“We’re not having sex though.”
I invite men to my apartment and find myself robotically repeating this refrain.
The last few weeks, I’ve been on more than a few dates. Some of those dates have involved men coming to my apartment after a couple drinks.
But every time I invite them over, I find myself issuing this defensive refrain.
“We’re not having sex though.”
I don’t know what feelings it really comes from. Part of it might be fear. Part of it might be trying to assuage their fears. Part of it might be establishing boundaries. Most of it is probably trying to preempt the *expectations* too often controlling this community and modern dating.
For a horde of reasons, LGBTQ+ people live in a world where other people, and sometimes we to each other, define us by our sex lives. I know “going home” with someone and it’s allusion to sex is not an exclusively queer issue. That expectation exists for straight people, too, but it’s more powerful for us. Many of those same straight people see us as little more than creatures of the night.
I am usually the first person to defend the queer community when it comes to sex. There is nothing heteronormative people love more than to objectify us as sex-driven monsters who are trying to destroy the foundations of society.
Yet that’s part of why I, myself, have refrained from talking about sex in this column. I’ve often thought about what people will think — what employers will think — if they stumble across these writings and think, “Oh, he’s writing about sex. He’s talking about sex. Is he professional enough to work for us?”
That’s the terror and problem of American society. We live in fear of sex despite it being part of our daily lives. It’s nothing unique. Many European cultures demystify it to the point of banality.
But, then again, I live in that American society submissive that to fear. I think about how the queer community has been influenced by that fear. Decades ago, and today, we sought sex as a form of connection because that’s all we had fucking left. (Fucking, used, of course, in a nonsexual manner here.)
Forced into the shadows, the LGBTQ+ community found connection, found intimacy in whatever way it could. Sometimes that meant the bathrooms of movie theaters, or bathhouses, or the alleys of cities.
And decades into the future, I find myself living with the consequences of the actions of people far beyond those like me. The sexualization of queer people has nothing to do with me, or anyone like me who has ever been. It has everything to do with people who searched for reasons to hate us when none existed.
So there I found myself sitting at a bar, offering to the person I’m with to come back to my place because it’s nearby, and much quieter than where we are. Yet I felt this impulsive reaction to reassure them — and maybe myself — that “we’re not having sex.”
Mom hates it when I bring boys home on the first date anyway.
Someone told me this week that parents, when they have a son, only have to worry about one dick. When they have a daughter, they have to worry about every dick.
The comment, largely meant for women, helped me understand where Mom is coming from. Before I came out, she didn’t have to worry.
After Reid, she’s deeply distrustful, understandably, of whatever man who seeks to feign interest in me. Safety wise, yes, it’s probably best to leave visiting my place for a second, or even third, date.
I live in a confining dread: If I don’t show a man that I care about them a lot, in a significant way, soon enough, they’ll disappear. It’s like living in The Bachelor franchise. If I don’t figure out a way to both bare my soul and seem chill at the same time, I’ll never find love.
I don’t actually believe that’s how it’ll turn out. That’s just how it feels at times. I’m wandering through this maze of insanity, wondering what will get a man to respond, what will get them to get drinks with me, what will get them to go on a second date with me, a third date, be my boyfriend.
I’m stumbling through compromises wondering if it’s worth it. Like saying I’ll chat with a Hinge man on Instagram because that’s what he prefers over texting, even though all of the social media apps drive me insane.
At least it isn’t SnapChat is what crosses my mind as I give in.
Maybe that’s what I’m thinking most about, what is and isn’t a compromise. Or what is and isn’t worth a compromise.
In two cases recently, when I offered to these men to come back to my place, it was because they had expressed to me social anxiety/discomfort with more crowded spaces.
Both of them had mentioned this in advance. At some point, I brought it up as the conversation lulled, figuring a change of scenery would recharge the conversation.
In one case, it didn’t. He’s surely ghosted me. I also don’t fully understand why he came to my place anyway. Seeming distant at times at the bar, I wonder now what he thought was going to change about sitting on my couch. Nothing really seemed to change when he was there.
He had offered to go for a drive. I suggested my place. Maybe the drive would have put us in a more intimate space. I don’t know.
Based on what I heard about his driving skills, I was probably better off without the joyride.
In the other case, it allowed us space to breathe, to talk in a more casual atmosphere.
Both judged my comment, “we’re not having sex though.” Not because they wanted to, but because the thought was ludicrous to them.
That’s another frustration, in a world where outsiders are constantly judging us, looking to control our lives, why are queer people wasting their lives thinking reprehensibly of each other?
There’s nothing that irritates me more than queer people acting like they are above it all — feeding into the same toxicity that created “preference” to euphemize discrimination.
My boundary wasn’t one to be dismissed derisively. It wasn’t a nonsensical statement of defense. Cavalier to dismiss it as an inane thought.
With the latter man, who was recently out to his family, I give more grace for not understanding where I was coming from.
With the former, his response said a lot, filled with contempt, as if he would ever be associated with an assumption so beneath him, something I have no patience for.
Other people I’ve been on dates with didn’t seem to have the same worries. I went to the apartment of one man last Wednesday. His suggestion. No mention of sex and no mention of no sex.
I had Kirsten keep an eye on me through Find My Friends, just in case he turned out to be a psychopath. He wasn’t. There was never any mention, or even feeling, of sex. Hell, we barely even touched each other. Sitting across the couch. We went through a strange range of 20 questions, as he peppered me with one inquiry after another.
Quote of the Week
After barely half an hour at this boy’s apartment, he wasn’t feeling well. I left.
It’s a cruel thought, questioning his reasoning, but I haven’t heard from him since. Nine days later, I wonder if my suspicions were correct.
I’m not afraid of sex. I’ve been on PrEP for years, minus a few weeks at a time when I have to yell at my insurance company to approve it. HIV isn’t really a concern.
That level of intimacy is definitely more intimidating, but I’m not necessarily afraid of that either.
There’s an element, I’m fighting with, of living through the imagined expectations of others, or trying to ensure other people that I’m *not like* those other people inviting them to their apartments.
I’m both setting the boundary I want, while performing the same judgment I despise. I’m lost in a minefield of trying to leave space for queer people who want to do it all while trying to set boundaries for what I want.
More than just my Love Story
Ask Amy: The man I’m dating still keeps text messages and photos from a woman he used to date. (Cleveland.com)
Yikes: My Epic, Embarrassing, Shockingly Successful Ploy to Get My Friend a Date Using A.I. (Slate)
This makes me want to scream: Are You A ‘Beige Flag’ In The Dating Scene? (Yahoo! News)
Catholic group spent millions on app data that tracked gay priests. (Washington Post)
Note: The names of the people in my columns have been changed to respect their privacy — and to allow me to spill a bunch of tea about them without remorse.