PeakDash

Six months ago, I decided to abstain from sex for a year. During my first months of celibacy, I resisted temptation by signing off dating apps and staying in on Saturday nights. But I soon found myself missing the stream of messages and texts blowing up my phone.

Even if those conversations never amounted to substantive relationships, they had become my escape from the daily grind. Every buzz represented a feeling of hope that I could be forming a real connection with someone in my community, both gay and geographic. Although I’m able to handle certain elements of my libido on my own, porn and hand lotion don’t make you feel happy or connected — or make you breakfast in the morning.

Recently, I rejoined Tinder and started going out to the gay bars again. On one of these raucous nights, while watching my friends scour the room and sift through Grindr on their phones, I quietly realized I had reached my six-month mark of abstinence. And I began to wonder — not for the first time — if celibacy was worth it. Was I really learning anything, or was I just depriving myself of one of life’s natural joys?

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As someone who spent much of their sexually formative years in the closet, kissing other men has become one of the most joyous experiences in my life. I relish that moment before, when you’re both inching closer and closer, catching his breath in yours, lips nearly connecting, holding out until the last possible moment until the urge is too powerful to resist. Then the moments in between, resurfacing for air, staring into each other’s eyes, seeing him smile. Kissing has become a celebration of who I am, of finding and achieving something I didn’t always think was possible.

I still enjoy kissing, but often I feel as though I’m being left behind when I refrain from going further. Being a part of a community that is most simply defined by who you have sex with, a lot of guys have an expectation that you’re down to fool around, and it can be disheartening to be labeled as a letdown. Each time I met a guy out at the bar, I kept wondering: What exactly am I accomplishing by parting ways when the lights come back on? Why couldn’t I have one night of fun, exploring each other’s bodies then parting ways, no strings attached? It seemed everyone around me subscribed to a sex-positive outlook , so why couldn’t it work for me?

My answer came when my friend and I were looking through his Snapchats: I glimpsed about 10 seconds of a guy laying seductively on a bed, a caption beckoning my friend to join him for another roll in the hay. He typed a quick, emotionless response before moving on to the next snap, appearing to forget all about the guy in his phone.

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Seeing his reaction to that Snapchat, I recognized a piece of me that I didn’t like. I remembered when I used to throw myself at guys who were only interested in me as a passing thrill. And I remembered how I hate that feeling, how it keeps me up at night. I’ve come to learn that I am attracted to guys who are emotionally unavailable or simply seeking a quick bang. But I’ve also realized that I am not powerless in these encounters. They may not be giving me the emotional attention I want, but it’s empowering to treat myself with the respect that I want from others.

I may be celibate for now. But I don’t want to be isolated from my homosexuality. I don’t want to be a prude or an apologist for my community, because being gay is so much more than who we sleep with. I want to watch genderqueer Canadian drag queens in smeared makeup lip-syncing to Alanis Morissette. I want to spot a boy swimming in a lake and work up the courage to talk to him, to invite him out to a club, then shamelessly make out on the dance floor. I want to play on my gay soccer team, where we fight hard on the field while keeping it fabulous, celebrating goals with screams of “yaaas, queen!”

I’m learning to embrace this line I’ve drawn for myself — as the guy who can go out and celebrate my queerness with friends old and new, while choosing to save my body for deeper connections. I can be a part of my community and maintain my sexual autonomy. Unfortunately, another tie that binds us together is the continued discrimination, which includes the Food and Drug Administration’s restriction that, to give blood, gay men must abstain from sex for a year.

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If it weren’t for my sexuality, I would have been able to give blood multiple times by now, no questions about my love life asked. In the wake of the Orlando shooting, it’s impossible to ignore the absurdity of a rule that keeps many queer people from helping their injured peers in a time of great need. But this is not new — the struggle continues for LGBT people in countless other arenas, including in housing and workplace discrimination and where you can go to the bathroom.

Even if I’m on the sidelines when it comes to sex, I will never be on the sidelines when it comes to supporting my community.

READ MORE:

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