doesn't... than dump his ass and find someone worth your affections. Plus, some away time will let you get some perspective on the situation.

++
fiercely,
fannie

send your questions to askfannie@belowthebelt.org

(...to the full post)

Boy, Oh Boy!

Manontheside got me thinking about my dating history, and in the style of his most recent post, I started thinking about what barriers exist that prevent me from finding the so-called One. Seeing as how many of us, it seems, are on this quest to find completion with another person, to find a match that will validate us as successful people, to attain this state that will somehow fill the missing gaps and end the lonely moments singleness brings…I think it’s understandable that we think a great deal about what exactly might be standing in the way of the ideal of partnership.

For me, I think a lot about what I look like, and what I act like – two things that the gay male community, from what I’ve gathered, seems to care about most when looking for dates (manontheside seems to take a less superficial route, an image of gay dating that goes beneath the skin…admirable, but I still stand by the fact that I think most guys are romantically a bit shallow). Looks are certainly what I tend to care about most, at least at first. To start, I’ll take a snapshot of myself, what factors I think shape my chances:

- attractive, boyish look
- moderately short at 5’8” tall
- down the middle mannerisms; not quite femme but not really butch at all
- very shy, mostly around guys

And now to tear it apart:

The shy thing, I think, is the biggest obstacle – shyness lends itself easily to awkwardness, and when you’re trying to meet people it just hands-down means you’ll meet fewer people; potential dates just won’t ever have a chance to be potentials.

But now for the part I think the most about – the look, the boyishness. Boyish guys in the gay market occupy a certain space in the attractive game, I think. They’re not inherently masculine, and so a big portion of the gay market out there with masculinity fetishes (Abercrombie gays, preppy gays, Colt gays, butch-minded gays) typically won’t be into boyish guys. I think there is a window, however, in the Abercrombie/preppy gay market for boyish dudes – but they have to be tall, frat-like in behavior -- also not me.

This, I think, is what I have left. Mikey of Queer as Folk fame – boyish, submissive, geeky, short; not top hot market but still “cute”, with an in-show dating record that truly suggests a dom/sub man/boy thing goin’ on. While my dating history isn’t exactly as NAMBLA as I think Mikey’s (or even Justin’s) characters play from, I can’t help but worry that I’m too much of a sad stereotype. Is it all self-imposed? I don’t entirely think so; as I was coming out, I was rewarded with compliments when I looked boyishly cute (my Fievel Goes West costume was a big hit in college). And so I guess I’ve tried to act the part. But maybe I just worried that I didn’t know any other way to act. Isn’t that sad? TV, tell me who I should be!!

And yet, I’m still surprised from time to time by the reality of a flawed gendered performance – I recall one startling encounter when I was watching Eragon with my date and he was talking about his crush on Edward Speleers. For the first time in my life, I was instantaneously jealous – jealous of an actor my date thought was cute, an actor in one of the worst movies I had ever seen. I already knew that my date had a thing for fair skinned, boyish people…but for some reason Mr. Speleers drove me into a crazed state of anxiety. Yes, he’s toned, something theoretically I could achieve if I worked hard enough (never gonna happen). But he’s a hotter boyish guy. My category was invaded. It seems that even though I sometimes feel limited to a category by my looks, I’m not beneath competing within the category.

(...to the full post)

The Gravity of the Matter

Ava is 23 years old. She’s a busy girl: just sixteen months out of college, she is the head of a middle school science department and one of two science teachers serving all three grade levels on her campus. Although her work as an educator consumes much of her life, she also plays soccer for an all-city women’s league, runs regularly, raises a dog, holds Saturday morning science tutorials, and participates in a book club.

Somewhere in between, she wants to conceive her first child by the time she’s 27.

That means that if she wants at least one and a half years of marriage prior to a pregnancy, she’ll need to walk down the aisle at 25. Which means that, if she wants to date the man of her dreams for at least a year or two before the big hitch, then she needs to meet him—oh, well… right about NOW.

