Throwing back without throwing out my hip, my back, my pussy, or my crack.

Has there ever been a time when sex has not predominated my mind in one form or another?

The name of this blog, Fucking Alfresco, is named after the last of my old LiveJournal accounts. The LiveJournal account name was an allusion to "eating out."


Earlier tonight I was talking with one of my BFFs about internet app dating. I've been dating via ads, starting with Yahoo Personals, since 1999. I wrote an essay about it in 2002, which I can't now quickly find, but I found something even more amusing: a LiveJournal entry I wrote about internet dating.

Names have been changed, though no one is innocent.

eventtime  2002-11-13 07:01:00

Argent revived my old addiction last night. No, not that one. No, not that other one. No, not that one, either. The more recent one. Meat market time! And I am the consuming tofu. Before long, I had me a big old shopping cart full of flesh that I will never bother to take out of the check out counter; it will remain forever in my hand basket until I finally sigh and get in there and delete it all, frustrated with myself for having gone shopping in the first place, frustrated that I did not make an effort to buy anything, frustrated that -- in my mind -- there was nothing worth buying. That fucking market, that sickening shop of horrors with its evil ways!

In the six months that I had ads up I had more than one hundred responses. I met most of the people who wrote to me at least once. Do you know how many I keep in touch with? I think six. Now granted, some of these have become my closest and dearest friends, and I have scored more than one fully functioning relationship thanks to the personals. Most of my other friends (and for their sake I will not name names because I know many are touchy about the subject and get quite embarrassed) have put ads up on Salon, and while it was P-funk who got me started and he I and were always Nerve aficionados (sex! more sex! and... wait for it... sex!), the ads have always been overwhelmingly successful for most of us.

Who gets booty? We do. As Bitter and I drunkenly and loudly discussed with everyone who would listen one night at Marx, internet personals are the way to go. They make dating, no -- fucking -- incredibly easy. You essentially put your name on a list with a little CV and a picture and then wait, as a potential applicant, for your potential partners to accept you. You do not wait long; it is an instant gratification culture that we live in. I remember some nights of hitting 'submit ad' and having a response within five minutes, and a date for that night in another fifteen.

Sex, then, was something that could be had at the click of a mouse -- any time, anywhere, no matter how much you had already had nor whom you had already had it with: the beauty of the internet personals was there was little to no intermingling between competition, and therefore, no one came with warnings or gossip. No one had a case history, a background, a significant other, an STD, or two other dates earlier in the evening. There were no problems. You did not need solutions. You just needed a little luck and a few rubbers (or a little rubber and a bit more luck, depending on who you were). It was shopping. "Tonight I'll take this one for the first shift, and this one for the late shift, and this one to wake up with." It was a meat market. It was easy. There was no challenge.

Which is why it grew boring.

Which is why I stopped.

Well, one of the reasons.

So why did I return tonight? Damn you, Argent! I warned you of this. I have not returned, as such. I am browsing the aisles, tentatively placing items in my cart. I have my CV on display in the hopes that potentials will jump into my basket so that I will not have to reach for them. But ultimately, I am going to get to the check out and leave my basket on the counter.

And I admit it -- maybe I will have one or two items shoved in my pockets on my way out the door. Old habits die hard, and I do like me some tenderloin from that market, eh, D?

A week after writing this, I would go on to have a one-night stand from getting picked up at a bar – not from the internet – and that one-night stand would change my life. It was that night that I tore the labrum in my left hip (I told that story here, on Bawdy Storytelling, in August of 2000). For my body, it's all been physically downhill since that night.


Why mention any of this now? Because I reactivated a dating app about a month ago and I have nothing but regrets. As I told the aforementioned BFF earlier tonight,

Idk if it's [the] upcoming holidays or the weather or just everyone's going through some shit, but every single person on the dating app I am using has left me on read for days now.

I feel like every other profile says "please be in therapy" and "I need direct and honest communication" but no one seems to follow through on any of that.

[someone I saw for a few weeks] had the nerve to tell me he has abandonment issues and then just, like, basically disposed of me without communicating [that he was done]. What is wrong with people.


I've been going through the wars of late, more so than usual. I wrote about it a little over a month ago but I didn't hit "publish" until tonight. That post, explaining a little of what's been going on with me of late, is here. It's just a snippet, but a long one.

Why I'm trying to meet people when I have the above going on, when there's nearly a triple respiratory pandemic happening (RSV, SARS-COVID-19, and influenza) and I specifically have immunodeficiency for respiratory illnesses, is, as they say, another story. One that I don't feel like tearing into at the moment. (For those who actually know me, my partner and I are great, and my getting back on the dating app has nothing to do with that relationship.)


One day, I might actually start writing again. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. But currently feeling unlikely. These days, I'm afraid to let the words out.


I want to speak my mind about the parallels between sex before effective HIV/AIDS treatment and socializing during a respiratory pandemic. I want to write without fear. I'm tired of fear guiding my life – but I want to live. I want to live, so fucking much, it literally hurts. My fears of writing and fears of getting sick are inextricably tangled together in a knot that rivals Gordian's. I've got to be my own Alexander the Great and cut through the damn thing, but guess what? I'm afraid of sharp edges... including my own.