I parked 4 blocks away wearing jeans that were on the floor of my bedroom, my workout Chuck Taylors, and a t-shirt that hadn’t seen an iron since I folded it and put away the laundry.
I didn’t bother putting on my good things: the festivity was a nude party. I crammed my poppers and vape into my tall socks and made my way down Edgewood to the venue.
It was a nondescript unobtrusive location, but one thing was certain: the beat was BEAT-ING. My edible was just starting to settle in and I got that familiar feeling of bass reverberating through my body. I could feel the rhythm in my chest hairs and I loved it. Showed the security my id; the doorman my ticket; disrobed and I was in.
This was my first real outing as a newly single person. It took my all of 7 minutes to realize I was LIVING. A couple people tapped me on the shoulder to thank me for plugging Reveal on Dear Black Gay Men Podcast, then disappeared into the night. While I enjoyed conversing with that man, I was firmly back in the dating pool and this party reminded of why I love it here.
Being single ain’t for everybody.
I have this sweatshirt that my best friend got me that says, “I better be married by 40, if not, hoewell.” When he gave it to me, I was in a relationship so the idea of marriage by 40 felt pretty certain. Now, September 2025 will mark my 40th time around the sun and shit ain’t looking good.
But the gotcha is that I love being single. I love treating boys with my definition of care. I love being used to make them feel good while I do the same. I love being replaceable and the frivolity that affords me. Perhaps this new chapter of single will be different.
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