I have an aversion to the holiday season. Guilty as charged. I dread annually the changing of the guard in retail from Halloween to Christmas, as it is the first real sign of the anguish that lies ahead.

To some, my repugnance of the joy of Christmas is beyond comprehension. For many, it is an eagerly anticipated time to spend with friends and family, to exchange gifts and get drunk and laugh and be thankful for all the ways in which the heavens have smiled upon them with good fortune. For others, Christmas is a harsh reminder of their shortcomings, and acts as a giant mirror to reflect back onto them all the things they wish they had or could have been.

For me, it is neither – but rather, is the one time annually where my normally buried weakness is subject to highly undesirable exposure. Ironic that the one week of the year that everybody is supposed to feel happy and loved, is the one week that I always feel most alone. And I get the distinct feeling that I’m not the only one.

Throughout the rest of the year, it’s easy to paint a picture different than what may lie underneath. You can submerge yourself in work, school, play – planning vacations or concert trips or casual sex – going to the gym, baking a cake or whatever the hell you want to fill your days with. However, when the snowflakes start to fall to the sleepy sound of Christmas carols, and the families gather ’round the fire and a cup of cheer, the absent aspects of your life become glaring obvious and impossible to ignore. Suddenly, that elephant you keep hidden in the closet all year round, comes barging on out, doused in gasoline and heads straight for the fire.

Suffice to say, I have never been in a relationship around Christmas or New Year’s Eve, this past holiday season excluded, even though by the time the season rolled around, it was pretty obvious that the road was coming to an end. I have yet to scream ‘Happy New Year’ and plant a kiss on the lips of somebody who makes me unconditionally happy. Someone who I could picture myself ringing in the next ten, twenty, thirty of more years with. There’s been nobody whom I would rather curl up in a blanket on the couch and hide from the snow with. There’s been no feeling of complete and total contentment with my love life and, by extension, with myself, around the holidays – and, as a change of pace from the rest of the year, these sentiments are able to be unwrapped without whacking first.

I think that Christmas will forever be the ultimate barometer for me and my relationships. There’s an old saying that sex is the gauge for what’s going on in a relationship, but let’s be realistic here – we have sex with strangers, so who are we to use sex as a judge of anything? No, for me, it’s the holiday season. if the weather outside is frightful, and yet you help make me feel less afraid – I think we could be onto something.

In a way, I guess I just find it a little backwards that the time of year when most people feel most complete and content, is the same span of time in which I feel the most incomplete and unremarkable. I keep busy otherwise, devoting my time to countless projects designed to not only entertain, but also to give myself amnesia when it comes to my loneliness, but when everyone around you is exploding with happiness out of every possible orifice, it becomes more than just a little difficult to casually brush it aside.

Perhaps, some day, I’ll develop the strength of character to successfully hide my feelings, even during Christmas. Or maybe, I’ll grow as a person to the point where I will no longer feel the inadequacies I presently undergo. Who knows, I could conceivably meet the perfect man for me with whom to pass the holidays in the bliss that the general populace and Hollywood have trained me to want for myself. But whatever the case may be, and under whatever circumstances, I just hope that the growth is positive, that I am stronger because of it, and for fuck’s sake, that there’s no mistletoe anywhere near this ho ho ho all fucking Christmas.

Ding, dong, merrily on high? A boy can only hope.

I wrapped my sweater a little more snugly around my sides this morning as I approached my front door, dodging the falling autumn leaves, who, far too soon, will be replaced by dancing flakes of snow. My location has changed, my mindset has been altered, and the seasons are turning, yet even with each ending and beginning, too numerous to name or celebrate or grieve, certain things just refuse to budge. As surely as I know that winter is lurking around the corner, he has returned to me once again, and his timing couldn’t be worse.

These days have been exciting times for me. My feet have planted in my new locale, and I’ve begun to dig in my roots and explore a little, on solid footing, for once. With my new city as my shiny new oyster, I basked in the bliss of being an unknown – flying under the radar, the mysterious stranger from a far off land. I could walk into a room full of other gay men, and nobody knew my story already. No one could rattle off a list of people I’d slept with, why me and my ex-boyfriend broke up, who had a crush on me, all of the things that plagued me at home no longer applied – I knew hardly anyone, and I had a clean slate, plain and simple.

