WARNING: THIS POST IS ABOUT AS DARK AS I GET, DON’T READ IT WITHOUT HAVING YOUR GUARD UP. I’M ALSO WELL AWARE THERE ARE MORE ASPECTS TO GAY LIFE THAN JUST THIS PERSPECTIVE – BUT RIGHT NOW THIS IS THE ONE I’M GIVING SOME AIR TIME.

I literally have no hope left for the gay community. I’m 37, going on dead. I was born into a world of people, but I fear I will die in a world of internet-addicted, mindless animals. I came out in 1993, in Sydney, to a gay scene that was vibrant, colourful, out and proud. Here I sit not twenty years later, and the community has been decimated by the Internet. Completely, utterly decimated. As a whole, gays everywhere have become a sick group of animals who have completely lost their ability to interact on any authentic level, who have fearfully squashed themselves into simplified categories of drop-down boxes, and who banish entire groups of their own kind based purely on unwanted physical characteristics that do not fit the Gay-For-Pay Porn Model Image. We demand equal rights, but treat each other like sub-human animals, and worship the Straight Man as God-King.

We are an un-community. We have become a consumer product. We are the iGays. We have lost our souls. And we don’t even know it.

I have never felt more ugly, unworthy, and disgusting as I feel now. I have become so acutely self-conscious and lacking in esteem that if I actually venture out (despite this having become a pointless expedition of being ignored and judged, and watching small groups of gay males ignoring other small groups of gay males), I’m too uncomfortable to even dance anymore. I have no joy left in my life, because I have lost hope that I will ever share my life with another person. I look at other gay men, older than me, who have literally given up on life, and I used to condemn them, revolted by their apathy, but I am starting to understand them, understand why they feel so ripped off by this existence. They are labelled “bitter old queens”, but they deserve love and respect. Not everyone is strong enough to “keep on keeping on” in the face of this monstrously soulless life that is called Gay.

After having consumer culture rammed down our wide-open, cum-drenched throats for decades, after being heteronormalised to the point where we deride our own selves for being “gay”, our only desire has now become this:

It doesn’t matter what any of us look like – fat, ugly, beautiful, handsome, young, old, white, African, Asian, or whatever – THIS is the only acceptable partner for our lives. And if this is the ONLY ACCEPTABLE OPTION, then we are in a really bad state, because there is simply not enough of these Adonis Fantasy Men to go around.

We no longer see human beings and learn to love them, explore them, lock eyes with them and feel the exhilaration of romance and falling in love. We just log on to Grindr, the gay slot-machine, and repeatedly “load more guys” waiting for a jackpot that will never come. We are addicts, just like any common gamblers addicted to their machines. It doesn’t matter how many beautiful, similarly-tortured, like-minded souls send us a message, because unless they are this dude above, we are simply not interested.

We ignore, block, or prick-tease our way around our fellow brothers-in-pain, compounding the sense of self-hatred onto ourselves, and projecting it onto others. We salivate over these perfect guys, (perfect on the outside, not anywhere else), who exist only on our screens in porno fantasies. We throw ourselves repeatedly at them, we have childish tantrums if they ignore or reject us, and we pull our hair and wail about our accursed single-lives.

We deny our true desires, and claim we want only NSA FUN, because we don’t want to look needy and desperate, BUT THAT’S EXACTLY WHAT WE ALL ARE. It’s also really convenient to claim we’re “not after a relationship” because it makes our job so much easier when we “accidentally” forget to message that last fuck back. There was nothing wrong with him, he was hot and sexy and made us cum, but he wasn’t our jackpot, he wasn’t our Knight in Shining Hot Top Masc Str8 Acting Armour come on a white horse, torso exposed, muscles rippling, cock large thick and hard, ready to pound us endlessly into a multi-orgasmic nirvana happily ever after till Cher turns back time (eeew a gay icon, that’s so gay, it’s making me soft to think about her! REAL MASC MEN ONLY. NO HOMO. NO FEM.)

We have denied an entire half of our sexuality (our versatility, the fact that we have a cock AND a hole) and become addicted to bottomness, searching endlessly for the Hot Masc Top to save us, refusing to ever supply the pleasure we are addicted to receiving. We have shoved ourselves into heteronormative gender roles of masculine and feminine, man and woman, husband and wife, top and bottom, big spoon and little spoon, pitcher and catcher, top bunk and bottom bunk, and LITERALLY HATE OURSELVES for it. Oh, we claim we are versatile, but first opportunity it’s legs up and open high in the air, come save me Top Tarzan Man! If we allowed ourselves some love and romance, as we once did, in our fledgling days of true pride, we might fall for a man deeply enough to want all of him, and to want to give all of ourselves, not just our holes. But nope! Our sex addicted bottom-selves won’t allow this, (after all love and romance, those aren’t “masc things”, those are girly concepts, right?), and it’s easier to just BLOCK, PULL THAT LEVER, LOAD MORE GUYS, JACKPOT? BLOCK, PULL THAT LEVER, LOAD MORE GUYS…

BLOCK. PULL THAT LEVER. LOAD MORE GUYS…. and then pull that trigger because right now, in 2012, a bullet seems preferable to looking at another headless, soulless torso with the word MASC written above it.