dirty laundry

somehow it's already been two weeks since my last column came out in baltimore gay life. this week's the first time it'll run under its new name, "dirty laundry," a name that kel thinks is cliched but i'm quite proud of. so, without further ado:


believer

“I don’t date,” my friend Cory matter-of-factly said to me yesterday. He’d alluded to it several times before, trying to sound mysterious. “Alright,” I told him, finally taking the bait. “Why don’t you date?”

“It’s complicated,” he answered pertly. He was going to tell me; but he wanted to make damn sure he had my attention first.

“It’s fine if it’s complicated. I’ve got time.”

“Ok, so here’s the deal,” he told me, taking a deep breath. I adjusted my hands on the steering wheel and turned down the music. “And just so you know, this isn’t me being all, ‘I don’t date because I don’t want this guy to get the wrong idea about me and think that I’m into him.’ Seriously, I don’t date.”

“So you’re what? A monk? Celibate?” I asked, incredulous.

“No. It’s because I don’t believe in love. I believe in infatuation and sexual attraction. And I believe that people need to feel close to one another and that they need that kind of validation. But it’s bulls**t. I’m just not sure that love really exists, so what’s the point in dating? Monogamous relationships aren’t congruous with human nature: why do you think that men cheat? Why do you think that all relationships end? It’s because we’re not meant to be in them to begin with. That’s why I don’t date. It’s pointless.”

I didn’t have a comeback so I just sat there dumbfoundedly driving. I thought, This man has gotten so jaded, has been hurt so many times and so badly by the age of 26, that he’s given up entirely. It wasn’t until the next day that I brought up the topic again.

“So all that stuff you said yesterday about not believing in the existence of love,” I started.

“That’s right,” Cory said.

“It just really shocked me. I feel like maybe you have a skewed notion of what love is,” I said, not wanting to be condescending or sound too confrontational. “I don’t believe that love is like you find in romance novels or on Passions. It’s not what the media or Hallmark greeting cards or Julia Roberts movies would have us believe. I’ve had that, and I’ve been infatuated and I’ve felt that passionate.” Not in a while, maybe, but it was a good start to my argument. “I really don’t think that that’s what love is. But I know I’ve been in love.”

Even as I said it to Cory I started to doubt myself. How do we know what love is, really? How do we know if we’re in it or if we’re not, or when it’s the right time to profess it? How do we know it exists at all? Maybe he had a point. I’m not one to lose an argument, though, even when I’m floundering, so I plowed ahead.

“You say that relationships are worthless because they’ll all end, and that love doesn’t exist. But I think you’re wrong.”

I told him what I think love really is: sitting for days with your boyfriend who’s in the hospital; driving home from work because his car’s been in a hit-and-run accident and he’s too afraid to deal with the cops alone; hearing him complain for five months straight that his stomach hurts and never once rolling your eyes. I told him that love very seldom looks or feels like it’s supposed to, but that once it’s gone you’re never surer of its existence.

“I’m not arguing with any of those things,” Cory said.

“And I don’t care if I’m heartbroken, and I don’t care that I’m going to be heartbroken for a while, or that I’m bound to be heartbroken again. Love exists and relationships are worth it. You just have to keep trying. You say now,” I went on, “that you’re too stubborn, that you’re not willing to compromise, not willing to let anyone in; but just you wait. You’re going to meet someone someday and that tune’s gonna change. And I hope I’m around to see it.”

I wasn’t just trying to change Cory’s mind; in a way I was trying to convince myself, too. I have to believe that somewhere, someday, whether it’s in Baltimore or New York or Oklahoma or God-knows-where, I’ll meet the man who makes me feel all the things I’d just been defending. I have to believe that I won’t get so cynical during the hunt that I forget the prize. That all of the pain and joy is worth it, in the end.