Before long, I had stumbled across what all parties involved widely considered the ‘gay holy grail’. Tall, dark, handsome, funny, kind, talented in the kitchen (not to mention other rooms of the house, as well), and, simply put, everything you could ever want in a man, and more besides. I experienced one of those moments of insecurity that I’ve heard others talk of before – the ‘why me’ syndrome. By no means do I have any self-esteem issues, in fact I generally have it in excess, but once it became clear that this guy had taken an interest in me, it seemed almost surreal. Too good to be true, and for the first time in memory, I almost felt slightly out of my league. However, I was humbled and definitely up for the challenge, and thus instead of curling up into a ball and dying amongst my self-doubt, I took it as a chance to step up to the plate and actually strive to be on top of my game.

And then, horror of horrors. Right on cue enters the one who not only threw me off my proverbial horse, but rather, shot my horse dead and then proceeded to beat me to the brink.

My happiness and elation over my new beau was torn apart like a typhoon passed through my coastal fishing village of love – suddenly, everything was turned upside down and I was left to flail around in a contained panic – what do I do? How do I react? Is it possible to contain the situation before it erupts completely?

I’ve learned that I am the definition of safety for my ghost of relationship past. Whenever there is a crisis or major development in his life, after which he needs to regroup and be steadied, I am the proverbial rock to which he returns for comfort. He knows that I am always here for him, that I have yet to let him down, and, to a certain extent, he also knows that things between us could potentially be drastically different had he not so royally fucked it all up. Thus, whenever there’s a storm on the horizon, he comes running to me for shelter – and, like a fool, I allow him to. The trouble comes along when you consider the fact that he has, and always has had, the opposite effect on me and my stability. To him, I am the calm sea after passing through the hurricane. To me, he is the hurricane, and I fumble around in the waves hoping for the occasional eye.

Thus, the entire situation is thrown into jeopardy. I am on the cusp of complete and total euphoria as far as men are concerned with the beautiful new model/chef boyfriend, and the whole thing is up in the air simply because my old beau is back dropping hints of remorse for the pain he caused me more than two and a half years ago. The strangest thing of all is that it should be glaringly obvious what the proper course of action for me should be – I am able to recognize that I’d be a bloody fool to do anything other than give yesterday’s love the complete and total cut-off heave-ho, and focus all of my attention and effort towards soaking up as much of the holy grail as I can. And I don’t anticipate it making any sense, but it’s not quite so easy for me.

As strange as it may be, when yesterday’s love talks about relocating himself to my new city, with the intention in mind of very likely giving things yet another try – my knees go weak. I have difficulty breathing and my chest sinks through the floor – but not out of terror. Rather, it is out of pure and unadulterated hope that this will actually come to pass. He talks about coming up to visit me, and I want to squeal like a schoolgirl. Despite our history and his record when it comes to destroying me, I actually believe that he has grown by leaps and bounds since we parted the last time, and that with each passing day, he becomes more and more capable of being exactly what I need him to be.

But, I won’t hold my breath – until I have solid reason to think that his plans to relocate and start over are actually legit, and not just experimental banter, I’ll call off the holy grail cavalry. Until then, I’m going to cling onto my little tiny boat for dear life, and try to navigate this scarily rocky ocean we call love. I just hope that the ship doesn’t sink, altogether. I’m a good swimmer, but losing out on both would surely cause me to drown.

I can almost feel my spirits going up as the cocktails go down. One, two, three martinis later, and suddenly, the world aint so bad a place after all. Whenever my brain starts to run away on me, dragging my ass and my thoughts to unwanted places, I occasionally pull a Carrie Bradshaw, and attempt to stun it senseless with alcohol. Hey, whatever does the trick.

We all enjoy the thrill of the first date. There’s that electricity in the air that’s palpable, like humidity before a thunderstorm. It hangs around you the whole day, in anticipation of what’s inevitably about to take place. The slate is still clean, you dress yourself to the nines, and start pre-planning the things you’ll talk about, the jokes you’ll make, the emergency excuse in case the guy turns out to be a total creep – but still, time after time, the possibility that this guy might be ‘the one’ for you, keeps bringing you back to that starting block. On your mark, get set…hold up.

You hear people all the time, talking about how they enter a new dating scenario, ‘without any expectations’, or that they’re looking to date someone who is without expectations. I’ve often wondered what this statement means, exactly. By sheer definition, expectation is the same as anticipation – and, to the best of my knowledge, the point of getting to know somebody in a romantic context, is to bear in mind the possibility that you could wind up in a relationship with said person.