My friends and I are aging quickly, and we’ve only begun to realize the urgency of our dating situations. Oddly enough, the physical dating aspect of dating isn’t quite as pressing as its eventual extension: the children we want.

Four days ago, I walked out of a boba tea café after a few hours of post-work-hours work. I saw a young couple sitting on the rear edge of an open-bed pick-up truck, and, unlike the Power Points and planning that had taken hold of my evening, relaxation and calm had permeated theirs. These sensations were palatable to me, a distant observer, despite (or perhaps because of) where their attention was turned: their child. Indeed, the tumult and unpredictability of child-rearing was nowhere to be found, as an aura of comfort and awe embraced the trio. As the child—no more than two years old—played atop the truck’s empty bed, the couple looked at each other for a moment, silently, as if to say with just their eyes: Look—we created this together. This is the wonder of life.

It was then that I cemented the gravity of the matter, of dating, relationships, and love. While not everyone makes it a life-long goal to start a family (biologically or otherwise), many people do. The choices we make as to who, what, where, when, why, and how we flirt with others begin a domino effect that could—inevitably—lead to the creation of a family. As fun, light, and innocent as eye contact in a dimly-lit room may seem, it may be that same look that changes a lifetime, not just for two people, but also for—as serious and dire as it may be to name them—the unborn.

This introduces a young adult dilemma, fodder, if you will, for a quarter-life crisis: If we know that our actions as daters have an eventual end-product attached, then should we focus on career aspirations, thereby creating solid foundations to support ourselves and a future relationship or family? Or should we sacrifice part of that desire for stability in order to search for and secure the partner with whom we can root the life of primogeniture and (perhaps) a few siblings? A more complex question: How can we successfully juggle the two competing interests with limited amounts of energy and time?

Two co-workers of mine, Emma and A.C., also 23 years old, may have found an answer to the third question. The two of them have been dating for almost a year now. Their love blossomed after Emma had a bad day, and A.C., simply a friend at the time, came over to make sure she was doing okay. The tears led to hugs, and the hugs led to history. Since then, they’ve met each other’s families, attended the weddings of relatives, and practically live together. Two weeks ago, A.C.’s car died for the umpteenth time, and instead of investing in a mechanic’s temporary fixes, he decided that it was time to get a new car. While purchasing a new vehicle is, in itself, an enormous move, he pushed its intensity up a notch: they discussed A.C.’s new car as their new car. At the age of 23, they wondered: what will be best for us? What will we need when we have cats and kids? Furthermore, Emma’s parents decided to help finance A.C.’s new car with a contracted loan. Although their one year anniversary isn’t for another four weeks, Emma and A.C., still in the shadow of their twenty-first birthdays, are thinking about and working towards the future—their future. As rushed as that may seem for a young, intelligent, and urban couple, they’ve chosen to create stability in light of their relationship instead of having stability be separate from them and work for someone; for Emma and A.C., a solid foundation for the future is created together.

What makes it easier for them to come to that conclusion, though, is that they’ve already found each other. They can think about a child and cats and cars because they don’t have to think about finding an other. Ava can’t think of those ends without the means to that end.

I am in the same boat. I’m a twenty-something salaried professional. Single. Hard-working. Seeking to re-enter school for a Master’s and PhD within the next two years, for a doctorate degree by the time I hit 30. Although I have the rest of my life in front of me, I, too, have a deadline I want to meet: at 30, I want to adopt a child because I don’t want to be an old-fogey father.

Fortunately, maybe my homosexuality provides a loophole to having to deal with a dilemma like Ava’s. I can picture myself, at the time of adoption, still single. Between research, teaching, work, and somehow finding time to breathe, I don’t know if my energy and time will be best put into dating during those five years. Moreover, I don’t know if the year or so after I finish defending my dissertation will possess enough fated magic to help me find the perfect parent for the child I know I want. I foresee, then, putting dating on the backburner. I can do that. I don’t have to create a child with another—I just have to raise one.

