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I went on dates with older guys and learned to get their references, the same allusions to movies and television shows released before I was born that seemed to be touchstones for gay men of a certain age — of course I love !
— but I also went on dates with guys my own age or even younger, and I was comfortable with their language, too, Snapchatting selfies from my bed captioned “tired af” dotted with sleepy-eyed emojis.
There, I could be relaxed, dynamic, charismatic, prone to digressions of affectionate self-deprecation that I thought were charming — I hoped they were, at least. My internal monologue circled a nucleus of self-loathing, recursive and redundant, like a planet orbiting a sun.
I never liked myself more than when I was with a guy who liked me.
When I went on dates with successful guys, I knew what to say, commiserating over how crowded Soho House had become (it’s overrun!