Obviously, the nature of dating is that not everybody you meet blossoms into a boyfriend. Some guys you meet, all goes well, and the natural progression of it all develops into a more prolonged, intertwined partnership. Also known as, a ‘relationship’. Some guys you meet, all goes well, but they’re lacking that certain je ne sais quoi – that spark of chemistry you simply can’t fake, which doesn’t make them a bad person, just maybe not right for you in the long run. They generally become known as something called ‘friends’. Some guys you meet, and when they ask if you’d like dessert after dinner, you find yourself thinking about how much more enjoyable it would be to throw yourself in front of a bus. Normally, they progress into something called ‘remember that time I went on a date with the guy who wore socks with crocs, talked about sushi for two hours, and offered me a ride home on his bike?’.

Like anything, in dating, you win some and you lose some. In my experience at the man slot machine, I’ve gotten plums at least a hundred times more often than the jackpot, and even after winning, my payout never did come. Sometimes, they like to tease you with the idea of having won something, only to reveal at a later date that your prize is dramatically different than it first looked when the screen lit up and the sirens started wailing. ‘Dream Men awarded may vary from those pictured’.

Therefore, I have to ask the question – if you are entering a dating scenario ‘without expectations’, then why are you dating? What is the point of going through the tumultuous motions of the courtship gauntlet, if you aren’t even after a prize, of any kind? Do people gamble simply because they feel like burning some money, or do they gamble out of hopes that they’ll win more? Do people put out resumes for sheer amusement, or do they want to get a call and a job offer? To me, dating and expectation go hand in hand – if you’re not looking for something or someone, and you don’t want to be in a relationship – then don’t bother! If romantic solitude is what you’re striving for, save yourself and your date the time and effort, and stay home.

Which, ultimately, is what I believe the people who legitimately aren’t looking for someone, do. Nobody creates a profile on an online dating service, goes on chat rooms, or courts others without expecting something. If we go out, and I’m not what you’re looking for, just tell me – I’m a big boy, I can handle it! But please, spare me the bullshit about how you ‘can’t live up to my expectations’, or that you ‘can’t give me what I want’, or that you’re ‘in a weird place right now, I’m not looking for a relationship’. If it’s sex you’re after, there’s even more people out there looking for that for dinner.

I don’t wager much on every guy I meet turning out to be my dream boat, but I enter every new potential situation with a mind that is open to the possibility of a repeat performance, but also well aware of the likelihood that my Prince Charming is still busy elsewhere. Maybe having dinner at the place next door, about to ready to throw himself in front a bus if those socks in crocs get any closer. It’s all one giant game of chance, which, maybe I won’t ever champion – but the excitement each time at what the first date might hold, beats the shit out of any expectation out there.

Can’t give me what I want? Sweetie, we’re only just on appetizers – you have no idea what it is I’m after.

There once was a time in which I was much more optimistic about relationships, love, and everything in that whole cornucopia of interactions with other members of the human race. That was, of course, until I entered the fray for myself and discovered that actually finding someone at least mostly human is an exhausting enough task all on its own. That’s not even touching on what happens after you’ve found one.

Ultimately, we are all perfectionists in our own right when it comes to love. We all have that ideal that we strive for in another, and then determine how people we meet measure up to that ideal. That bullseye is ever elusive, yet we all yearn for it anyway, and accept somebody who is ‘close enough’.

After all, in all likelihood, we will never meet that exact match for us, and even still, rarely is it considered that if you DO have a horseshoe up your ass and meet your Mr. Right, who is to say that you are his? Which, of course, would be the most torturous of all. You’d get the same sentiments out of dangling a filet mignon in front of a muzzled pitbull.

People have different sets of expectations and desires when they first enter into a relationship. It is impractical to believe that everybody wants the same amount of personal contact, intimacy, phone calls, instant-messaging, or progress, and the trickiest part is trying to juggle your personal needs with his, without making it known that you’re on differing pages. Nothing causes the alarms to sound more than even the slightest hint that you’re moving too fast, be it emotionally, or physically. So, you play it by ear, and choose your battles wisely and carefully.

For me, the biggest challenge in dating and relationships, is coping with the realization that the other has lost interest in you, just when you’re starting to ease off on the brakes and let yourself get into it. In my experience, I think I’d actually prefer to get rejected up front. Right off the bat, just rip the band-aid off and I’ll survive easily. At least then, you don’t know me, I’m still a stranger, and your judgment of me is likely based on my physical appearance or on our very light and insignificant banter. Again, I’m fine with that. But, it stings a little deeper when someone waits until they get to know you a bit better before they vote you off the island. I’m all about the superficial rejection, but this other kind is as pleasant as a root canal. Bruising and all.

