Amy Odell’s recent article, “Shalom, Be Alone,” touches on the subject of inter-marriage. Many of her readers had a strong reaction to her opinion that many of us are limiting ourselves by only choosing Jewish mates. I understand that many feel that Judaism is not just a religion or a culture/ethnicity, but something akin to the master race (and who could argue with that?). Talking recently to a non-Jew friend of mine, she said that she refused to date anyone that is not at least a little bit Italian. It dawned on me once again, that while I belong to and associate with a community that has survived over 5,000 years by sticking together and abiding by their laws, we are living in a world where remaining ethnically pure is no longer viable. We fight for peace and equal rights and then turn around with the prejudice that marrying outside our ethnic/religious group is the way of the fallen. If it is still 1850, I would like to know why women aren’t completely covered and wearing corsets. Anyone?

Perhaps it’s true, as we’ve recently heard, that Jews possess some genetic advantages. Maybe avoiding inter-relationships really will make you more to likely birth another doctor, lawyer, or banker. But if your reasons are to preserve the Jewish genes that have been around for the past 5,000 years, allow me to refer you to Meryl Yourish’s post about James Watson and his double helix. Genes, by the way, are not fixed, they oscillate, so who we associate with could actually change our genetic structure. Beware, my superior friends.

I expect Lubavitch Jews not to inter-marry, as I expect Hasidic Jews not to intermarry; but these sects are isolated from society and many carry unrealistic views about how we heathens live our lives. Not to mention, they are usually not fair-haired and blue-eyed, which as we all know is absolutely and undeniably horrendous. No matter where you are from or whom you marry you can raise your children ethnically and religiously in any combination you desire. I, as a half French/half Greek Jew can choose to raise my kids as Mexican-Korean Hindus if it suits my fancy. We have choices about how we identify ourselves and our children and I am asking the Jewish community, one which knows more about closed-mindedness than any other group, to think a outside the box. It’s ludicrous that we as Jews have a problem intermarrying (which we should leave to the Greeks and Italians) but absolutely no problem driving a huge Mercedes, or Volkswagen, the chosen car of the Nazis. Maybe it is time for us all to interbreed. One race under G-d, indivisible… that way we have no reason to doubt or hate anyone else or their race/religion or what have you. The moral of my story: Interbreed now, the world depends on it.

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When reading the other Jewcy dating columns it occurs to me that more and more we should be relying on our deeper gut instinct and not so much on what can be seen and deconstructed. I see Emily write about POP (Perfect on Paper) or Amy write about this club owner or that financier doing coke in a bathroom and making out with her on the stairs of a bar. Emily's Perfect on Paper doesn't exist and Amy seems to be dating new people all the time, as am I. None of these dates ever seems to pan out as is proven by the progression of our pieces. I am guilty of all the same judgments: I have my own version of Perfect on Paper, and surely can be easily wooed by rich guys who are attractive and connected. These, though, are not what I'm really looking for, and I would go so far to say that the behaviors drawn above conflict with my core values. Maybe now is the time to stand up and say we as a culture will not prescribe to your bullshit, we will think for ourselves and move away from shallowism.

Let's examine for a moment the idea of Perfect on Paper. We all have our idea of what this means and in truth few of us ever find our definition, perhaps because the idea itself is preposterous and impossible. If asked to define the exact definition of Perfect on Paper all of us would define it differently. To Sue it might be a lawyer or doctor, who is handsome, loving, and romantic. Sue might marry her ideal and later say it was all wrong and tell others never to marry a doctor or lawyer because they're never home and you will be constantly discontented and lonely. When will we realize that perfect doesn't exist? We are defining our “perfect” mates by some Hollywood, celluloid standard that doesn't exist. Instead we should be looking for the best match to help us grow and in turn help our mate grow.

As look back over the work of the dating bloggers, I am astounded by the common thread that runs through us all. We are supposed to talk about people and dates; instead what we are really accomplishing is putting people under an impossible microscope. I know that if I judged myself with the standards that I'm judging others, I'd have been broken up with myself a long time ago. No one can live up to the standards we set. Why not just be? Why not just enjoy our lives, be our selves and hope that someone who makes us happy, without the freight of expectation, will appear? Why must we define who other people are when it is clear that we do not even know ourselves?

People always say that love finds you when you least expect it or you always fall into a relationship when you are not looking. I am realizing the validity of these statements. When we least expect it or are not looking is when we're okay enough with ourselves and are not looking for outside validation. We are not looking for anything, so the harsh judgments, critiques, and standards of perfection are not cutting into our ability to listen and feel. Maybe that's why relationships appear when you least expect them. Perhaps it is time for us to be ourselves and let others be themselves; to find a way to celebrate the people we date with joy, humor, and grace.

