Since my dive into non-monogamy, I’ve found myself dating what we tend to think of as normal guys. The normal cis gay guys who like Lady Gaga, gyms, Fire Island, and “adventures.” I’ve noticed that every guy on Tinder says they are into travel and adventures, as if they are looking for someone to fix their lives with new scenery or secret speakeasies. 

Most of them have normal jobs such as data engineer; perhaps they moonlight with theater companies. There’s a belief in a stable career, that life is linear, and that the one is out there. Some of this is nice, especially to the romantic. It’s nice to believe in the world as a place where good things can happen to good people. It evaporates cynicism — at least for a moment. Maybe there is a way to climb the ladder to a man, a job, and a house. But something about these boys kept nagging me; and as I discovered, something about me kept nagging these boys. 

Going into this round of dates, I was much more comfortable negotiating with men. I was upfront, even abrupt, about wanting to date in a formal way. I went to the Met twice. It was hard to put to words what I wanted at first. It wasn’t that I wanted a husband, but the idea of eventually shacking up with someone sounded nice: someone to come home to after a stressful day or a panic attack and say, “Hi” without needing to explain everything. It sounds exhausting, but I have been hurdling towards this ideal for a while now.