It will never cease to amaze me how quickly some men can go from borderline infatuation, to complete and utter disinterest, seemingly overnight. One day, you’re getting a hundred texts and invitations to sleep over, hugs and kisses and cuddles and laughter, and then the next day, you initiate conversation and get one words answers, closed sentences, single ha’s and definitely no cuddles. What the fuck? Why does this happen? I think that my experiences in the dating world have taught me an awful lot about men, and I pride myself in having learned many of the most commonly asked questions about gay relationships, but this one is the ace in the hole that gay men everywhere have on me.

I mean, yes. In some cases, you can understand the sudden change of heart. For example, if one night you fall asleep with a guy  you’re all about, and then the next day, you wake up and everything in your house has been stolen, okay, do a 180. Or, if you show up at your boy’s apartment and are passed in the stairs by the guy he just finished fucking, perhaps some reconsideration is merited. But, in most circumstances, nothing at all changes. There is no earth-shattering event of major paradigm shift of the proceedings, and yet, poof – gay man gone. Glitter everywhere.

On occasion, I believe this to be happening, and in the end, it is revealed to be little more than my acute paranoia and skepticism I’ve acquired over time. Despite my prior experiences, I still have a rather surprising habit of being quite trusting, and of forming the beginnings of attachment perhaps a little faster than I would like. I panic that my neuroses will scare away everything with a penis in the long-run, and start to envision the rest of my life panning out alone and old and impotent and dead. It’s a horrible gauntlet of a process, I know. But ultimately, I’m waiting for that one guy who will come along and laugh at my insanity, tell me that it’s all okay, and take me off to bed to cuddle me to sleep without me having to explain myself.

I think that’s all anyone really wants, or craves. That feeling, of being wanted. No doubts or questions surrounding it, just clear, concise, and definite attraction. There is nothing more reassuring, not even your oldest and most favourite sweater can rival its comfort. I yearn every day to feel that I am desired by another living, breathing, emotionally competent at-least-half-human being. I had a taste of it once. Not quite, but a tickling of it on my tongue. I miss it gravely.

The theft, glitter, and doubt I can do without. Look past my crazy, make me smile, make me feel cute, and be good at spooning, and I’ll happily grow old (but not impotent) with you any day.

I recently packed up and moved myself off of my tiny little island in the ocean, and have taken up residence in a not-so-big but still big in comparison city. One would think that this would drastically change the scope of my writings, from my ‘gay sex in a small city’ angle, but alas, I’m rapidly discovering that gay men are simply gay men, no matter where they call home.

Not to worry, my dear readers. I am still very much as jaded as ever.

Stay tuned.

Despite my every effort, he still comes to me at night.

Anybody who knows me is aware of my fame as an insomniac. I don’t dislike sleeping – in fact, I enjoy slipping into my mini-comas every now and then, oblivious to phone calls, text messages, fire alarms…yet while most take solace in their slumber, when the Sandman comes and carries me off to Dreamland, far too often a van full of my ghosts comes along for the ride.

One in particular.

And thus, I sleep enough to function, most of the time, as to experience as infrequently as possible the cold reality that he isn’t there when I wake up.

It’s a little terrifying, how so much can change, yet such a great deal cannot be changed. There is no amount of conscious exercise that can force him out of my thoughts, out of my core, and especially out of my dreams. To sleep is to lose control over what one is thinking – and it exposes me to things that I would rather not experience, and would prefer not to relive. But again, I am not the dictator over the nightly performances, and therefore am unable to control the course of the play as I am when awake. At least now, I can push him out temporarily from time to time. I can submerge myself in my work, in a book, or in music, and he will subside for a time. His sunlight may be obscured by a cloud, but he’ll be back before long with a change in the wind.

It’s going on two years now since we last came face to face in a substantial way. We had recently mended things after one of our routine and hardly uncommon ‘big fights’, and thus while no longer screaming obscenities at one another, the tension between our personas was still palpable. Near the end, both of us were (are) rather fiesty, always right, and always with one hand on the lever that would unleash the lions. However, the explosion between us prior to our last evening had been more hurtful than some of the others, and I believe that we both had our doubts as to whether or not the bridge could be mended yet again. We were willing to try, though it remained to be seen whether or not this would actually come to pass.

In retrospect, that final night was unlike any other that we had spent together in the entire duration of our relationship-turned-friendship-turned-relationship, I feel because he and I both knew that we had reached the end of the road with one another. Our little beater-car of love, that had weathered so many storms and had brought us as far as it could, had finally broken down, and now it was time to leave it by the side of the road to rust. What I hadn’t been aware of was the shiny new car that he already had waiting to give him a lift, and that I was to be left to thumb a ride back to civilization with whoever would feel sorry enough for me to stop.