My priority, then: getting me off the ground so that I can be the best parent I can be when I get there. My partner will just have to follow. Who would’ve thought that, with all the complications and urges surrounding dating, he’d be the least urgent thing?

(...to the full post)

beltcasts - eDating Dos and Don'ts

Today's beltcast is a discussion built from Fannie's post, ZOMG 100th Post!! aka eDating Do's and Don'ts. Outlawed moderates, and panelists include Fannie, Manontheside, and NforNeville. As always, you can listen to beltcasts from the beltcasts widget on the right pane of the blog.

Highlights include: discussion of various situations addressed by panelists in their recent posts, including the idea of dating HIV+, closeted, or married individuals, as well as other general questions about eDating. People interested in dating any of the panelists should tune in, as this is likely going to be more revealing than any gay.com profile you might stumble upon!

Sincerely,
ts

(...to the full post)

Dream Job

When I was five, I had plenty of dreams. As an immigrant inspired by the fully-assimilated American kids on the Disney Channel (who, along with my PBS friends, taught me English), I pictured myself as having the perfect American name: Richard. At that same wee age, I couldn’t wait to go to college. I remember distinctly tattooing “12” into my brain because I had only 12 grades left after kindergarten. Awed by my mom’s cool tiger sweatshirt (a bootleg from the swap meet), I even focused on a particular school: Princeton. After college, I would get married. I thought to myself that my cousin Marilyn might make a good wife; we always had fun while we were at her house. Together, we would have two kids and live in a two-story house, from which I would drive off daily to my dream job as the local TV weatherman…

Well lo and behold: things have changed. When I was five, I didn’t know that my desired name-change would result in a nickname of “Dick”—a tell-tale sign of homosexuality that I missed at the time. I visited Princeton ten years later and was so turned off by the pretentious campus tour guide that I refused to even apply. Incest was a word that only older people knew; marriage was a word that I only thought I knew. And when I was five, I didn’t know that being a weatherman would be just one of my careers. I’d have to make a career out of finding a mate, too. I never knew—and I’m still discovering—that growing up means not only finding a job that I love, but also making a job of finding love.

If you really wanted it to be, dating could be a full-time job. It demands the same leadership skills that other occupations entail: purposeful and strategic thinking, knowledge of the business’ rules and politics, and many over-time hours consuming much effort and energy. In the end, instead of being paid with a salary, you’d get paid in dividends of theoretical happiness.

Unfortunately, most of us aren’t financially-blessed enough to devote our full-time occupational life to the love hunt. After a long day at work, some people have the luxury of not having anything to do; sure, there a dinner dates with friends, errands to run, and favorite TV shows to catch, but other options for post-work activities include frequenting bars, clubs, churches, and other organized events to make a part-time job out of finding The One.

Others of us are, well, married to our jobs. If you work long or unpredictable hours or have an occupation that involves bringing work home, it’s easy to become a workaholic. I’ve been on this path of social devastation since high school. When I was in the eleventh grade, I slept about four hours a night juggling high school class projects with papers for requisite college classes I wanted to complete before actual college; I had agendas to create and copy for our high school’s biggest community service organization and materials I had to gather and create for class spirit rallies. I was a busy fellow, and that’s probably why I didn’t have a single dating experience until I went to college.

What eventually alleviated some of that crushing of social potential was a move to a residential college in Virginia where I learned to re-understand the role of work in my life: it was no longer a mode of academic and career-related productivity; it also provided a means to meet new people. The larger student population meant that the more I got involved with various organizations and classes, the more people I befriended, and the more people I could consider as dating potential. Though my primary drive in college was to deliver the highest level of work possible, I didn’t mind being temporarily distracted by side trips to those also interested in the work that interested me.

