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| Non-selfies are photographed by my beloved friend, Kelson Tan. |
♥
As you know by now, because I mention it all the time, I am gay, and I love dicks.
I love caressing them gently with my fingers, staring at it as it hardens, sucking it as
blood continues to gush in, filling up its flaccid vessels... and ultimately, watch as it
explodes into sheer euphoria, glee, and ecstasy in the form of milky, white remnants.
In my sordid past two years of dating, I was one of those boys who had lots and lots of
“online boyfriends" (some may refer to the word "fling"), not all at the same time but
you could rely on me to have a constant stream of horny Tinder matches one after the
other. Then I had my awful experience with a guy that ended badly in the past February.
He was a Persian. Handsome. Built. Good sense of humor. Studies engineering. And most
importantly, a beautiful dick. Being a self-proclaimed bisexual (ps: he might be a gay
with internalized homophobia — more on that later), he absolutely despises gay people
and would often tell me "oh, I'm NOT gay". As any normal twenty-something-year-old
Tinder matches (no matter queer or straight) would do, we said hi, asked each other
some default questions like "where do you live", and eventually exchanged faceless
nudes after making sure neither of us was computer-generated artificial intelligence.
In the beginning, we hit it off instantly and would text each other every day (if not
every other day), before he slowly disappeared into thin air after 2 months. When I
double-texted my way into a reply from him, the conversation was off. Short, clipped,
shallow. He was no longer the same guy who was texting me. In my mind, it was over.
I've always had this sense that: great things are lost in our gaps in understanding.
As a child, I struggled to find my voice. Now, I have this compulsive need to make
sure others understand me very clearly — and often feel frustration, guilt, shame or
embarrassment if I think they don't. When a spark died seemingly the moment my
former flame saw inside my life, there was that compulsive need to correct: Was I
doing something wrong? Was he misunderstanding who I was? Did I not get the courtesy
of a request for clarification before the subtle, nearly-imperceptible-at-first slow fade?
Understanding others, and being understood, feels like I'm preserving something
— a sense of self, a relationship, a memory, an idea. But perhaps I try too hard.
Is it my job to take responsibility for someone who never asked to understand?
When I recounted the Tinder story to my friend, she pointed out how frequently
I jump to conclusions without all the necessary facts to draw them — particularly in
dating, as I wade into intimacy, reveal myself little by little and gauge reactions. In
dating, when intentions are often veiled anyway, you rarely get full and accurate stories,
and you almost never know a person well enough to grasp their patterns in response.
My internal monologue is often, Omg
something is wrong with me; maybe I
should fix this, instead of, he doesn't
get me; he's flaky; it's time to move on.
Boy oh boy is dating in your 20s different from navigating love in the playground?
This post, in its full-shocker glory (lols), is an honest conversation between you and me
about what really went down in my dating experience, as a twenty-something-year-old,
as a millennial, and as a queer. Dating and having sex, no matter straight or queer, is a
much bigger, complex subject than all of us would've originally envisioned in our tiny
little brains. You would've thought: Nah it's not THAT difficult. You have crushes, if it
was reciprocated then one person would ask the other person out. The askee would
then reply 'yes' or 'no' and if the answer was a yes you were officially "going out",
until maybe a few months later when someone sends you a "you're dumped" text.
Someone would just say, 'I think we should just be friends' and the other person
will just say 'okay' and then everyone will go their merry way. Maybe some tears.
But when you're in your 20s things are a bit more complicated.
There are so many different kinds of romantic/sexual relationship
you can have with people and not everyone is always on the same
page. Dating, seeing each other, having a fling, casual, friends with
benefits, one-night stand, in a relationship, exclusive, open...... etc.
Relationships move so much faster now. Making out for hours just isn't
doing the cut anymore — before you know it, someone is naked and sticking
his penis inside you, telling you how much he loves you when both of you know
it's a damn lie. I do think that everyone feels rushed, like sex is something to get
over and done with. But actually waiting and taking your time can be just as exciting,
sensual and satisfying — something I wished I didn't have to learn from my own mistakes.
