So on balance, we're equals.

Snooping around Scruff I came across a profile with this picture.

 The main thing that makes me feel inferior to this guy:

He's five years older than me but has the body of someone ten years younger and ten times hotter.

The main thing that makes me feel superior to this guy:

It's 2012... who the hell still uses a flip phone?

The end of a drought sometimes brings rain and gloom.

I've been feeling a bit down over the last week.

It started when I broke my three month sex drought the weekend before last. I went out on the Friday with a 28 year old travel agent, and there was instant chemistry between us. We kissed goodnight for a full five minutes in my car, and agreed to meet the next night for dinner. This we did, and we ended up back at my place by 9pm, kissing so passionately that my lips were badly chapped the next morning. He spent the night with me, we had breakfast together on Sunday morning, and over lingering kisses we eventually said goodbye.

To be brutally honest, the sex was lousy. He was a little sexually dysfunctional, which made it hard work to keep him erect amd virtually impossible to actually have sex. I eventually managed to blow him to orgasm - something I've never managed before - but other than that it was just stroking, kissing, sucking and caressing.

But he was very good at that. He's a natural cuddler; warm, affectionate and a good kisser. Plus he's sweet and adorably cute, and I genuinely like him.

However Sunday morning was the last I saw of him. Since then he's been busy every night I've suggested we go out again. And as of Friday, he's stopped responding to my texts.

The odd thing is that I had no sense that everything wasn't going well. He admitted that he almost never sleeps with someone on the second date, so I don't think he was just using me. My theory is that sometimes you get caught up in the moment and after a couple of days it dissipates and you think, "Wow, what just happened there? He's actually not what I want."

I was in this mindset when I went out to a concert on Friday with KCG and his boyfriend, and while it wasn't as hard as it sometimes is I still found it confronting. KCG has found someone who is attracted to him and to whom he's also attracted. If that weren't groundbreaking enough, they also appear to be in love.

How is that possible? How can two people not only be mutually attracted to each other, but also have that flower into love?

It must be possible, I guess, otherwise gay marriage wouldn't be such an issue and I wouldn't be tormented by gay couples making cow eyes at each other over cupcakes at the local cafe. But it's never happened to me so it's hard to believe that it really exists. I've never met someone to whom I was attracted who was also attracted to me. It's either me liking him and him rejecting me, or him liking me and me rejecting him, or, most often, mutual apathy.

And yet KCG has had it four times. HD has had it three times. Even my most desperate gay friends have at least one ex. 

In the meantime, I'm tortured by gorgeous guys like this glancing at me on Scruff, then shrugging and moving on.

So beautiful, and in an attainable way. But not for me. Sigh.

A change in paradigm.

It's been a couple of months since my last post, so I thought I'd write an update.

The big news is that, after eight or nine months of seeing my therapist, I've outed myself. I did it in the most distancing and controlled manner possible, via letter and email, which makes me a bit of a pathetic freak but nevertheless resulted in the least amount of anxiety, at least for me.

I started with letters to my family, then emails to my inner circle of friends, then emails to my outer circle of friends. The responses were a lot more positive than I expected: no one is exactly delighted, but they've all been encouraging and supportive and loving. Each stage was progressively easier, especially once I established a base level of support in what I call "old-growth relationships".

I am, frankly, surprised that people who always spoke snidely or with hostility about gays were so willing to accept me after I revealed myself to be one. I guess love does conquer prejudice after all. It's nice, if a little unexpected, to realise that my friends and family care so much about me. Perhaps because I've spent my entire life fighting or hiding the urge to love, I don't have much experience in seeing it freely expressed in relation to me.

Which brings me to a common mindset, which would be amusing if it hadn't been so destructive in my life. It was different each time, but generally it went a little something like this:

Person: Ugh, gays are so sick and disgusting. They won't be so gay when they're burning in Hell!

Me: I'm gay.

Person: OMG why have you waited so long to open up to me about this!?

Yes, why indeed?