That said, though, work has always been an obstacle. The first guy I casually dated ended our blooming relationship after a month to concentrate on his thesis. When I took a June through August internship in Sacramento, my summer fling abruptly ended when I had to return to the hustle and bustle of collegiate life. The next summer, when I returned to Sacramento, my hours to date another man were severely limited by my responsibilities at work: I had about three or fours in the evening, four days a week, to find a compromise between our schedules; over the course of two months, we saw each other just a handful of times. Even in my senior year—at the height of my enjoyment of college achievement and friendships—my own involvement in leadership positions and intense research led to an absolutely barren year with regard to romance.

After working my ass off for those eight years of my life, you’d think I’d cut myself some slack in the work world. Not so: I’ve earned the privilege of being able to work even harder. I work about six days a week, sometimes up to 19 hours a day. I give myself sometimes a day or a day and a half each week to relax, time that I like to spend with the friends I know won’t be as fleeting as the next interesting guy I meet might be. The time to meet others: lacking. I’ve spent time in this blog blaming lots of things for my lack of luck with love; maybe I should really be blaming my choices.

When I was five, I had plenty of dreams. I knew that I had to work hard to achieve them—or at least to evaluate their actual worth and merit. Since then, I’ve accomplished a lot: I’ve received a college education I’m proud of, I have a job that I positively know is worthwhile, and yes, I’m even happy with my name. I foresee further success in my future; it is not out of reach for me to have kids and a two-story house. I’ve worked hard to get where I am, and I continue to work hard to get where I’m going. What’s missing from making my childhood dreams come true is that which I haven’t yet prioritized as work that needs to get done: the job of finding someone who helps me forget that I have work to do. If I can’t solve that problem strategically, then maybe I’m not as much of a goal-oriented organizational success as I think I am.

(...to the full post)

AskFannie: Going OUT & about

Dear Fannie,

I'm a 22 year old gay male and I've never had a serious boyfriend -- I attribute this mostly to the fact that I went to college where dating options for LGBT people were few. But now that I'm in a big city and I'm dating more often, I meet people all the time that have had a number of long term relationships. It's really intimidating. Sometimes I worry that I don't really know HOW to date, because I've never had practice. Pardon my ignorance, but is LTR-oriented dating for LGBT people much different than it is for heteros? If so, do you have any tips for success?

Sincerely,
Looking for love

Hi, LFL,
I’m glad you’ve been able to escape the clutches of an unfriendly college environment for us homos. So you’ve fled the dungeon that is homophobic college life to the big gay urban center, and you’re wondering why you feel untrained in this mysterious art of gay dating. (I say gay dating because I want to speak to your specific situation, because the dating codes, mores, and trends vary wildly between the queer clans.) News Flash: You are untrained in dating. But the good news is that it really isn’t all that mysterious. At least no more mysterious than it is for heteros.

I know this may be hard to believe, considering how homo dating can seem virtually non-existent, and how hetero-dating seems to be everywhere. Well, that’s the thing… there are a heck lot more heteros than homos. How many more? I don’t know, and I don’t care to know. But needless to say, by sheer numbers it’s a lot more common to see, hear about, and know hetero dating couples.

Now, of course there are trends amongst gay men that don’t necessarily appear in hetero couples and vice versa. Gay men are more likely to have numerous sexual/romantic relationships running simultaneously. They are also more likely to have anonymous sex than heteros as a whole. But in these trends are by no means hard and fast rules. There are plenty of heteros, especially those young, hip, urban heteros who have more sex than a crystal queen at a circuit party would dream of. In fact, you might say that those young, hip, urban heteros are living the “gay lifestyle” as the religious right has coined and historically used to demonize gay men for their “wanton promiscuity”… of course, those yuppie heteros get all the fun and none of the nifty discrimination that us queers get to bask in.

So, LFL, the long and short of it is that there are plenty of gay men who are new to the dating scene. Whether it’s from just being in a place that makes gay dating possible, or coming out later in life, your situation is by no means exemplary. And relationships are hard. There’s no easy 5 steps to take that will expedite your experience accrual in gay dating. In my gay infancy, new to the world wide gay web, I bought and read a gay dating advice book called The MANdates: 25 Real Rules for Successful Gay Dating. No offense to the author, but it was a lovely, nicely designed, steaming pile of bullshit. Rife with stereotypes and questionable “guides,” like “How to read your Man from his Diva CD collection.” Someone hold my hair while I borch. The only way to learn how to date gay men… is to date gay men.