The conversation was empty, bordering on formal courtesy. Our banter and interactions with one another were hollow and polite. We had gone from being so intrinsically intertwined to complete strangers, and it had caught us both off guard. Suddenly, neither of us knew how to act towards or treat one another. It is a pathetic end to our story, not because of the style of its ending, but because we both had allowed and even oversaw its writing. It did us no justice, and without justice, it’s hard to sleep peacefully at night. When I left his place, I knew that there was no need to state that it was over, as we had said it without words. The contact stopped entirely and we haven’t spoken to one another since.

Now I find myself preparing to move half way across the country. I’m leaving my native province behind and looking to start anew, and yet all I can think about is how my last memory of he and I will be sitting together on his bed at a loss for words. I wrote him directly when my departure became official, asking if he could find the time to get together for a coffee or a drive or anything at all before I leave. That was several months ago now, and to date I have not received a response. Truthfully, I don’t think I had been expecting one, but I’ve spent every day since I hit ’send’ hoping for one, with all my heart. He played such a large role in my life here that I know leaving it on such a note will continue to haunt me, no matter where in the world I am residing.

Thus, I am riding out my dwindling days on this island, sleeping very little and counting down to my divorce from a place that has been my home all my life. And while, in one sense, the story of he and I remains painfully incomplete, it is becoming increasingly clear with each passing day, and with each passing hour of the sleepless night, that the chapter is, most definitively, closed.

Farewell and sweet dreams, my Rose. Be it in flesh or in sleep, I’ll be seeing you soon either way.

I believe I’m destined to be a sucker for punishment for the remainder of my adult life.

After all, I’m addicted to the stomach flip – that sensation that conquers you from the inside out, when someone you fancy fancies you, too, and shows it for the first time. I’m a junkie for that cool, tingling rush that pulsates through your body when you make that first contact on the dance floor. I crave that giddy excitement created by a returned phone call, or by that glorious initial moment of intimate eye contact. The kind that makes you smile with your eyes before your mouth.

If only there were a way to make all these sentiments survive beyond the start-up phase of a new crush. Over time, that feeling can be lost, and replaced with frustrated contentment and, potentially, emotional entrapment. I was always under the impression that relationships were supposed to strengthen with time. Fan the flames of your love with your familiarity and genuine compassion for one another. However, in my experience, one of us either gets antsy and unsatisfied, or just plain bored, and off we go again into the sunset in search of that lone cowboy who tosses stomachs around all day like a roller coaster.

I’ve burned in the past, and I’ve been burned more often than that. Yet through it all I continue to invest a considerable amount of my time and cognitive energy on my new potential leading men. Perhaps it’s unfair, for both parties, however, it’s how I’m programmed to function, and thus I automatically carry it out time and time again as though it were perfectly normal. I have a horrible habit for projecting these unattainable fantasies, where everything falls into place, and life is lived happily ever after. It usually doesn’t take very long for my nouveau beau to start chipping away at the base of his bronze statue, and before you know it, I end up being squashed by the weight of my own imaginary creation toppling down. Thus, obviously, after years of dating, I have not changed my ways to something more intelligent – like, for example, entering a dating scenario with a mind free of expectations, but rather, I’ve conditioned myself to simply look the other way instead, and hope that the shadow over me doesn’t grow any bigger.

It’s sad, really. I know that I’ve given up hope on many a good guy to date as a result of my own crazy mind working overtime like it’s Madonna’s personal gay shopper. It’s just one of those things that’s hard-wired into my brain, and can be tagged onto the end of the list of things that I would like to change about myself, but cannot. We all have ‘those things’, and therefore I expect you all to feel my frustration surrounding my desire to rectify this naughty habit, yet the changes never amount to anything more than a fleeting thought of ‘well, I’ll just know for next time’, which is dismissed within six seconds of the end of days and condemned to the dungeons of good intentions gone awry. In most people, I enjoy learning about their bad behaviors. I think they can be defining characteristics. Without our flaws, wouldn’t we all just be humans? Our world as we know it is built on the basis of making mistakes, and, in some cases, learning from them – but not all.

