The Love of My Life

So here’s something I’ve been struggling with for a long time, but it’s gained some renewed urgency since the recent death of an acquaintance.

A couple of weeks ago, I heard about the death of a guy I knew. I wouldn’t presume to call him a friend, because we didn’t know each other well enough to share that title, but he was certainly a strong acquaintance. We’d sometimes run into each other socially, we had lots of friends in common, and we shared a mutual—if limited—respect for each other. He was well-known and well-liked in the community, considered attractive, came from an affluent family, was successful, travelled a great deal, had lots of friends, widely acknowledged as an all-around great guy…and he died single. Yes, he was surrounded by family and friends, and a reported 1500 people attended his viewing, but as far as I know, he left behind no partner, no significant other, no “special someone” with whom he shared life, love, and home. He died, at the age of 44, never having met “the love of his life.”

This very circumstance has haunted me on a subconscious level for quite some time. Friends and family members often tell me what a “catch” I am. They assure me that any guy would be lucky to have me as a partner. They promise me that “the right one” will come along, probably soon, while I’m not expecting it, and almost definitely when I’m not actively looking for it. I spend a lot of time and energy trying to meet good guys, I’m selective about the guys I spend my time with, and I refuse to “settle.” I have a pretty high opinion of myself, and I think I deserve someone who’s worthy of my time, energy, heart, and mind.

But it hasn’t happened yet. In fact, it’s never happened. Last month, I turned 47. I’m one of the smartest guys I know, I’m fairly successful, I’m a responsible person, I’m healthy, I’m attractive (especially now that I’ve busted my ass getting into shape), I’m well-groomed, popular, have a variety of interests, good sense of humor…the list goes on. Let’s just say that I would definitely date me.

On paper, I would seem to be a strong contender for Lafayette’s (or Indiana’s or the Midwest’s) Most Eligible Gay Bachelor. So why is no one beating down my door to ask me on a date? Why do I seem to draw interest only from guys in their 60s, or guys who are grossly overweight, or guys who’ve never had their act together? Why the hell am I still alone?

In a recent email to a former contender for the “Love of My Life” (he is now happily partnered to someone else and living many, many miles away from me—and I’m totally happy for him. No, really. I am. I swear), I wrote the following, in response to his question, “What do you think will make you happy?  Do you think adding anyone to your life will improve it?”:

“I want someone I can turn to when I need support. Someone I can pour my heart out to. Someone who will help me and love me. Someone for whom I’m a priority. Someone to fall asleep next to every night and whose embrace in the morning will make the start of my day just a little happier, a little easier. Someone to call when I have good news to share. I don’t honestly think I’ve ever had that in my life. I’m tired of being lonely. I’m tired of always being the strong one. I’m tired of being the only person I can ever really rely on. Even friends keep leaving. I want someone who will choose to stay with me.”

Yet even admitting that makes me feel weak. The last thing I want is to come across as a gaping black hole of emotional need. But, in the words of a great singer and lyricist from Manchester, “I am human, and I need to beloved—just like everybody else does.”

I see lots of happy couples—both gay and straight—and I’m thrilled for them. I certainly don’t begrudge anyone the love that he or she deserves and the love they’ve made together. I just want it for myself—and for my future husband. Who I have to believe is still out there somewhere. I just haven’t met him yet.