My mother was the worst. When I spoke to her recently, she reminded me that she'd always told me that I could always talk to her and my father about anything. Yeah, I thought, and then you'd spit hatred at some gay character on TV... basically communicating that I could speak to you about anything EXCEPT THIS!

I didn't tell her that. It won't achieve anything and it would only damage the relationship.

So how has the outing affected me? Soon after I started my outing program, I had dinner with Mr Wednesday at a hip new deconstructionalist restaurant. As we were talking about some deep and emotional issues, he reached across the table and took my hands in his. After a few seconds I felt uncomfortable, but then I remembered, I'm out now. I don't have to worry about this getting back to anyone, because they already know. So we held hands for a while as we talked, witnessed only by our waiter, which didn't matter as he was gayer than both of us combined.

Ironically one thing it hasn't affected is my sex life. It's been something like three months since I got laid.

The power and perks of popularity

Something very strange has happened, and I have no idea what's going on. I'm suddenly, inexplicably and intensely popular with gay men.

I'm inclined to blame my new iPhone, a superceded model that KCG gave me when he upgraded to the new one. It's battered and scratched, with a crack in the rear panel and a woeful battery life. However it's spent two years absorbing KCG's charisma and dating mojo into its curcuitry, and now it seems to be reflecting it back. I've never been so popular in my entire life.

It probably also has something to do with the fact that earlier this year I joined Scruff, a mobile dating app that's like a more beary, less twinky version of Grindr. As I am more beary and less twinky myself, it seems to be a good fit with me. Five of my seven dates in my now infamous Week of Dates came from Scruff; it's hard to argue with those numbers.

Speaking of the Week of Dates, I've kept up with Mr Tuesday and Mr Wednesday, although there's a lack of fire there that's kept me from sleeping with either of them. However, having them in my life has given me an excuse to nudge UAM out of my life, much to my relief and to his displeasure.

A funny thing happened on my third "date" with UAM. Instead of just fucking like monkeys, we actually had dinner together and talked... and then fucked like monkeys. While the fucking like monkeys part was as enjoyable as ever, getting to know him better and getting more of a feel for his character revealed that... well... he really isn't terribly likeable. He's spoilt, manipulative, calculating, dishonest and, much as I hate to admit it after all of the sex we've had, kinda creepy.

Afterwards I gave him a lift home in my car, and I was driving he put his hand on my thigh and stroked my leg. It took all of my self-control not to bellow "GET YOUR FUCKING HAND OFF MY LEG, YOU HORRIBLE MAN!" I knew at that point I'd be very happy never to see him again.

So when he texted me a couple of weeks later seeking to hook up, I twisted the truth slightly to say that I'd started seeing someone and didn't feel right about fooling around. 

Besides the whole creepiness thing, my other big problem with UAM was that he's married. Before you start declaring me a home-wrecking slut, you should know that it's a sham marriage. His wife is a lesbian who has a girlfriend back in their home country. He married her to take the heat off both of them from the religious police, and also so that he could come out to Australia on her student visa as she studies at a local college. They sleep in the same bed, for appearance's sake as neither of them are out to their local ethnic community, but they've never consummated their marriage as far as I can tell.

So I'm let off the hook, at least a little bit. Even so... the fact that he's married always made me very uncomfortable. It reinforced the immorality of the whole thing. It's easy to spin a sexual relationship with a single gay man in ways that can be said to conform to traditional morality, but to me banging a married man is beyond the pale, making a mockery of the sacred institution on virtually every level. His marriage means nothing to him, nothing to her, and apparently not enough to me.

Hold the front page: Empty sex is empty!

I've reached the stage in which each new date is less than unique.

Take last night. I met him on a prearranged street corner and we walked up to a local bar I like. He was pawing at me by the time we walked into the joint. We had some cocktails and tapas, then went for a walk along the river. As we crossed the park he kissed me, and we paused for a while to talk before continuing along the waterfront. Perhaps it's just because he was Gen Y, but he kept touching me, rubbing my back or holding my hand. As you might imagine, I found this very confronting, but I treated it as a challenge; to test my resolve to be more open about my sexuality.

