A.
Random
Sex v Romantic Sex – which is better?
Admittedly, I
cannot adequately represent this debate.
Like everyone, I have a deep appreciation for random sex – especially and
disturbingly on Thursdays (a night on which I have learned to stay in, safe,
warm, and single – and away from Lil’ Jims (deadly on a random night) and
Jackhammar (only slightly less so)). But
is random what I truly want?
Even when cruising random sex, I still tend
towards the romantic – a small kindness, a shared taste in favorite shots, woolen
tweeds, a love of books, seminary gossip, the mature heady smell of fresh
roses, the less mature, still heady smell of cheap college-aged colognes… I am
a romantic. The boy might be random, but
something, somewhere has triggered a memory of romance and nostalgia.
Chicago remains a
city of romantics – relationships, even hook-ups, are still face-to-face and
negotiated in person. People hang
together and there is a comfort in the on-going sense of community which
extends even to long-time visitors from the Twin Cities, Grand Rapids and that
grey area west of the Red Line.
Learning to again
navigate the gay scene in the Twin Cities has been disappointing though. Only Chicago can match Twin Cities’ classic
bars such as the Saloon, the Eagle-Bolt, the Town House or Camp. But the Twin Cities, America’s highest per capita gay
community, has in my absence, gone digital, which is great for randomness but
not so hot for romance.
Hooking up
on-line is so one-dimensional. It can be
done, but what can one really say – “I like the shape of your neck where you
cut it off to avoid a headshot,” “er
nice bulge,” or “the way that you spell versatile really turns me on?”
One just cannot
aspire to any depth or discover a sense of romance from a photo and 280 characters
or less.
Of course, random
is great for marrieds, the closeted and suburban gays, but as for me… I’d
rather date someone I know and might actually see again, if only for the
romance. I’ll stick to the bars, turn
off the phone and wait for my prince, “Did you say Jaeger? Sambuca?
Jameson? Is that Stetson? Eternity? Aqua Gio? Harris Tweed?”
B.
Frank Deford’s morning sports commentary on public
radio (WBEZ, KNOW) focused for Valentine’s Day on the romance of pro- on pro-
relationships in sports. Deford deftly
defended Brent Musberger’s recently gauche commentary on the beauty of Miss Alabama
during his coverage of the BSC Championship Game, noting the romantic tradition
of Miss Alabamans dating the hot athlete (disclosure: though many would call my own athleticism into question, I did date a Miss Georgia Peach for an entire weekend).
Having
family established in the South, I, unlike many Midwesterners, understand that
being Miss Alabama (or Miss Georgia, or Miss Mississip) is a true athletic
calling (as is cheerleading in a Texas-sort-of-way), but my interest in Deford’s
defense of Musberger quietly turned from gay indignation to gay despair. You see, of all the professional athletic
hook-ups mentioned by Deford as romantic Valentine’s Day sports role models,
none of them were gay. What about Sheryl
Swoops? Matthew Mitcham? Martina Navratilova? Wade Davis?
Gay! Gay! Gay!
Wait. Wait. Wait.
