Gay men are animals. Predatory animals. With our spear in our pants, we foam at the mouth as we machete our way through the homosexual wilderness. During my youthful days, I was always a successful big game hunter. In a previous apartment, the trophies over my bed were the faint stains on the wall. He came. I conquered. I won.
Throughout my teens and my twenties, I advertised myself as someone looking for love and ready to settle down. In retrospect, these proclamations carried little creedence, because I was always looking over my shoulder. No matter how great a date was, the first thing I did when I got home was log onto Gay.com.
This article appears in Jul 7-13, 2011.