After three months (give or take five or six) of advertising my hot 24-year-old ass all over Southern California and parts of the Florida coast line and Germany (a guy’s gotta travel, right?), I settled into a self imposed exile from all things dating, screwing, flirting—if it involved testosterone in any way, shape or form, I steered clear, retreated into the nether regions of my brain and focused on work, the perfect distraction from men—provided you keep a bottle of lube and a washcloth nearby at all times.  

My move to Los Angeles last year coincided with something every gay man I know is loathe to admit—that moment in life when you realize you’re past all the hook-ups, the random, meaningless dates, the games, the guys you don’t call back, the guy who don’t call you back, sneaking out the back window of a guys condo while his boyfriend stumbles through the front door and asks if anyone else is in the house—been there, done them all and the latter, at least, was all because he failed to mention a significant other. Gotta love the gays.  

Yes, I moved to the most superficial, super sexual city on Earth in a moment when I suddenly came to the realization that I was ready for a relationship… and knowing full well people don’t find that special someone when they’re looking, I entered into this year long dance of dating folks I didn’t really feel a connection with just for the sake of dating and, in moments of weakness (or as I prefer to call them, dire straits), weeding through the closet for a pair of ass hugging jeans and that snug t-shirt that frames me just so to ensure the wee hours of Saturday morning would not be spent alone.  

As many of you know (and folks from other cities, I’m sure you have your complaints too), dating in Los Angeles is infuriating to say the least. You’ve got your guys who say they want to date but really all they want to do is screw—they just mask it with that preface because “let’s grab a bite sometime” sounds better during cocktail hour than “I want you on all fours.” You have your guys who are in relationships but have suddenly decided to open things up… Whether they let their partner in on that little revelation is anyone’s guess.  

Once you weed through the druggies, filter out the actor’s in their tenth year of the biz but all they have to show for it is a Wendy’s commercial—discard the excessive gym bunnies, anyone still ordering from the International Male catalogue and guys who drive Jags and BMWs but still rent apartments in WeHo adjacent, you’re left with a small pocket of gays who are actually ready, willing and able to do the whole coffee thing before sucking you off and kicking you out.  

But there are standards. No fattys, no fems (but you still have to know the difference between Diesel and Dickies). You’ve gotta be clean (of AIDS, not necessarily meth if it’s after 3am and you’re horned), educated, employed, nice, teeth, great tan, solid social network—if it’s tres L.A. and you don’t got it, get cracking.  

Knowing this, I spent New Year’s Eve at a circuit party. I know, I did it to myself. Before I keep going, let me say, for the record, I am not your standard circuit party type. I love good music, booze and shirtless men as much as the next person, but people actually have to ply me with alcohol to get me to make it up past Leno. Some event that drags on until 6am where people who pause for a snack are looked upon as weak is not my typical scene.  

But I did it, because that’s what my friends had planned and I managed to score a free ticket for myself. And I figured, ‘It’s New Years—you can hunt for a man in ’07… Kick back, relax, dance and have some fun.’  

Mary J. Blige sang me into midnight with “Be Without You”, directly followed by Christina’s “Ain’t No Other Man” and a little Whitney for good measure. In sea full of men who are looking for anything but love, I sure got the message loud and clear.  

I went home with someone—I know most of you are thinking when the booze are a flowing I’m a ho just like the rest of them, and to that I’d respond that you probably make a valid point. But in my defense I also attribute the fact that in a sea full of horny men, love being the last thing on their minds, if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.  

That doesn’t mean I’m done in my quest to say goodbye to the single life forever for the time being and get a taste at a happy ending in my dating life—but on a holiday fueled by booze, drugs and (in my case) the nachos I downed shamelessly midway between the Hollywood Palladium and hook-up, the point seemed moot.  

But if at first you don’t succeed …  

The Single Life runs bi-weekly, Mondays on GayWired.com