I hope this helps even just one person to go out on their next date with new eyes. Sure, there are creeps, and jerks out there and that is why I am urging the single, dating community, to get rooted in self, and stop analyzing… go with the flow. If you don't like it, don't look at it. Antoine Saint Exupery makes my point exquisitely: “One sees rightly only with the heart, everything essential is blind to the eyes.” Godspeed daters.

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“Thirty years ago it was one thing: like any group of people recently freed from (some of) the tenets of oppression, gay people were experiencing free sexuality for the first time since the days before Oscar Wilde.” –Samuel Yeo

There is some importance in recognizing where we as a gay culture are coming from historically so that we can more easily find a way to define where we are going in the future. We must first understand our roots before we can successfully break away from them. Before the 1970’s, if you were gay (and people knew it) you were sent to an institution for psychiatric treatment, killed, or summarily shunned – suffering what in legal terms is often referred to as a “social death.” Then when the 70’s hit, gay men decided to take power and flaunted their homosexuality as an act of liberation. They migrated to cities and began having sex anywhere and everywhere, in public or private. As an initial defiance against repression and cultural conservatism, this response was understandable, reminiscent of bra-burning and “Black Power” in the 60’s. But how long does “liberation” last? It’s been more than thirty years since Stonewall – hasn’t the time come to redefine who we are and what we stand for? I’m fed up with seeing gay culture defined by gay culture as a choice between a vapid campfest or a jism-soaked parade orgy. Face the facts: gays run some of the most successful businesses and creative industries in this country, yet we’re still happily identified by Queer Eye casting standards. Why take such a complacent attitude to media portrayals of us as fashionistas, makeup artists, stylists and interior decorators? Surely we have a corner on other markets and we should be up in arms about the representations that supposedly open the minds of America. We have a new Gay and Lesbian television network and I find the majority of the programming infuriating because it’s shallow and dishonest in its representation of a group to which I belong. One of my readers wrote: “Queer people are forging a new frontier in the world and if you want to be left behind with the straight guys who love you then cool. We don't want you. Jerk!!” I noticed that FabFAGfreddy didn’t mention any of the ways that we as homosexuals are forging this so-called “new frontier.” I suppose he could have used my column as an example of the newly forged frontier; how one small voice can affect thought which will result in change. I would like to point out the constructive nature of FAG’s statement and thank him for making my case for me. Kicking each other out of the community is not the answer, and calling ourselves things like fairy or, in this case, FAG, certainly will not get us very far. Redefine! Stand up and say, “No, I am not that.” Scream it as loud as you can. A whisper of truth can be heard in a crowd of screaming lies. This is illustrated by the response to my last submission. I am not picking on FabFAG, but I felt compelled to use his comment to show that he himself, tyrannical as he felt, actually made my point for me.

“We have also come to this hallowed spot to remind America of the fierce urgency of Now. This is not time to engage in the luxury of cooling off or to take the tranquilizing drug of gradualism. I am proud to be a gay man and tired of living as one of few that feels as though our culture has responsibility for the hatred and oppression we face. This is the key to truly forging a new frontier.

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I met a boy. I was on a date when I met him and apparently he had been watching me all night because as I was leaving the outdoor smoking area and heading home he cornered me, my date, and the two gentlemen to which my date and I were talking to drunkenly announce that he had been watching me all night and that I should stop talking to “old guys” and talk to someone my own age, someone like him. I was charmed by this boy and his sheer disregard for the fact that the three gentlemen he announced this to were the very men he had referenced as “old guys.”

It is not usually my style to ditch a date, but I left with Mike and ended up back at his house where we talked until the sun came up and it was time for me to bid farewell and return to reality. As I was leaving, the morning sun caught the blue of Mike’s eye in a glint that profoundly changed the course of how this relationship would go. In an instant this person’s beauty infiltrated my soul, a phenomenon that apparently also can cloud my judgment.

The first few weeks were filled with wonderful beginning stage bliss; romantic dates, getting to know one another and laughter. I had already fallen the moment I saw sunlight in his eyes, but now I was falling and hard and with such momentum that I could no longer catch myself.

Every morning that I awoke next to Mike, the sun would catch the blue of his eye with that same sparkle as the first morning, and I would feel my soul stir. His scent would cling to my clothes and I would bury my face in that fragrance. Like the sun in his eyes, his smell intoxicated me. I have learned that intoxication while fun can be dangerous to ones senses as pertaining to reality and common sense. I should have run at the first red flag, instead this sweet intoxication chained me to a single choice: remain.

It was on a date with Mike in a bar when I first should have taken my flight from him without compunction. On this night, Mike asked for another man’s number standing right next to me. He asked me first if it would be all right for him to ask. I responded with a dry and emotionless “do what you want” even though I could feel the sharp twist of a sword in my gut; a pain which would have been blinding if not for the fact that I was preoccupied with keeping the wells in my eyes from flooding. I had let the moment pass, if only because I could not gain enough composure to react, but later that evening, when he and I were alone, we had a fight and parted ways for good… I thought. I got home and put on my sweatshirt… his smell… intoxication. Common sense… gone.