Things to watch out for:
• Men, whether by socialization, hormonal influence, or some “natural” trait, tend to be reserved with the communication. In fact, men are legendarily uncommunicative and passive aggressive. When you have two (or more) people in a relationship that regularly fail to communicate will sew heapfuls of relationship trouble. So make sure that communication remains high… even if it means breaking out the therapist.
• Men also tend to have higher sex drives (although women tend to have lower sex drives, they often report more intense and more gratifying sexual experiences than men), so sex will likely be an important part of a gay relationship. Many “mainstream” or “homonormative^TM” gays of the HRC variety will want to de-emphasize and devalue gay men’s sex lives in order to make us more palpable to the hetero majority. But the fact of the matter is that sex is an important part of any relationship, and shouldn’t be scapegoated or devalued because it is in some way oppositional to an antiquated judeo-christian “morality.”

I hope all that was helpful, LFL. And good luck and happy hunting. May the rainbow shine upon your gay, faggy, path.

++
fiercely,
fannie

send your questions to askfannie@gmail.com

(...to the full post)

AskFannie: A Kiss May be Grand...

Dear Fannie,

I'm a 19 year old gay male living in one of those gay meccas in the city. My question I guess is pretty simple. I've just started to date and one thing I can't really figure out is… who pays? I know that with straight folk it's easier because the guy is supposed to pay and all, but with two men? Also, I tend to date older guys. I'm a poor student getting by on loans, is it wrong of me to expect them to pay considering how they have an income?

Miserly in Manhattan


Miserly, welcome to the world of queer dating. You've identified that awkward dance for the wallet that queer people dating often have. We've been ingrained with patriarchal expectations of romance models which include a providing male and a suppliant female. The big problem is that people try and import those relationship structures on queer relationships rather than question the validity of that model. Having one partner repeatedly pay for all of the dating expenses is unfair and unhealthy, straight or not.

You also mention that you date older men. I understand the temptation to use their relative success or income level to be an excuse for expecting them to pay for your date. But if you want your date to take you seriously, then act like his peer… not his child. Stepping up and paying for your half of a meal, or your own movie ticket is a good way to say that you're an adult.

You mention that you are living off of student loans. If you can't afford to go to the five star restaurant you're used to having your date pay for, than don't go to that restaurant. Suggest low cost activities instead, like taking a walk in the park, renting a movie (note: universal code for "let's make out"), or cooking together (a great way to eat well and cheap. Plus the playful dance around the kitchen can be a form of foreplay in of itself).

There's nothing wrong if your higher income date wants to treat you both to a night on the town once in a while. But be sure to live within your own means. If your dating life begins to an escapist project from your own money issues, you face the danger of being in a relationship not only with your boyfriend… but his wallet as well. And I'll tell you this: there are few people out there who want to be dated for their money.

(...to the full post)

In Search of a Secret Recipe

Every time I’m in a club, I find myself attracted to the guy dancing dorkishly on the dance floor with a half-empty bottle of Miller Lite. He sports a five o’ clock shadow and looks preppy enough to be intelligent, but his debaucherous interpretation of Fergielicious sheds light on his crazy side. I’ll like it. And I can’t help but think that if I made the right moves, he’ll like me too.

Unfortunately, I won’t do anything about it. I’m amazed by friends who can strike up conversations with random people in bars and clubs. I can’t do that. It’s not necessarily because I’m too socially inept to be friendly with people I don’t know; for me, the smoke, darkness, alcohol, and grinding just don’t cultivate the most appropriate environment to find someone with the brains, heart, and depth of a guy I’d ever consider dating. Sure, nights out with friends are fun; but when I’m searching for The One, those ingredients of nightlife culture concoct a simple, well-worn stew of temporality, sexuality, and—some would argue—immorality.

