It was one evening, over glasses of rosé and a huge bowl of popcorn, that Carson, Alec and I were discussing one of Carson’s recent conquests and his frustration with the LA hook-up culture we all begrudgingly take part in. Well, most of us anyway. Was it bad to be beautiful in LA?
Alec, the most (?) civilized and prim and proper of the three of us, only found sex appropriate when he was REALLY into someone (no pun intended). And when that occurred, he had a horrible habit of being really into straight men, so things weren’t exactly on the up and up for his love life.
Between sips of wine, Carson candidly posed a question in his signature rapid speech pattern. “It’s so stupid. Every person walking down the street is more beautiful than the guy you just saw. How can we keep up?”
Just that afternoon, Carson had invited an ex over to his house to “cuddle” which was code for something Alec and I could only imagine, and as he walked said ex out to his car after their “cuddles,” Carson noticed a striking Middle Eastern man in all of his scruffy glory, jogging past his apartment, shirtless, of course, because, WeHo.
Carson bid adieu to his ex and watched as another muscular slice of bro-ish heaven sped down the street in a Jeep Wrangler, catching eyes with Carson as he drove.
Alec nodded and raised his wine glass in agreement. “Here, here, girl.”
And Carson was absolutely right. Everyone in Los Angeles is beautiful. Well, not everyone, but the stereotype certainly exists for a reason. I got to thinking: if gay men in this city are always chasing the next best thing, what hope do any of us have for a relationship?
Or better yet, do any of us really want a relationship, or is it just something we say to get people into bed with us? I felt like an anomaly. Was I the only one who valued monogamy?
I drove home that night up La Cienega Boulevard, past the endless billboards of gorgeous supermodels, scantily clad, advertising that week’s hottest fragrance, when it dawned on me: cute doesn’t cut it in LA. You have to be hot to get noticed.
As someone who self-identified as being cute – and also being completely comfortable with that label, knowing full-well that I might never advance – the idea bothered me. Are gay men in Los Angeles so superficial that they’d lie about wanting a deeper connection just so they can experience carnal pleasure with someone society perceived as “hot”?
I mean, it’s exhausting. In this land of Botox-ed lips and collagen smoothies, it’s no wonder no one feels like he’s good enough. If we aren’t perfect, we fear that we’ll be used up and discarded for someone more attractive within the week. It’s like when aging housewives become paranoid thattheir husbands are sleeping with their big-busted receptionists — that’s how gay men in Los Angeles feel constantly. But, you know, of course the big breasts are exchanged for other “big” parts of the male anatomy.
So what’s the solution?
As a gay relationship writer, I found it my duty to try and find one. The next day, I asked Alec to coffee at our local Starbucks and probed his mind with my usual set of intrusive questions. TO READ MORE HERE, CLICK HERE