I owe some of you an apology. After “l(i)sbian” (my intentional alteration of a ridiculously common misspelling of the word for women who dig other women), the most common words entered into search engines that in turn list my site are, in tandem, “HIV” and “dating”.
Now, each time one of you stumbles upon the Campfire in hopes of, I don’t know, personals, advice, testimonials, etc, I feel like a gay boy version of Linda Hunt. You see, I haven’t really been dating. I think I may have entered “dating” as a keyword for Yahoo or Google when describing my site, but you have to understand that I imagined my newly-single life would be peppered with various social invitations, parting glances, dance card vacancies, and back-seat fumblings. A self-fulfilling prophecy, if you will. But you won’t.
I’m not ugly. I can carry on a conversation. I’m on somewhat familiar terms with midweight dumbbells (hah! aren’t we all?). I have a job, a dog, a checking account, deodorant, new shoes, and a quiet yet charming personality. I can drive a stick shift. I don’t dance like a white boy.
I tested positive a little less than a year ago. I’ve been on three dates since then; the most recent was two months ago. All lacked a certain spark. And given the year I’ve had, my Members Only baggage may have seemed a bit cumbersome to the casual observer. Not that I called them again, either.
I’ve had some challenging times lately. Because there were many mornings when I preferred a dark bedroom and Tomb Raider 3 over getting up and taking a shower, my health care professional seemed to think I needed a little, shall we say, assistance. Other people call them drugs. Little pills that, after weeks (and weeks) of patience, whipped the grey veil from my head so that I could see the world a little more clearly. I’ve tried many varieties, alone and in combination: Prozac, Paxil, Serzone, Wellbutrin, Remeron. I’ve discovered that the most effective pills also chip away at my poor libido. During Major Life Changes, this wasn’t really a bad thing. Putting “horny” on the back burners was liberating. That way I didn’t wind up in disgraceful situations with questionable characters. At least, not as often. Don’t get me wrong; when those three boys got naked (individually, of course), I quickly got naked too. Everything functioned just fine.
I have moments, though, where from this vantage point I can look around me, and see how sex makes the rest of the world go ’round. And sometimes I feel left out. And I wonder if I’m out of the game. But then I’ll be ordering dinner at a restaurant with some friends and a studly shaved-head boy with big dark eyes and a Harley t-shirt will walk by and look at me for a second longer than necessary, and it quickens my pulse, stops my breath, stirs the nerves south of my stomach.
It’s actually pretty refreshing. My libido doesn’t demand more than it’s fair share of time and energy. When I see a hottie, I know he’s a hottie, not a Plastic Boy disguised as a hottie. I have patience. I’m walking around with this faith. Can you believe it? I just know I’ll be all right. It’ll happen again. I don’t develop bloodshot eyes and carpal tunnel syndrome from “five more minutes” chat room visits anymore. I don’t waste away in a club with an overpriced cover, and I don’t have fleeting encounters that leave me vaguely disapponted. I have this crazy idea that if I just continue living my life, I might run into someone interesting.
Which doesn’t bode well for those of you thinking I have something to say (or show) about dating. No gratuitous nudity here. I have a simple life; adjusting to loss, cleaning up the past, forging friendships. I don’t know if I have enough to give someone else yet, but I’m not worried. It’s coming. Or he is. So to speak.