I, for one, think that consensual one night stands are okay. It’s fine to sneak in a little candy while waiting for a full meal to bake in the oven. But most of the time, the stew just doesn’t agree with me; that which may be comfort food for others is an improbable recipe for my view of success in the relationship world. I’m time-conscious, future-driven, and live in such a way that I want the majority of my decisions to be productive towards molding my ideal Yet-to-Come. And The One who I foresee in that Far, Far Away is not someone who I can pick off a dance floor, with whom I can have throw-away sex, and then from whom I might procure a phone number to set up a real conversation that will lead to Happily Ever After. It just doesn’t strike me as a likely chain of events.

I find it ironic that many of us attempt to build the foundation for these long-lasting, best-friend-for-life relationships with people with whom we have no basis for trust, no background except for the stereotypes we create when we see them for the first time—Actual. Total. Strangers. And while I certainly have my share of friends who have had successful dating experiences with these truly random people, I find that my long-sought path to mental and emotional intimacy might be paved easiest when I have something on which to build: the commonality of a mutual friend or employer, a previous conversation online, an exchange of emails—any minute insight into a personality is much more helpful to me than hoping that drunk-ass disco vibrations are going to get me into a fantastic relationship.

In an ideal world, it seems as though the best ingredient in a solid significant other is to have a strong friendship already prepared, aged, and ready for some extra spice. If you already share secrets, vibe with each other’s humor, and like being around one another, then why look elsewhere for anything better, let alone a complete stranger? The foundation’s been built; it’s just about building on top of that base.

It seems like such a no-nonsense, easy solution. But I have two problems:

(1) I don't have gay friends that I see with any regularity. After graduating college, I relocated to Texas, where most of my friends are straight. Don’t get me wrong; I love them… I just can’t fathom being the gay man in a straight relationship. My gay friends, on the other hand, have set roots on either coast, leaving me straddling the center-divide in Bush country, and well—I’m interested in neither Bush nor bush.

(2) The friends that I do have are my rock and my family. And I don’t have a lot of gay friends or family, so I don’t want to risk losing them. I won’t lie: I’ve crushed on a best friend before. Who hasn’t? One time, I actually had the courage to confess my attraction to one of them, and—among other things—it resulted in awkward conversations, months of silence, and ultimately, missing out on someone’s friendship during an important time in my life. I can’t imagine going through that again, so I’d probably go the coward’s emotionally-wrought route if he didn’t seem like he would return similar feelings for me.

I’m a risk-taker at heart. I jump off planes and bridges, pine for the thrill of roller coasters and bounce around the country (and the world) from opportunity to opportunity, all to squeeze the most out of life and my future. And although I can push myself to do all these things, I can’t quite take the same risks when it comes to love: I shy away from meeting strangers at bars or clubs, and I can’t bear the thought of putting a friendship on the line. So where does this leave me? Is the answer to grow more balls? To not be so dependent on current friendships? To learn to grow relationships in a dark, smoky, beer-damp funhouse of throbbing club music? Hopefully not. Flowers can’t grow that way; neither can I. There’s gotta be another way to my dorky, five o’ clock shadow-wearing prince with a groove—one without the unfortunate after-taste of smoke and booze stew.

(...to the full post)

New Beginnings

Although it took me a long time to even peek out the closet door at nineteen, it took less than a year for me to bravely swing it wide open. Three years later, the only thing keeping me from demolishing the closet altogether is the fact that I’ve yet to sever my gay umbilical cord and tell my parents. But for all intents and purposes, I’m out and about, and most importantly, comfortable with it, and deep down, I have a feeling that my parents are just playing the family version of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell anyway (walk-in closet game piece sold separately).

