One night in 1995, I went, alone, to a gay video-bar in Chicago called Sidetrack.
To the left of where I was standing was a group of men laughing and having a great time, and across from me were two men passionately making out.
Realizing I didn’t have either the group of friends or someone to make out with, I felt acute loneliness. I thought I might cry, and knew I had to get out of the bar as soon as possible.
Walking home, my thoughts rolled: “What do I need to go to a bar for, anyway? I don’t drink! So much attitude! I don’t get noticed! Nine times out of ten, I never meet anyone! I only wind up feeling sexually frustrated.”
Sexual frustration was the aspect I zeroed in on most, blowing off any emotional needs.
I’d recently had an eye-opening experience at a bathhouse, so decided “Screw it. If I’m just going to feel horny and frustrated after being in a bar, I won’t go anymore. I’ll just go to a bathhouse. Cut to the chase.”
I rarely set foot in a gay bar again.
16 years later, in 2011, men in a spiritual community I belonged to encouraged me to join them on a gay cruise to the Caribbean. I assumed a gay cruise would be nothing more than a “gay bar at sea.”
Given how rotten gay bars made me feel, my first reaction was, “Seven days on a ship with no way to leave if I’m miserable? No, thanks!”
However, I’d just spent a year examining negative thinking and beliefs that might be interfering with my life. What if my perception of a ‘gay cruise’ isn’t true?
I’ll never know if I don’t go!
That thought was enough for me to decide to take the cruise.
Shortly after boarding the ship, a “bon voyage” party was held on the back deck. A man from my community, Nate, was introducing everyone to someone he’d just met. When he got to me, he said, “This is our friend, Paul. He’s a bit desperate.”
Nate was not joking. There was no “wink.” This is what he thought of me. I felt like I’d been sucker punched.
“Where did you get the idea I’m desperate?,” I asked.
“You told us, two weeks ago at the party,” Nate said, referring to a cruise planning party I’d attended.
At that party, a story was told about a couple who would be joining us on the ship. They met on the previous year’s cruise, fell in love, and one of them moved cross-country to live with the other.
After hearing the story, I said, “Pray for me, y’all.”
My intention was to be funny; cute. That’s the only thing I remember saying about the subject that night, and I certainly didn’t think I’d expressed desperation!
Nate obviously disagreed.
I was angry and embarrassed. Surrounded by guys out to have a good time, I kept my cool as best I could, but through gritted teeth, said, “That is not what I said.”
Still, that word — desperate — struck a nerve.
Beyond that moment and a rocky first 24 hours, the cruise was ultimately life-changing. The idea of a “gay bar at sea” was proven utterly wrong.
My time on the ship solidified the year-long work I’d done on my self-esteem. How and why are stories for another essay, but I don’t exaggerate when I say I boarded the ship one man, and de-boarded a different man seven days later.
I didn’t fall in love, but it didn’t matter. I felt certain the changes that occurred during this one week meant love was on its way to me back home.
To my surprise, the difficulty of dating, let alone meeting anyone special, remained confusing.
I’d done even more spiritual and emotional work, and, found deeper validity to the idea that how I think and believe affects my experiences. I felt more alive; “lightened up.”
So, why wasn’t love walking through my door? According to principles I was studying, I should be a magnet for it! I figured there must be something I’d missed or hadn’t dealt with. Given the intensity of my work, I couldn’t imagine what.
By March 2013, confusion over still being single led to a particularly dark night. I decided to go to a bathhouse, and in doing so, broke two rules I’d had in place since the ‘90s:
- Never go to a bathhouse when I feel bad about myself; and
- Do not engage in certain sexual activity.
With respect to breaking rule 2., I’ve never done drugs and don’t drink alcohol. My judgment was not impaired. I knew better than to do what I was doing, but did it anyway. I wrote it off as “I’m horny and need this.”
At one point, my sex partner and I looked into each other’s eyes. The intensity of the gaze felt more appropriate for authentic lovers than two people who didn’t know each other.
Here I was, doing this incredibly intimate thing, and I didn’t know who I was looking at. I wished I did, and felt the ache.
A “voice in my head” said, “Put the STD and HIV risks aside. What are you doing to your heart?”
With that, the sex was no longer sexy. I was “done,” but my sex partner didn’t seem to notice or care that I’d “checked out.”
An hour later, I got home and signed into Facebook. The first thing I saw was a photo of a gay friend I had a horrible pattern of comparing myself to. He was cheek to cheek with a man; both were smiling and the photo caption read, “It’s official!”
I wept instantaneously. Not cried; wept.
Comparing myself to this friend was the worst it had ever been. I thought, “There he is, announcing what looks like a healthy, vibrant new relationship and here’s me, having impersonal sex and making questionable choices while doing it.”
The weeping continued until I was so tired, I fell asleep.
Three months pass.
I awoke the morning of June 26, 2013 to the sound of cheering close to where I live. I went to my computer to figure out what might be happening.
I signed into Facebook and through an explosion of status updates and images of joy, learned that the Defense of Marriage Act had been struck down.
My coupled gay friends were excited that they could legally marry their partners; everyone else was excited for their gay friends. June 26th also happens to be my parents’ wedding anniversary.
Within a few moments, all of my “hot buttons” about relationships, partnership, marriage, love and sex were pushed. Usually those “hot buttons” were accompanied by stomach pangs or heartache fueled by jealousy and envy.