Six times pleading with an answering machine, several e-mails and several days until Mike called me back. We decided we should talk in person so, four days after the argument, I, full of fear and hope, head out to talk to the boy who had swept me away, even from myself. I arrived and first thing Mike walked over to me and whispered in my ear, “I knew I would see you again” and leaned in to kiss me, the setting sun caught the blue of his eye in an all too familiar dazzle and I was back. Driving to dinner that night, for no reason I could figure, fireworks were going off in the sky; the fireworks were for us it seemed.

I can point to four or five moments in time when I should have swiftly run away, but a smell, or a glint, or a tone stopped me. I should have run when I found out he was a go-go boy at a gay club, or the first time he disappeared for four days without a phone call or a message, or the second time he disappeared. Each time a flag went up I was ready to run, each moment I thought I was free from the stir he had made in my soul on that first morning, each time I even made it out the door, but that stir he made would hold me captive through many mistreatments. Somehow I thought it was all I needed, that the way the light caught the blue of this boy’s eye in the morning, would somehow make this work, set me free.

The time came for Mike to meet all of the important people in my life, and so I asked seven of my inner circle to have dinner with the two of us, they all obliged. There at dinner, waiting for Mike, I can remember the childlike excitement that lurked inside of me. I was the embodiment of the look in a child’s eyes who is about to receive the most perfectly wrapped gift, in a gigantic box and it isn’t even his birthday or a holiday. My friends will love him I thought, and he is so beautiful and he makes me happy. He makes me so happy. Oh the happiness he brings to my heart – unless he doesn’t show up to dinner, while your friends feed you champagne by the bottle assuring you that he is a bigger asshole than the last guy you dated. The happiness he brings – unless of course he doesn’t call for several days after that, and you are worried sick and when he finally does call he doesn’t give you an explanation. HAPPY! It was this that unbound me from the shackles. Suddenly the way the light caught the blue of his eye didn’t seem to matter, and even though it was painful I knew it was time for a peaceful ending to this love affair.

Now is where I would normally go on my rant or diatribe about how gay men suck, or that relationships are impossible to have; or perhaps a commentary about how I should run and have ex-sex, and how stupid I am for not taking my own advice. I will be sorry to shock and perhaps dismay the reader’s who are counting on something cynical or controversial out of me, and I promise those people to return to my brutal and date scathing self for next week, but I have learned a valuable lesson from myself, and even Mike because he was the catalyst. The moment I fell for Mike, that first morning, like many moments in life, I fell in love and although I never truly loved Mike because I didn’t have the chance, I certainly fell in love with him and that was the grip that kept me around to get hurt.

As the hurt heals I realize I am stronger, more whole, to enter my next relationship but especially as myself. I want and need this pain because to lose it, would be to lose my ability to fall; to fall is magical and to hurt is to heal.

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I’m pretty sure something has gone terribly wrong within my dating world. It seems that after moving out of a life stage filled with sexual promiscuity and whore-like behavior, I am now unable to attract anyone for any other reason than them wanting to fuck me. I was recently told by a man that I had and angelic face and my eyes projected innocence. I thanked him even though I wasn’t really sure if he had paid me a compliment. Then he leaned over and whispered in my ear, “I know as well as you do, it is always the innocent looking ones that are the dirtiest… meet me in the bathroom.”

I agreed: “You’re right, the innocent looking ones are always trouble,” and then I “accidentally” spilled my drink on him and said, “Trouble, trouble, trouble.”

He happened to be right, I do look innocent, and I am a little “trouble,” and I did not meet him in the bathroom because he was dirty, and not in a good way. The point is if all I were looking for was a “quickie in the bathroom” I would be showered in sex all the time, however, when it comes to dating me, men do not even consider it an option, why I do not know. I plan great dates, like picnics in the park and going to make necklaces at a bead shop followed by lunch. I know I am a fun person to be with and talk to. The thing is, gay men hate me, straight men love me, and I am ready to hate everyone (except lesbians – lesbians are great).

Gay men suck at life. They somehow come through this culture so jaded and shallow that they have nothing to offer the world other than fashion, makeup, and decorating advice. As a species of human they are singlemindedly searching for raunchy sex and whether intelligent or not are incapable of not having affects like a woman in conversation. I’ve decided that I no longer belong to this culture and that my sexuality will be defined as something else (suggestions welcome).

I know that some will read this and say, “Oh what a huge generalization, and how closed minded,” or even, “Maybe you can’t find a date because you are a gay hater.”