Afterwards we went up to his apartment so that I could use the bathroom. He had a friend staying with him for a few days while she waited for the lease on her new apartment to be finalised, so he had to control himself. But he asked me if we could go to my place, and I agreed.

Once we got there, there was more kissing, caressing and ultimately sex. I'd rate the sex 5/10 - not terrible by any means, but not great either. Definitely middle level. The most notable thing about it was that he dragged me, fairly reluctantly, into topping him. After we'd had sex (fucking followed by him wanking), he asked me if I wanted to do him. I demurred, since I didn't particularly feel the need to get off. But he rolled on top of me and lubed me up, and I assumed he was planning frottage or a hand job. But before I knew it he had slipped my cock into his ass, and was enjoying himself with it.

About all I can say about it was that it was hotter than I expected, both in the senses of temperature and pleasure. I came pretty quickly, pulling out of him just in time to avoid a safe sex faux pas.

So it was a notable encounter for three main things. One, at 28 he was the youngest guy with whom I've had sex. Two, he was the first guy I've ever topped. And three... it's been a long time since I felt that bad after sex. I sent him home afterwards because I knew I wouldn't sleep well with him in my bed, and although it was only 10.30pm or so I had to stay up another two or three hours watching TV just to put some distance between it and my going to sleep. As it was, I had a stomach ache from the stress.

You may be wondering why I was so stressed. It was purely existential. When did I become this person, who has joyless, non-intimate sex with lonely young men? Why was I kissing and fucking a not terribly attractive man with whom I had little in common?

Seven dates with seven men in seven days

Over the last week I've had, as the title above suggests, seven dates with seven men in seven days. Or at least I've organised seven dates with seven men in seven days. The breakdown is as follows:

Saturday: I had a lunch date scheduled with a 37 year old restauranteur, but, for the first time in my life, I was stood up.

We were supposed to meet in a little cafe at 11.30am. I prettied myself up, drove for half an hour to his part of the city, found somewhere to park, walked ten minutes to the cafe, arrived dead on 11.30am and ordered a coffee. Three minutes later I texted him to let him know I was there. Twenty five minutes after that, I texted him to let him know that I was no longer there. I spent half an hour window shopping, just in case he texted or called, but there was nothing. So I walked back to my car and drove home.

That afternoon I contacted him through Scruff, but there was no response. The texts have gone unanswered too. His Scruff profile still exists but it hasn't shown any activity since Saturday morning, about two hours before our date was supposed to be.

The funny thing is that he messaged me the previous night to make sure the date was still on. I'd replied enthusiastically.

I can only guess that he had some major mental breakdown and couldn't handle meeting the guy he's been gushing at for the last week. In which case I've dodged a bullet.

Sunday: Late at night I had another date with UAM... if you can call two hours of hot, hard and extremely noisy sex a "date".

Monday: I had a date with a 29 year old catering worker.

It was an odd experience. When I got to the smart inner city bar I texted him to let him know I'd arrived, and ordered myself a vodka martini. A couple of minutes later he texted me back, saying that he was still at home, having been cleaning and rearranging furniture all afternoon.

Apparently this date was so unimportant that he'd missed the start because he'd become caught up in housework and lost track of time.

I texted back to tell him that I'd be there for another half an hour finishing my drink, so whether he wanted to come down, reschedule or cancel was up to him.

Nearly half an hour later, just as I was finishing my martini, he texted to say that he'd finished the job, had a shower, and was heading out the door. So having missed the start of the date, he'd actually stayed and finished what he was doing before getting ready and coming down.

Whatever. In many ways he was a bit of a feral - beer drinker, low grade job, badly in need of some remedial dentistry. But every time I thought I had him pegged he's use an obscure word, or mention an interest, or refer to a course of study, that marked him as being clever or well-cultivated.

We hugged each other goodbye, with promises to get together again, but I strongly suspect that I'll never see or hear from him again.

Tuesday: I had a drink with a 40 year old Italian pianist.