Have an English lit class analyze my seemingly successful coming-of-age story and they might brand it as the ABC Family rendition of Joy Luck Club meets Ally McBeal, an episodic and neurotic lesson-by-lesson play-by-play detailing an Asian immigrant’s post-adolescent metamorphosis in the Great White Way that is Gay America. However, unlike that winning pitch for a television series (copyrighted as of now, thank you), I have a feeling that my dive into the U.S. of Gay does not represent—or is even attractive to—the majority of my peers in the gay community… and it’s not just the fact that I’m uncomfortable in Abercrombie and Fitch or any Rodeo Drive establishment that might con me into buying a white t-shirt for more than $100. For me, the essential part of being a homosexual man is not the fashion or furniture choices I make, what music or musicals I listen to, or my ability to perfectly style my hair even if I’m just going out for a jog. I’m homosexual because I like men and I want to be with men; thus, I believe that my value in the gay community is measured in—what else?—the currency of men.



Don’t get me wrong: I don’t want to imply that my value as a gay man is equal to my level of promiscuity, that my shares in GLBT and Company triple every time I get to third base. When I speak of the currency of men, I’m thinking in corporate lingo: I have to use factors that are measurable and quantifiable. I’ve got to cross-reference my data: how many men have I been with versus how long have I successfully been with each; how many of them have approached me versus how many of them I’ve sought on my own; and how many I’ve broken up with versus how many have parted ways with me. In short, if my value is measured in the currency of men, I’ve got to examine my dating history with a microscope... although, in my case, maybe I should be using a magnifying glass. My dating history is, well, already microscopic. If there were a Board of Review for gay dating, I’d have the following brief (aptly named) to place before the chairman and his officials:

• 2004 / For three weeks, dated a college senior fraternity boy for three weeks; for the first time, went on a date and made out with a boy (place appropriate squeal here)
• 2004 / For a five week summer fling, dated a twenty-three-year-old Catholic School teacher; was naïve enough to crown him with the inaugural title of My Boyfriend, which enabled him to swipe my V-card before we split
• 2004 / For a few weeks, dated a Young College Republican until it seemed like he was a bit of a hermit... and I am one of the most anti-hermits you’ll ever meet
• 2005 / Went on a few fun dates with the twenty-two-year-old manager of a Sprint store before having to end my summer internship and consequent fling
• 2006 (yeah, that was all for 2005) / After having graduated college, went on a few dates with a player of a college junior who became the second person to swipe the V-card before ending almost all communication
• 2006 / While visiting my family for Christmas, had a week-long winter affair with a friend of a friend that, of course, had to end once I went back to my post-college job away from home
• 2007 (thus far) / For fifty days, dated a guy who was the closest thing I had since 2004 to being crowned My Boyfriend; we broke up because of several long-run dealbreakers that began to surface early in our relationship

And that’s all I have to show for my more than three years of being out: a handful of failures attributed both to personal obligations and mistakes. Whereas one of my closest friends just went on two dates each with two different guys last week. Whereas the guy who almost could’ve been My Boyfriend got a number at a grocery store parking lot last week. Whereas one of my friends with whom I danced the night away this past Friday was approached by five different guys in a matter of hours. And then there’s me—over three years, there have been a total of seven male figures in my dating history... and altogether, they make up just few months of my out-of-the-closet time. My gay value: Low. And I’m not too happy about that.

But I want to change that. I’m finishing this first column of mine just a few hours into Easter Sunday, and I don’t mind transcending my general irreligiousness to latch onto the symbolism of the occasion: This is a time for new beginnings—and part of the Perfect Twenties that I want to mold for myself is eventual success in the Department of Romance. So now that Lent is over and I can let myself access internet downloads again (as a huge music fan, believe me—it was a challenge), I’m going to make a new commitment: This time around, I’m not waiting for someone to approach me, to kick start a rise in my gay value, and raise my stakes in more ways than one. Change never came passively for the slaves, women’s suffrage, or the Emancipation of Mimi; change means realizing that something can be better and that it’s possible to act in order to better it. So I’m not just going to stand there; fuck, I’m a man who likes men—I’m going to use the cajones I’ve got and whatever it takes, I’m going to do the man thing and put my man self out there.

And by the way—you’re coming with me.

(...to the full post)