And I get so angry when I start falling for the other person faster than they are falling for me, and I can recognize the situation as it is, but am not capable of altering its course. I find it upsetting when I start clearing my schedule to make room in my life for someone who isn’t interested in occupying it. I feel sad when I make the effort to call or message or poke or visit, and yet am never called, messaged, poked, or visited, myself. Essentially, I don’t cope well with rejection, possibly because I’m used to succeeding at attaining whatever I work towards in every other aspect of my life. Even with people I take an interest in, I can always get the number, get the date. Holding onto them afterwards, while still clinging onto that excitement of the new is the part I need to work on.

Then, just when I’m about to give up hope, I’ll get a message. Or a poke. Some little gesture that probably means nothing from the other end, yet to me, completely resets the chess board, and it’s a whole new game all over again, taking it from the top. And I’ll create more drama and imagine situations of the person being ignored by my persistence, and, upon getting a response, the story will be changed from irritation to elation to hear from me, and I continue living in my little fantasy dream world where everything is going just as it should. The cycle continues until eventually we are a couple or we go our separate ways.

I’m addicted to that stomach-flipping, conquering, cool, tingling, rushing, smile-with-your-eyes-before-your-mouth ecstasy that comes with winning the attention of a new possible leading man. And plus, you never know – with all the drama surrounding me at all times, one of them might even eventually win an Oscar.

The medieval art of jousting may have gone out of style a long, long time ago, but its principles and purpose are still alive and walking among us every day. However, you may better recognize it under its new code name – the relationship.

The belief that all you have to do to be happy in a relationship with another human being is ‘be yourself’ is an urban legend emblazoned into us at an early age. If anything, co-existing with somebody in a partnership is a series of compromises, concessions, and alteration of mind-sets, opinions, and other fundamental things that constitute ‘who you are’, and modifying them to fit the mold laid out before you in the form of your chosen partner. Some cause us to do this more than others, but if you’ve ever had to bite your tongue or say one thing and mean another where your lover is concerned, then you’re just as guilty as all the rest of us. And should you be the wise guy to tell me that you’ve never once done that – well, I’m just going to outright call your bluff.

The struggle is never-ending – be it for intellectual or financial supremacy, personal space limitations, paint colour selection, or an ample amount of bedsheets. One thing after another, after even a relatively small amount of time, they begin to pile up until eventually, the straw that breaks the relationship’s back is an unwanted pickle on a cheeseburger. Suddenly, the lover’s blissful paradise becomes the River of Styx, and all parties involved are in for one hell of a ride.

The tricky part in all of this, is navigating the waters, and determining exactly when negotiation gives way to, frankly, incompatibility. Nobody is ever going to be on the EXACT same page as you in all facets of your life. In my own personal experience, it would seem that your beloved will always be reading at least one paragraph ahead or behind you. And which is more unbearable?

In my previous relationship, I was permanently the one playing catchup. He certainly kept me on my toes – challenging me not only emotionally, but also intellectually. We could have in-depth and involved conversations about socially relevant topics, whereby I wasn’t always the one who came out the debate victorious – which, I will admit, was something that I was previously unaccustomed to. We differed on a number of topics – style and fashion, mostly – and our outlooks on the world varied a little from day to day. However, on the fundamentals, we always seemed to agree. We were both educated, and in the process of furthering it. We had bona fide career and short-term goals that were achievable, and did what we could to motivate one another to the point of attainment. Ultimately, his eye wandered away from the page and into a completely different book, and that chapter closed. Abruptly.

Compare that, to now. I live with somebody who is considerably my senior, and yet I have more formal education. He hasn’t finished high school, has never voted in an election on any level, and sets goals that reach as far as the end of next week and quickly expire. I am forced to feel unintentional guilt on occasion for my ambition and accomplishments, and the debates I used to enjoy so much have eroded into tutorial sessions, with me as the tutor. I am always acclaimed the clear-cut winner due to a unanimous inability for the other part to respond – and I like that even less.

And yet, when it comes to his love for me, there cannot be any questioning it. I’m told regularly, verbally, through the phone or with a bouquet of flowers, everywhere I turn his unrequited love is smeared in my face like a whipped cream pie, and I feel like the worst person alive when the thoughts creep into my mind about how maybe, this isn’t working out. Maybe, I’m not happy, unsatisfied, and longing for something more. What that ’something’ is, I’m still not certain, but while me may still be reading the same book, he’s still stuck on the introduction, while I’m entering the final chapter.

Still, there has yet to be that definitive moment where I find it easy to walk away. Generally, some kind of drastic act is committed that paves the bridge to emotional relocation. A boyfriend cheats on you in your hotel room while on vacation. A boyfriend announces that he’s leaving the province for school. A boyfriend runs off and becomes a Furry, to fulfill his life-long fantasy of being a horny Japanese Akita being spanked by a pre-pubescent sexy kitty. Etcetera.