We met at one of my favourite small bars, full of hipsters in flannelette shirts and unruly beards. We had a little trouble with the bouncers, who were keen to uphold a bizarre law that patrons were not allowed in after 7.30pm with open shoes, and my date was wearing sandals. The fact that there were patrons inside in thongs, who'd arrived before 7.30pm, wasn't an issue in their minds. Fortunately the bartenders stepped in for me and persuaded the bouncers to bend the (incredibly stupid) rules, and soon my date and I were chatting and sipping swanky cocktails.

He was a nice guy, very easy to talk to, and we got on well. We've already made plans to go out again.

Wednesday: I had dinner with the guy with whom I had a stripper-mandated pash on Valentine's Day.

We went to a cool new Japanese fusion restaurant for dinner. Then he drove me up to a secluded park with views out over the city skyscrapers, and when we got out of the car, he produced a picnic blanket, a bottle of champagne, and a basket of strawberries and chocolates. We lay on the blanket, talking and kissing and drinking champagne.

It's the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me. Which says more about my mediocre love life than the grandeur of the gesture.

Thursday: I met up with a 37 year old insurance underwriter.

The date did not start auspiciously. I'd asked to meet him at a franchised coffee house in a nearby suburb. Just as I got there, dead on time, he texted to say that he was inside. But when I got inside, he was nowhere to be seen.

I instantly guessed what had happened. Despite the fact that I'd given him the exact address, and despite the fact that this cafe was closer to his house, he'd gone to another branch of the same franchise in the next suburb over.

To add insult to injury, he insisted that I come to him, since he'd already bought me a coffee.

So I had to walk back to my car, drive over to the next suburb, find a parking space (which wasn't easy... one of the reasons why I'd chosen the OTHER cafe over this one), then walk to the cafe and find him.

He seemed nice enough. Relatively easy to talk to, and only a little weird.

Friday: I saw this guy again, whom I have continued to see even though he remains a model of sang froid.

Much as it helps the ego to date a different man every night for a week, I don't think I'll be attempting it again. It was exhausting.

And of course I'd much rather just date one man every night for a week. But that doesn't seem to be on the cards right now.

The perverse tricks of St Valentine.

I've never celebrated Valentine's Day. I've never had a card, or flowers, or chocolate, or some schmucky poem. This year was the closest I've come to observing it, albeit rather unusually.

On Valentine's night I went to see some fringe theatre with KCG and his boyfriend, HD and his boyfriend, and, at the last minute, a guy I'd met on Scruff with whom I'd had coffee on Sunday. He'd expressed an interest in the theatre I was seeing, and asked if he could come along too. I told him that was fine, and he met us there.

He's bald and more than a little overweight, but strong and confident and fun and full of life. As soon as his back was turned HD and his boyfriend expressed, unprompted and with a little too much alacrity, that they liked him a lot more than Mr Singular. I like him too, although I wonder if I'm not too boring for him to be willing to sustain a relationship with me in the long term.

But I get ahead of myself. The late night show was an extremely edgy caberet, filled with full frontal nudity, magic tricks involving vaginas, and some audience participation that I'm pretty sure left the participants completely traumatised. But we knew what to expect, and the weird stuff was leavened with humour, song and dance numbers, and kitschy vaudeville tricks.

Following the aforementioned traumatic audience participation act, the performers told all of us in the audience that, in honour of Valentine's Day, they wanted us to turn to the person next to us and kiss them, for ten seconds. They didn't say it directly, but there was an ominous implication that non-compliance would be noted. The audience giggled nervously. As they counted down 3.. 2... 1... my date looked at me and said, "Do you want to?", and I looked at him, shrugged and said, "Yeah, sure," so when the performers cried "Go!" we kissed.

Not just a liplock-and-hold for ten seconds, but a genuine, ardent kiss, with just a hint of tongue on each others' lips.

Being forced into your first kiss by a naked, sweaty, beer-drenched man (don't ask) is an unusual way to reach a milestone in a relationship, but hey, it's something to blog about. And it definitley broke the ice. When the show got out at midnight, he walked me back to my car and he kissed me again, twice, in the street.