Flake

Now that my sexual life is almost totally dependent on online services and mobile apps, I'm having to come to terms with how unpredictably people behave. For my part, I am very reserved about hooking up. I need stats and a representative selection of pictures, I need to have a few words of conversation with a potential partner before I will commit to meeting. This is mostly to protect myself. I'm not a large person and I'm now in my mid-40s. In other words, I'm becoming a mark.

To some people, this caution equates to flakiness or game playing, but you can be assured that if I say I am ready to meet, I am ready to meet. And if we agree on a time and a place, I will be there.

Contrast this behavior with what I've been experiencing, largely from younger men.

• The younger, hotter guy who trades pics and compliments and then vanishes as soon as I say I'm interested.
• The guy who, after I invite him over, replies two hours later that this phone died.
• The guy who abruptly stops trading messages when things start to heat up and then writes back two days later as if there were no interruption at all.
• The guy who wants to get together right now but has no pics and a blank profile.
• The guy whose profile says, in no uncertain terms, that he wants only HIV- partners yet hits me up for sex.
• The guy who gets pissed when I point out his behavior is unacceptable, insults me, and then blocks me.

I should confess I don't handle these situations as calmly as I could. Two of these scenarios occurred just last night, and I was completely out of patience. If I hadn't been so tired, I probably would read them to filth over their immaturity, but instead I just went to bed. More and more, I'm finding that going to bed, even alone, is the only way to handle flaky online communication.

Moving

Much as like the MTA euphemism that inspired this blog title, it has taken me longer to get moving that I might have liked. The last few years have been challenging, if not exactly busy, and writing hasn't been something I've felt like doing. Recently friends have encouraged me to blog again. (I'm not sure if they know about this one, as I meant it to be secret, but I'm bad a keeping my own secrets.) Anyway, I'll think about it.

Women

I've noticed that in US gay bars, it is more and more common to find women hanging out with their gay friends. I think I'm witnessing a generational shift. Just a few years ago, it was unusual to find even one woman at a gay bar in New York. Last night, I did a bar crawl with a visiting friend. We went to five bars in Midtown West and the East Village, and every one of them was full of women. I was shocked.

I struggle with this because—I won't even try to hide it—I don't want to socialize with straight women in gay bars. I worry, however, that this is the attitude of a gay misogynist dinosaur. The price gays are paying for greater mainstream acceptance is the loss of our counterculture. Some find this acceptable, but I'm uncomfortable with it. I can, and do, interact with women everywhere else. I'd like to have a few places where I can be with just men, but it looks like there will be fewer and fewer of those.

Last Sunday, there was one very drunk and very deluded woman walking around at New York's one and only cruise bar in a bra and braces. She went into the men's room and started whining about how she was gay man trapped in a woman's body and was offended because no one at the bar wanted to talk to her. Really, honey? You're hanging out half naked in the men's room of a gay bar and feeling lonely? Try taking a walk down the street. You'll make lots of new friends.

Finally, I couldn't take anymore of her whining—she wouldn't leave the bathroom—and I shouted out over the stall wall, "You're not welcome here for the same reason men aren't welcome at the ob gyn: we don't belong there!" And then I asked security to make her leave. This was an extreme example of the trend, I'll grant, but it shows there are no exclusive gay bars left in New York, or possibly anywhere. I'm not happy about this.

Yellow

Over the weekend I managed to tackle a painting project I'd been dreaming about for years. My previous roommate had taken some paint purchased by his previous roommate and painted the hall near the entrance. It was a toxicly bright yellow, and every time I walked in the door I wanted to change it. After this year's endless winter relented and we finally had a full weekend without rain, I fixed it, by extending the living room's color. I think it makes the room look bigger.

Bust

The Berlin trip was kind of a bust. I can't blame Berlin. The weather was perfect: six days of sunny warm days and cool nights. The problem was me sleeping past noon every day and not feeling especially inspired to do anything. Maybe an April trip was too soon after my December visit, or maybe the difficulty I have eating well over there just left me worn out.

I'm planning to go back in September, as in, I've already booked an apartment and bought a plane ticket, but I'm really thinking I should save the vacation days, and cash, and do something else. Like saving the money.

Yeah right. Almost as soon as I starting thinking of canceling the September trip, I started thinking of what else I could do that around Labor Day. Southern Decadence comes to mind. If there's one thing I can say about New Orleans, it's that I will have no trouble finding something to eat. I almost did this trip back in 2008, but a hurricane changed my mind and I went to the Folsom Street Fair later that September instead. It's a pity Southern Decadence always falls in hurricane season, but it sure keeps the hotels and air fares reasonable.

I should give myself another week to think about this, but I dread the thought of another trans-Atlantic trip anytime soon.

Packing

A friend talked me into going to Berlin for Easter. I'll fly the Atlantic for any excuse nowadays, so it took little persuasion. It's fascinating how different cultures honor the Resurrection in their own way, and the Berliners' approach, I can appreciate.

The hardest part of a trip to a big fetish event is the packing. Whatever else one might say about such occasions, there is no question costume changes are a huge part of it. Mix the rarity, for some of us, of opportunities to wear our gear with the naturally queeny inclination not to be seen in the same outfit twice, and voilà: overstuffed suitcase. Leather is heavy, especially the boots, and if you want to avoid heavy luggage fees from the airline, some editorial selection is necessary.

I don't fly until Tuesday night, but as I'll be busy with work Monday night, I started packing already. I've been at it for an hour, and not a single item has made it to a suitcase yet. First I arrayed all the gear on my bed: tops, bottoms, accessories. Then I put away the impulse buys I never wear but still like to look at. I check the event calendar and ask, will I need more than two outfits of latex? Should they be street legal? Will I have an occasion to wear this neoprene singlet, and if I do should I bring my wrestling shoes, which I would not otherwise wear? Will three pairs of leather slacks be enough, or too much?

And then there's cotton. For some reason no matter what I pack for, I always bring two or three times more t-shirts than I need. This time it should be easier, because my favorites are from Berlin, but I have this rule about not wearing bar or shop t-shirts in the city where I bought them, because then it's not special, so I have a smaller selection to tempt me.

As important as the fetish gear is, having comfortable clothing is also key, for daytime tourism. Translation: bring a lot of jeans and top layers. Doing this reminds that I've more or less given up on mainstream stylishness, except for work, and it's a little depressing. On the other hand, t-shirts and jeans are a timeless look for a reason.

I'd better get back to it. I haven't even determined if a trip to the laundromat will be necessary this weekend. Sigh.

IML?

I've made plans to attend International Mr. Leather in Chicago once again this year, but I'm thinking of skipping it to save money. I have a feeling if I go I'll have an okay time but wonder why I've chosen to spend Memorial Day Weekend holed up in a crowded hotel in downtown Chicago. If I don't, I'll probably wish I were there, but at least I'll be $1200-$1500 richer. (It's not possible for me to do it any cheaper, not with the constant temptation of the vendor market.)

Why is it these days everything I do requires a decision about spending money? It was easier to justify expenses like this when it only meant going deeper into debt, but now that I'm flush, it's about ending 2011 with $x in the bank or $x-1200 in the bank. What would Suzie Orman do?