Where have all the lovers gone?


Gone to young men, every one?

Returning home on snowless January night: A wind's too cold and a vision of empty bed is as graceful as uninviting. No boyfriend again, lover searching failed, no luck this time. This was the night I've been looking forward to all week long. The excitement, almost ritual kind of preparations and of course the expectations - have met their usual boring friends on a bitter afterparty. "These pathetic fags!" - I find myself scolding my own kind, as much as myself. This misery is so unpleasantly bearable, vexingly usual, a no-drama sort of drama.

The compromise with my sleeping needs... Who invented the idea of nightlife? Aren't humans daylight animals? Why all gay fun must be happening "instead of sleeping"? What fun can one have holding his eyelids up with olive pick and killer dose of caffeine itching his veins from inside? Didn't I promise myself that I will never again soberly observe drunk people laughing hysterically (in order to convince themselves that they are having fun)? Any random dream is better then this nightmarish cover video for the machinelike music... er, the noise. And then, I've made another compromise with my heavy-non-smoker's principles.

And I did it. And we do it. We swear oaths of neveragain, and still we do it. We follow the compulsive destructive behavior of drug addicts. But, what is our drug here? Or, dare we ask - what this drug is supplementing? What do we miss and purchase from the guy at the cash desk of our favorite bar? Acknowledging our taste in music, preference for air, need to sleep - what draws us continuously towards yet another humiliation of our personal fundamentals? Something might be rotten in the state of post-modern gay liberated existence.

Gay is being defined, however unpleasant it may sound to the assimilated ears, by sexuality. Homo-sexual. Whatever hard we try to convince (them/ourselves) that our sexuality is "just an insignificant fact" and how "normal" every-men we are otherwise (suburban white-fenced house, lawn with BBQ grill, married with mortgage, child-rearing aspirations put above the rear-probing perspirations)... the homosexual was created as the one who has some story about the sexuality. Post-Stonewall, we've claim(ed) our liberty to love whomever we love, as much as to show the physical affection to him and to make love with him. We'd also come up with an abstract political wish to equalize different partnership configurations - since we all want the same (fidelity, contracts, subsidies, jealousy, proper divorce)... and it would be perfect, in very sterile and hygienic way. Be it not for that strong juicy sweaty unpredictable uncompromising disgusting sexual need.

But acknowledging this carnal urge is far from being the post-modern topic. What I deem post-modern is the absurd question I feel urged to ask:

Where is all that gay sex then?

Speaking with inappropriate honesty, I dare say that the gay (sub(urban))culture is being constructed around sex in this or that way. From pride marches (show our sexuality, find partners) to product items in fagazines (to make us sexier, wanted), from quirky sex bars (where we know what we want) to posh clubs (where we pretend we do not want anything) - everywhere we are searching for the instant lovers or those who would give us love for at least an instant in our life. Even the idea of decent partnership advertises the illusion of possibility of safe and understanding kind of sex. Nowadays, omnipresence of The Sex God in gay subculture is already intimidating us, offending us and boring us! Ain't he no Eros or Amor though, The Sex God is more of a self-confident patriarch, the real estate macho agent, who promises "lots of sex". But when, in the gay afterlife?

The advertised illusion of the ubiquitous sex is as deceptive as claiming that cola-soaked world is out and out cool. Actually, in the market, what is being sold well is usually a scarce item. Then, more sex is being sold - and not just apparently over the porn sites and escort lines, but with every sex-enhancing toy, every piece of sexy garments, every ticket for sex club or an innocent disco night for sexual minority - more obvious is the lack of sex in our sex-defined underworld. Wouldn't it be too ironic if our "liberated and emancipated sexual minority" would live in a space with shortage of sex?

While living with abundant supply of porn, the cum is gushing in waterfalls from the holes furiously flittering across my LCD display, the whole notion of "lack of sex" gets quite absurd. The only other explanation for the paradox I could find is that we must be having lots of sex, a non-liberated sort of sex though. Both on screen and in bedroom. A porn style "body-banging" in the debilitatingly monotonous rhythm of a house, minimal or techno - banging that is cool because it is cool - because it is shown in movies with a wink-less boldness. Is it so because it is cheap to produce and easy to reproduce even by MyGarage Ltd.? Did we copy this macho sex concept from our straight counterparts? Is it satisfying to immitate the worst of the straight-acting just to make our beloved sex less gay-ly sterile?

Having lot of asexual sex, having lot of loveless lovemaking, we are quite ready to buy all the possible products that mention sex and love just in their name. A kiss or a naked torso in the ad is enough to open our heart, er, sorry, wallet. So, while pretending over-sexed fatigue, subscribed to hundreds of pages describing unimaginable kinks - do we have courage to ask what has gone wrong with our sexual liberation? Where is the sex? Where is the liberty? Where is the satisfaction?