General ire about dating.

General ire about dating.

That's what I should name this one. Terrible to sit up one day and make up your mind that you're just not going to be a slut. Terribler even, to realise that with your intensely busy work schedule, probably the only way you'll ever have sex again is by being a slut. Dial-a-sex, please? There's that silly radio ad where the gal calls up a pizza place and tells the boy to come over with all his 'toppings', and when you think about it, being a gay slut was something like that.

Easy.

Ridiculously so.

All you have to do, is go online and find a reasonably good looking guy. Check sexual compatibility, and take his number down. Save for a rainy day, or a sunny day, or whatever day. And call. Boy comes over an hour later, you offer him a glass of water, and then have a nice screw.

Did I not say 'ridiculous'?

Cut to present state of affairs. Oops... wrong word, given my absolute lack of love life. The present state has me going to work at 8.30 am, and back at around 10.30 pm. I plop down on the bed and listen to Don Williams croon Fever for some time, and then I nod tiredly at my flattie when she comes out from her coccoon-cum-room to ask how my day was. And then I undress and go to sleep. Yawn.

And to think, I'd decided once upon a time, that virginity does not agree with me.

There are times, of course, when I wonder what's keeping me from the antidote. I mean: cute, funny, twenty-four year old guy in a city that has probably more gay men than the Big Apple, so why the hell am I single? And that's when I tell myself, I shouldn't try so hard or think so hard, that it's not what newly-liberated ex-sluts do. Newly liberated ex-sluts generally rant out their ire about how tough dating is in the big city.

Ergo...