To that I will respond, I agree it is huge generalization and there are those who are homosexual and do not fit the characteristics I have drawn above. I will contend that many are like me and live outside the box. That said, I am absolutely 100% positive that as a majority what I have said sticks. It is time that no matter what social group we belong to, we stand up and say gay men shouldn’t be proud, they haven’t done anything to be proud of!

That’s right folks, we have a parade for homosexuals and it is actually called “PRIDE?” Pride for what – the fact that on one day in each city we can walk around almost naked and hunt for our next prey? No thank you, I would rather not be soaked and dripping in semen, but I do appreciate the offer.

Sometimes we are so “socially aware” (especially in cities) and careful not to insult people or remain “politically correct” that we completely overlook the truth. The truth is that the gay scene as a majority is disgusting, abhorrent, and grotesquely based in shallow sexual predation. Throughout the country there are still “bathhouses,” a place for men to go to “cruise” for sex and even more disgusting try walking through the Rambles of Central Park at night; you will see gay men having sex with complete strangers. The bars are not much different, it requires a bit more work to get into some guy’s pants but for the most part most everybody leaves with somebody or ends up in a bathroom stall. This is a culture that I do not wish to belong to.

I know that I may be coming across judgmental and I want to make myself clear: I am not shunning sexual promiscuity as a whole, I am simply saying that I do not want to belong to a culture – gay culture, to be specific – that ultimately defines me as something I am not. This is a culture that I do not fit into and as a result find it virtually impossible to meet people worth dating.

The same problem is true in heterosexual culture; however, it is not only on at a lower degree but the opportunities to meet people are vaster. I do not want to be forced into a gay bar scene just to meet men that I know I can approach and who think that is okay to ask me for a blowjob in the bathroom. So what on earth does someone like me do to move forward in relationships without having a starting point?

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A relationship begins. If you have decided to take that next step and be exclusive it usually means something went right in the process of dating. Maybe you cruise through life in that stage when everything is wonderful, happy, all spring flowers and lollipops. Eventually this stage comes to an end and the rose-colored glasses are lifted from your eyes. Now the relationship is at a crucial point: make or break. For arguments sake let us go with break. You find yourself back on the dating scene but with no prospects. Enter the “ex-factor.”

The “ex-factor” is a term I have coined to describe the time when there is nobody to have sex with. As a result, you continue sleeping with your ex until a better opportunity comes along. It is a way of keeping your hormones at bay while adjusting to being newly single; or else the sex was so good you simply can’t let that part go. I am sure most of you are all too familiar with this concept.

While I am completely aware that both parties are equally responsible for this relationship phenomenon, and though I myself have been known to dabble in the world of ex-sex, I find myself wondering why sex is the last part of a previous relationship to dwindle. Is sex the adhesive material that inevitably bonds us to our chosen partners? Perhaps, the sex is an addiction we have acquired and to quit it cold turkey would jolt us into immediate withdrawal.

Ex-sex is a risky business. Often it can cloud our judgment just enough to make us forget exactly what it was the ended the relationship. You decide to try again, of course to no avail, because the same problems still exist. Then you are left again, right back where you started, trying to make sense of what happened and trying harder not to sleep with your ex again.

I suppose what I am writing about is that “little black book” that people keep. You know, a book of numbers for that desperate evening that you need a date and a quick screw. I watch my friends rotating in between relationships and I see familiar faces. I find myself saying things like, “Oh hey, Jason, I have not seen you in a while. How have you been?”

“Well thanks, I was just leaving, it was nice seeing you.”

As it turns out, I never wanted to see Jason again. I scold my friend and ask how she can possibly sleep with someone who not three hours ago she swore to abhor forever and never speak to again. And then I hope that she doesn’t find out that I recently slept with my ex, and that I am a complete hypocrite. I do believe everything I say to her with all of my conviction but somehow my advice does not translate into my being.

When I left my relationship, I left for a reason. It means that my metaphoric rope was at an end and frayed beyond repair. Sex isn’t just sex when you have a relationship history with someone; sex is personal. The kinesthetic feeling of their skin touching yours, the fragrant bouquet that only they possess, the sound of their voice whispering in your ear, and the color of there eyes gazing passionately into yours; these are all potential elements of a g-force jolt into a reality that no longer exists. All of sudden, the memory that your metaphoric rope is frayed and damaged is gone. If and when you attempt to climb, the inevitable occurs: you plummet downward… a fate that you knew was yours from the first moment the choice was made.

Our moments of weakness are not the ones that define us. The definition of who we are should be defined by the lessons we learn from our mistakes and whether or not we manifest changes that help us continue our journey through this world. I have decided to take my own advice and make a sincere effort not sleep with my ex’s. Instead I have decided to sleep with complete and total strangers while I am on the rebound (insert laugh). The point is, in this fast-paced world we call NYC I feel the necessary movement is forward, not backward or stagnant: FORWARD. So there you have it – I am moving forward fast. Catch me if you can!

[To read Charles' first entry, click here.]

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