But no, such an event has yet to come to pass, and in the meantime, I’m trapped in this insomniac’s purgatory, out of reach of both heaven and hell, and rather, just existing in the meantime.

Women (and some men) dream of the day when Mr. Perfect waltzes into their lives in the most perfect of ways, sweeps you off your feet, and you elope to live happily ever after, ‘just being yourselves’. Everything is exactly as it should be, all is right in the world, and from day one, you could die happy just from having met the man. Well kids, I don’t believe that Mr. Perfect is out there. Never will the day come when you don’t have a laundry list of things you need to alter in order to ‘be yourself’ and be ‘happy’. People will tell you that true love is possible. And it probably is. But what they don’t tell you, is the rarity of the occurrence, and the amount of work involved when it does come along.

Save yourselves all the trouble of looking for the happily ever after. Get yourself a cat and call it a day.

Just make sure first that the kitty ‘aint sexy, or else everyone’s getting spanked.

The green ones to the gay community have a bad habit of giving themselves away far too early. They may be able to trick you for a little while, but there are always tell-tale signs that expose them for what they truly are – inexperienced, sex-charged ultimate virgin 9000’s.

Contrary to popular belief, kiddies – being of the same sexual orientation as another individual, doesn’t exactly spell out your storybook ending. Personally, I’ve encountered hundreds of other gay men, and I’m still waiting for that sure-fire Prince Charming and my happily ever after. I’m sorry if it crushes your dreams to learn that you probably won’t find your husband at the tender age of sixteen – that’s just how it is, folks.

I wish somebody would explain to me the logic behind these people who mentally construct a future with someone upon introduction, based on common-ground in which gender you prefer to copulate with. I’d understand if us queers were an endangered species, and finding one carried with it the same excitement and rarity as a winning lottery ticket – but boys, seriously, look around – there are plenty, and believe me, most of them you will have no desire to erect anything with, let alone a white picket fence.

When I was sixteen, I participated in a regional high school drama festival (note for the desperately alone: CRAWLING with fags), and it was there that I encountered an individual whom I’ll call Devon. We met in a workshop and were introduced by a mutual friend, and we shared a number of common interests – obviously we both enjoyed the stage, we were both abnormally tall, and we were both gay. However, as far as I was concerned, that was that – you can never know too many people.

That particular year I was struggling with high school math. Funny, to this day I still can’t find ‘x’, but I never seem to have any trouble finding ‘O’, which to me is FAR more relevant. Devon happened to be a strong math student, and offered to help me out prior to an exam – which, I accepted. Fast-forward a couple hours later, and we’re sitting on his couch, and he’s staring longing into my eyes with his hand on my leg, leaning in for that magical first kiss. Except, there was nothing magical about me packing up my books, running out the door and self-teaching myself in place of the imminent rape I managed to avoid.

From that point on, I learned to view forwardness and directness in a completely different light. If someone you barely know seems far too eager to help you out with something, chances are they are needy and desperate and rife with ulterior motives. Where this ‘I’m gay, you’re gay, let’s go out!’ mentality originates is unknown to me. Perhaps it’s personal insecurity, or a prolonged history of repeated rejection – which, I can’t help but think could be avoided if they’d just simmer the fuck down and slow up at the yellow light.

The laws of attraction still apply, and, like any relationship, compatibility is a far more complex equation than simply finding ‘x’. They are multi-faceted and complicated problems that simply can’t be solved by looking them in the eye – it requires a little more work than that. If not, why wouldn’t we just pool all the gay people together, pick a number, and ta-da! No more singles, no more dating, you’ve found ‘the one’. But where would the fun be in that?

Picture a happenin’ downtown club, filled with all kinds of guys and gals – when, out on the dancefloor, an eligible bachelor approaches a pretty girl, and says ‘are you straight?’. She says yes, and he replies with ‘me too, let’s get married and have a vanload of kids!’. Rather than planting a kiss, she’d plant her foot in his groin and serve him with a restraining order faster than a Peregrine falcon. Yet, comparable scenarios take place on a daily basis on the gay scene, and it perplexes me as to why.

I’ve throughly enjoyed the time I’ve spent testing the waters in search of someone right for me. I’ve found a few solid candidates, but for one reason or another, they’ve fallen off the radar. At the moment, I have one in the running, but even in the middle of a full-blown relationship, when we are living together and spending nearly every waking moment in each other’s presence, I still don’t know if he’s got what it takes to love someone like me ’til death do us part. Ultimately, it’s impossible to tell for sure, but you decide to go with the best possible choice. And for me, such a title doesn’t, and never will, come easily – and neither should it for you.

