Sex as Currency: Side Effects of Loneliness
By: Chuy G. Gonzalez
Tags: Self Love, Gay, Online Dating, Human Parts, Self Worth

In pursuit of wholeness in the age of online dating.

Alive by Chuy G. Gonzalez

I guess you can say I am a late bloomer when it comes to sex, relationships, companionship, intimacy, or any of its derivatives. I have always been the wallflower, the one sitting in the background absorbing the room and studying people. The introvert, too shy to speak, too awkward, and preoccupied to occupy space.

I didn’t start dating or hooking up until my last year in grad school. I was 24 years old and ready to spread my wings. I had been so focused on being the first one in my family to obtain a college education that the thought of dedicating time to other interests was out of the question.

One evening while tending to my research subjects, my tomato plants in the greenhouse and jamming out to Miley Cyrus’ Bangerz album, I decided to download an array of dating apps (e.g., Grindr, Jack'd, etc.). I was so close to finishing my graduate degree, and I finally felt free to focus on other things aside from school. I was ready to loosen up, and give in to the conventional desires of finding the one, or at least, the one for right now. Absurd, I know, but when one is raised on cheesy telenovelas, and romantic comedies, it can easily become a trap filled with unrealistic expectations. And it did not disappoint.

My first encounters were awful, to say the least. My first time, like for many of you, was not special. He was 5' 6'', 22, white, stocky, and way more uncomfortable with the ordeal than I was. Maybe it was his first time also, or perhaps it was his first time with a guy. He cringed the whole way through, I mean at least the whole five minutes, which felt like an eternity.

Wasn’t I the one supposed to be in pain being that I was on the receiving end? Could it be that he was hurting more than I was? Whatever the cause of his discomfort might have been, I couldn't bear the weight of it all. I had to stop the nightmare before we were left scarred for life. I stopped riding him, told him that it was hurting too much, news that appeared to be music to his ears, like a sign from the heavens given his sudden calmness and almost thankful demeanor. As if this wasn’t humiliating enough, I still had to drive him home.

The whole drive over, I wondered why the whole thing was so disastrous and uncomfortable for both of us. I knew that my disappointment was rooted in the pre-imposed notions of how it was all supposed to go, but his discomfort was something I had not anticipated. Our online exchanged had been so steamy. My god was he a good salesperson. I dropped him off and although we both said we would stay in touch I am sure we both proceeded to block one another. I placed my Bangerz album on the CD player and blasted Miley all the way home.

The subsequent affairs were a bit less dramatic and more straightforward. They arrived at my place, we walked to my room, got on the twin college dorm bed, and proceeded to indulge in the lust of it all. Before we continue, no I was not a hoe, at least not back then anyway, I was simply exploring and making up for the lost time. Over time, with every encountered under my belt, things seemed more enjoyable, safer in a sense — I was beginning to understand my body, what felt good and what didn’t.

It had been two weeks since my arrival in Guatemala City. Still fresh to the gay dating scene, I was ready to fully immerse in all of its cold, muddy glory. I finally had my own place and with it came the opportunity to host at all times. Something that in the past had been a huge limiting factor. This opened the floodgates and men began trickling in.

I am unsure if it was the warmer climate, the more constrictive society, or the self-prescribed repressive nature of the men I was with, but my encounters with Central American men were more passionate. As if every minute mattered more. I had never laughed more, cuddled more, or developed a deeper appreciation for my body than during my time in Guatemala. Majority of the men I was with, glorified my skin tone and indulged in the wholeness of my body, concepts so foreign to me that took me months to fully comprehend. I often joke with friends, that I helped cure world hunger, given the number of men that sucked on my breast.

Perhaps my bed and the walls around us gave us permission to be limitless, allowing us to fully embrace our personhood, where even our internalized homophobia couldn't hold us back. Perhaps our bodies colliding and legs intertwined gave them and me, the freedom to let the weight of the world and crippling societal norms slowly roll off our backs.

As time when on, after every affair, my body started to feel numb, more dependent on these fleeting moments for wholeness and validation. Each and every single session of meaningless sex was a desperate attempt to seek refuge in the arms of strangers. I craved company and compassion. Every touch, every kiss made me feel desired, loved, and seen, even if it was for a minute.

Looking back it at now, I realized that I was using sex to remedy my loneliness. I was using my body as currency for affection, devaluing its worth and letting all kinds of men dictate its value and mechanization. Although there are very few things that I would change from this whole experience, I can’t help but wonder if we are left more damaged trying to fill the emptiness with fleeting, superficial, meaningless sex? Is the remedy a more dangerous poison, seeping deep within our bodies, slowly causing deeper wounds?