WHAT HAPPENS IN NEW YORK CITY...

I don’t relate to my hair stylist. She’s twenty-four and it can be painful trying to carry on a conversation. When I first started going to her a year ago, I was firm about scissors only. No razors. (I’d had a traumatic experience not once but twice with a surfer/hair cutter twenty-five years ago. He took a razor to the whole back of my head when I’d gone in for a trim.) I’m starting to think a razor might be good. It would speed up the encounter. The problem is, whenever she says something, I’m at a loss for how to respond. “Uh-huh” is all that comes to mind.

Oh, my God! I so hate honey. My mom will try to slip it in a shake or something and I just know. I’ll say, “You put honey in this” and she knows she’s busted. Honey is just really so disgusting.

Uh-huh.

I don’t even have an entry point with her topics—Hipsters (they’re like honey), broken artificial fake nails (somehow they’re very painful), televisions in kitchens (Certain channels are okay, but I didn’t follow with the explanation.).

She goes to Cabo San Lucas every year and she knows all the really nice hotels, but she doesn’t stay there because the party hotel is way better. It’s where things happen.

Uh-huh. I could have said more. I could have said, “All I want is a decent night’s sleep.”

Uh-huh.

And that’s my problem. Okay, it’s not a problem, but it makes me feel different from not only my hair stylist but from most gay men. Not gay men my age—although quite a few of them, still—but gay men at some point in their lives. Younger. Nearer to the time they came out. I’ve heard the stories. The twink in Sydney. The threeway in New Orleans. The hors d’oeuvre, the main course and the late night snack in London.

When away from home, have at it. Hook up. Let a local show you his bedroom (or dark alley) hospitality. Bring someone back for hotel sex.

I don’t have a problem with it. Do what you want. My only qualifier is, if you’re in a relationship, you honor it and whatever agreements you and your partner have made before the trip. Have a good time. I want to be clear that I’m not a prude. (Maybe a little.) I entertain the fantasy of hotel sex or something else (probably not the alley though). Wouldn’t it be freeing?! No strings! Or maybe a same-time-next-year kind of arrangement.

When I’m single, I think about this possibility before every trip. And on my trip last week to New York City, I felt open to it. But the same thing happened that always happens. I arrive and I am absolutely certain that’s not what I want. I don’t even Google gay places anymore—clubs, baths, piano bars. I know I’m not going.

I’ve thought back on all my trips and I realize I haven’t had a What Happens in Vegas/Stockholm/Dublin/Peoria experience…ever. Where’s the possibility of a relationship? I get the sense that makes me an anomaly. Again, not a prude. (Can you detect the defensiveness?) The idea is exciting but I know myself too well. The experience would be empty. Good in the moment but then…nothing. I’d rather try for that decent night’s sleep so I can pack more things in during the next day, taking in art, green space, coffee culture and observing the similarities and differences in how people interact and get around in the place I’m visiting. Nowadays it’s easy enough to have a hookup at home. The ensuing emptiness seems more fitting to deal with there than messing with my mind and time on vacation.

Without any defensiveness whatsoever, I can say I thoroughly enjoyed my trip to The Big Apple. What happened in New York may bore the hell out of some gossip-hungry gays at a Vancouver gay bar but, no surprise, I’m not going there either. So, yes, I can entertain the thought of something random here on home turf, but, as you might imagine, I think I still would prefer trying for more sleep time.

Uh-huh.