"sTrAiGhT-aCtInG gUyS oNlY, tHaNk YoU."
I was once in a conversation with a Tinder match whom I deemed as a potential
husband material (purely based on looks), and of course, it all went down the
fucking drain when he typed this. The conversation was screaming all kinds of
red flags since the beginning. He was asking me if I'm the "soft type" of gay, if
I'm a "sissy" — all sorts of disrespect in all the possible ways you could think of.
This moment had such a profound impact on me, because it wasn't until
this exact moment that only I realized just how much misguided ideas and
internalized homophobia have been held on by even people from the LGBT
community itself, about what it means to be a gay man — the "right type" of
gay whom is only "date-able" and deserving of love, affection and attention.
"There seems to be an obsession to be the 'right type' of gay and that's
just pure bullshit to me." My infuriated reply hung out there, extended
in that blue bubble. One second. Two. Three. When the ellipses didn't pop
up, I collapsed the phone display and dropped the device into my pocket.
I did not hear from him later that night.
Or the next day. Or the next week.
Or forever. And honestly I'm glad.
I found myself always doing the sensible thing, making the safe choice,
keeping quiet until I was sure of what I had to say, and writing things
down, in my head or on paper, before I speak them out loud. I did well
in school. I graduated on time. But have I truly lived a life that I'm proud
of? I am a feminine gay, and I love being feminine and masculine both at the
same time. I should not be fretful of how that would make me undesirable in the
eyes of other people, and neither should you. I was a scrawny and bookish little
boy, and because I didn’t quite fit in, I identify with Disney heroines Belle and Ariel,
who were outcasts in their own ways. I would sit in my room for hours, reading and
making up stories and casting myself in lavishly imagined adventures. I had no idea that
these things would code me as queer in the eyes of other people. I was called “sissy”
when I was still in primary school, before I even knew what the word meant, and long
before puberty hit me like a bus called Priscilla and brought with it the first inkling that I
might like boys. When I later came out as a gay in my 20s, I almost immediately became
preoccupied with being the “right” kind of gay. Moderating my own behavior became
second nature, and that habit followed me into adulthood. Was I being too loud? Too
effeminate? How was I standing? What should I do with my hands? Even dating other gay
men, I would feel this impulse to tone myself down, to put on a rather weak show of
perceived manliness, assuming that would be what they found most attractive.
As the unwitting architect of my life, I built it like a swaddle — a blanket
wound firmly around the decisions I've made, a perfect mold for the person
I thought I would always be. I built it to hold me still, to keep my feet planted
exactly where I am. I built it to weather change, to withstand all the external
uncertainties that might seep through and drown my sense of stability. After
YEARS of indulging in the misplaced frustration that nobody was seeing me
the way I wanted to be seen, or asking me the questions I wanted to be
asked, it occurred to me that I was the one who had fanned out the
clues to a new self, only to hold them against my chest like a cryptic
deck of cards. I've started to wonder if, up until now, I conflated
doing the same thing and making the same choices over and over
again without having myself figured out. We repeat stories about
ourselves to make sense of our worlds. The stories I've always told
about who I am — that I have to look a certain way to be happy.
I want to feel understood, but first I have to understand myself.
I know I don't feel out of place because my life has changed, because
I built it to hold me still. I built it to keep my feet planted exactly where I am,
so when I took a step forward, when the person I thought I would always be suddenly
wasn't, when I cracked the mold and asked what other stories I might tell about myself,
the life I made so carefully looked strangely small. And yet, as confusing as it all seems,
as disorienting as it feels, a curious thrill pulses in my chest. With a thud, it tells me I
can't unknow what I know now, but I can give myself permission to chase growth over
stability, to hold lightly to the things I thought I wanted, to unwind the swaddle and lay
myself bare. With another thud, it places words on my tongue, a kind of surrender,
like a lozenge dissolving: I am the architect of my life, and I am no longer unwitting.
♥
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