Of course, don’t you all set off in search of that perfect, dreamy mathematician to live out the rest of your days with. I don’t necessarily care if you can’t find my ‘x’ right off the bat – find my O first, and then we’ll talk.

Last weekend, probably three dozen queers gathered to march through the downtown, the grand finale to our Pride week – of course, the parade. Which, in a city this size, attracts fewer people than the pay phone at one end of the route, and the port-a-potty at the other. Despite being an active advocate for gay rights, I was not among the select few pounding the pavement, or even watching from the sidelines – Pride week came and went, and the only activity you would have seen me partaking in was a drink at our one and only gay bar – but truthfully, it was in the neighborhood, and the festivities were not the draw that led me in the front door.

I guess my stance is one that us gays aren’t ’supposed’ to take, but to this day, I’m still uncertain as to whether extravagant and flamboyant Pride parades help or hinder the advancement of gay equality, on any level – be it here in this city, this province, or even this country. We have the liberty of living in a laid-back, socially-oriented country, where there is very little that we collectively frown upon. Us gays can live together, be open about our sexuality, and even get married, all without the fear of prosecution or execution. Our country is the house on the block that always throws the big parties, and everyone is invited, regardless of their walk of life.

Which leads me to question why these marches and demonstrations are still necessary. Why have they lived on when all of the reasons for them to take place have been satisfied? There is virtually nothing in our institution as a nation that is no longer accessible to us because we are homosexuals – we have, more or less, reached parity with our heterosexual brothers and sisters, so why is it required that we continue to smear it like shit across their faces, and bleed via television into the living rooms of those who still hold on to the more conservative end of the values spectrum?

It is my belief that no one in the history of humanity was persuaded into thinking that us gays are just like every other human being, because we paraded down the street dressed like women, or wearing little to no clothes at all to draw attention to our cause? We have a reputation for going over the top, perhaps, but literally licking the faces off of each other, while waving a rainbow flag like it’s some kind of revolutionary symbol of victory only fanned the flames of the obstacles we have faced on the journey to recognition. Basically, we rebelled, and the government of our country played the part of the conceding parents, who essentially said ‘okay, you can have what you want’. And that was that. The end. We had won.

So, then, for what do these members of the gay community continue to march? Is it an appeal to our final few critics to just accept that we’re here to stay? Is it an attempt to instigate something new to fight over, since the abrupt arrival of our deus ex machina? Or is it simply an opportunity to prance around like a fairy and make a complete ass of yourself? The grand irony of it all is that, for years, our defense against discriminatory attacks was ‘we’re just like you – we are no different, we are entitled to the same rights’. Yet the message of pride parades and celebrations is ‘I’m so fucking excessively proud of the fact that I’m different! We are fundamentally different than the rest of the population and therefore I shall wave this flag!’. At one point does pride become hubris? At what point do we decide what to do with our cake now that we have it?

What would happen if, a couple months from now, a heterosexual pride parade were to take place somewhere in the country. There would be war! These same members of the gay community would cry wolf about prejudice, discrimination, straight supremacy, and everything else under the sun. Therefore, why is it okay for us to do it, but not them? When we do it, it’s a celebration of our rights – but if they were to do it, it would be an attempt to suppress them?

While ultimate equality maybe isn’t quite reached – we can still be called fags without consequence, screened out from a job selection process for being ‘too’ gay, and get glaring looks from the four thousand year-olds on the street – but these are the kinds of discrimination that everybody, regardless of their sexual orientation or background, will always face from members of our own genus family. There are some mentalities that we will simply never be able to persuade, and no amount of appeals or debates or parades will make a shred of difference. We can pound the pavement through to China, and not change one mind. Well, if we drilled through the earth with our bare feet, I hope we would snag at least ONE from the fence – but you get the idea.

Before I ever step foot in a pride parade, I will need to be convinced that they still have an important role to play in our ever-changing society. I don’t need to remind the world around me that I’m gay, or that gay rights deserve attention – these are statements that I make every day that I wake up, simply by leading my lifestyle that just so happens to be a queer one. Until then, I’ll avoid the procession altogether, and question why some of my brothers and sisters just don’t know when to shut up.

Far too much work and sacrifice, over too many years, went into baking this cake to overindulge and keep eating long after we’ve reached our fill.