On this morning, I had none of that.
I could not feel anything.
The historic implications of the marriage ruling were completely lost on me, especially since the idea of me ever getting married was not even a sliver of a glint in my eye.
“This doesn’t affect me,” I thought.
I couldn’t relate. I felt indifferent; cold. I just didn’t care.
That scared me.
Feeling “nothing,” led me to feel something, but it was pain. “I can either feel nothing, or pain. Not joy. Not even for others. No matter how much work I’ve done to feel better about myself, something is still very wrong with me.”
I remembered a recorded conversation with one of my spiritual teachers.
I said to her, “I get on Facebook and see people expressing how happy they are when they’re in love, and this jealous, envious side of me comes out.”
“Then I say to myself, ‘Well, that’s why you don’t have a relationship; because you have jealousy and envy. Get rid of that, and you’ll have a relationship!’”
She asked, “Do you hear the punishment in that?”
I said yes, but I really didn’t.
I didn’t truly understand the ramifications of the word she used: punishment.
On the morning of June 26th, 2013, I finally connected the dot and deeply internalized what she meant.
My inability to be happy meant I was still telling myself things like…
‘I’m bad,’
‘I’m wrong,’
‘I shouldn’t feel this way,’
‘No wonder I’m still single,’ or,
‘I’m a whore who doesn’t deserve love.’
Self punishment.
I was due to begin another spiritual training class in the fall of 2013, which would require even more deep and intense “soul-searching.” I didn’t think I had it in me to go through it, and almost dropped out.
During the class, I had to write a paper identifying how my life got to be the way it is, based on what I believe about myself.
While writing, I flashed to Nate introducing me as “desperate” on the cruise.
Other flashes followed: settling for impersonal sex, my reaction to the friend announcing his relationship, June 26th, 2013, and, the night at Sidetrack in 1995.
I could now see, all of these memories were interconnected. In each circumstance, I didn’t merely feel lousy.
I felt desperate.
Desperate to be seen, wanted, loved.
I felt sucker punched by Nate’s “desperate” tag on the cruise because, “I’m desperate” is what I believed about myself, deep down; subconsciously!
I knew this had to be correct, because when people share opinions of me that don’t resonate with my own self-assessment, I don’t give them a second thought. They “roll off.”
As I continued writing, these words came through my fingers:
I want to “not be desperate” more than I want a partner.
This was a huge distinction; possibly the biggest shift in consciousness, or “breakthrough,” of my life!
I was so grateful for this “reframe.”
My envy towards people shouting their love from the rooftops dramatically subsided. Whenever I felt the slightest tinge of envy in my heart, I’d tell myself to “take a ‘big boy’ breath and move on.”
I believe people, gay or straight, could use this kind of insight.
If you want a relationship so badly — I mean really, really badly — ask yourself, “Why?”
If you see a friend flailing to be loved, ask them, “What is that about? Where does that come from?”
It’s likely rooted in a belief of “I am not enough.” That is where desperation lives.
I got better after my realization, but still had my moments. Sometimes, when I’d see people announcing new relationships on Facebook, I’d hit the “mute” button. I figured it was self-care until I could learn to be non-reactive in terms of jealousy or envy.
I’d question if “muting” or hiding any expressions of love was adding to the problem. So, before I “muted,” I’d take a good look at the photos or words.
Then I’d breathe, and say, “I’m happy for them.”
— — — — -
That was how I closed this essay in 2014.
In the ten years since, I’ve learned even more.
The typical clichés thrown to single people who don’t want to be single are, “love yourself or you can’t love someone else” or “when you stop looking, it will happen.”
The latter used to infuriate me when I’d hear it. I’d wonder, “How do you stop looking? Every time I go to some social thing, I always wonder if I’ll meet someone!”
I seemed like the mere thought of “I might meet someone,” was part of the problem; like a curse!
“Crap! I had “the thought!” That means I’m looking, and I can’t be ‘looking.’ Now it won’t happen!”
Maddening.
It took forever to figure out that the “stop looking” cliché is misphrased; an oversimplification. It doesn’t mean, “don’t think about it at all,” but, “find ways to be so satisfied with your life that being single is a non-issue. You’re content on your own.”
…and, “they” say, that’s when “the one” will waltz in. Surprise!
Well, maybe — but not yet, for me.
I remain single. I’ve reached the point where it doesn’t bother me. Seeing friends announce they’re in love no longer upsets me. No more pangs.
I’m so accustomed to being by myself I don’t know how I’d adjust to someone else being around!
Sometimes I wonder, “Why did I want that so badly, again?”
I also realized that, due to some of my formative experiences, when I think I’m pining for a relationship, what I’m actually pining for is sex, which (obviously) is not a relationship.
My form of “pining” has not been about connection, companionship, or emotional intimacy. When you’ve never experienced those components of a relationship on a functional, healthy level, well….
It’s hard to miss something you’ve never had.
I’d like to experience a healthy relationship, but it no longer makes me sad to think it might not ever happen.
It’s enough to know I deserve a relationship.
It’s enough to know that I’m worthy of, and equal to, a healthy relationship.
Knowing that, however, doesn’t mean I’m going to have it — and if it doesn’t come my way, I’d better figure out how to enjoy my life for what it is.
I am enough.
That sense of ease is what I ultimately wanted more than a relationship, and how I know I’ve overcome my desperation.
Originally published July 2014; revised and updated February 2024.
