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How is the coronavirus pandemic affecting your life right now? Tell us about your experiences, feelings, and thoughts.

“I was intrigued, because all he wanted was love,” or so he said. “I want love too.” West Hollywood, California, the gayest part of Los Angeles, is my home town. I haven’t felt love since March when I started to shelter in place. A lot of guys use websites to meet other men. For me, surfing these websites is kind of like, window shopping. Online, good-looking men hit me up. I message back that I’m looking for one exceptional guy in my life, and I’m not meeting anyone, without a mask and without six feet of separation, until I get the vaccine; it’s a struggle to keep my resolve, but I do. The internet is a mixed blessing. There was a time men met in bars, in coffee shops, at gyms, and even on the street, but COVID and online dating sites changed–up, all of that. I have not been touched by man or beast since I started staying at home, almost a year ago. Looking at photos of old boyfriends is not my idea of good-love, but to paraphrase an old rock ‘n roll standard, If it wasn’t for bad-love, if it wasn’t for real-bad-love, I wouldn’t have no love at all. Sometimes, I haunt these websites, looking for love in all the wrong places. Part of my cyber-cruising is a vestigial remnant of behavior I no longer manifest, and it’s kind of obsessive. I can get stuck on this Loveholic hunt for hours. But I don’t find love. And love does not find me. There is no sweet, chubby, baby cupid firing arrows into MY heart. Many websites use GPS technology; they tell you exactly how many feet away, each man is from your location. Urban legend: two guys meet on the same Virgin Atlantic flight this way, and fall in love. Really? All these sites are international, although you can break it down to the city you live in – guys are having physical encounters all over the world - COVID be damned. Scary. These days when you sleep with someone, you sleep with everyone they have slept with, germ-wise. Old friends with benefits call me and want to come by, like there is no raging pandemic, at all. I feel their needs, I understand; I’m needy, too. I have not held someone in my arms. I have not given or taken love. I have not had grand and glorious sex, for far too long and I am going kind of Kovid-Krazy. After all, I am a red-blooded, queer, all-American man, hello? COVID makes me realize that I want a guy to call my own. While romantic adventures used to be fun, what I really crave is someone to deeply love who loves me back. I want one special man; I want a boyfriend, a lover, a partner, maybe a husband. I always thought that marriage was a heterosexual construct, but now I am thinking that the pandemic caused a paradigm shift, at least in my thinking. Do you want somebody to love? Yes, I want somebody to love. I need somebody to love. When I write that, silly pop songs flood my brain, but it’s true, why dissemble, that’s what I want. The whole bit, a ring, a wedding, maybe a child, I want it all. I met George on Adam4Adam, the oldest gay dating site out there. I wrote, and in my first message told him, that because of COVID, I am sheltering in place and not having physical encounters. I continued, "I’m looking for someone sweet, manly, and honest, a monogamous lover who could be my best friend." So was George. We messaged back and forth on A4A. We exchanged phone numbers and started texting. We sent pictures. George is a handsome man; we both have beards and art collections. Straight off, George called me “darling”, which is a little off-putting. Far too much affection, far too soon, for it to be for real. Then he called me “love”, and added, “My man”. “My man,” was at least masculine. “Darling” and “love” are endearments that need to be earned with time. I started calling him, "Baby” and “Georgie,” getting into the spirit of things, but not wanting to commit. Texting only goes so far. You can’t take the emotional pulse of someone you want to love, in a text. Finally, we spoke on the phone. What a mess. His cell kept breaking up. George has a thick, impenetrable English accent, which I hope is charming in person, but combined with his phone problem, torpedoed our communication. I wanted to meet for coffee on the weekend, at Starbucks. But George wasn’t picking up on the idea. So on Saturday, I asked George if he would take a Houseparty video call with me on Sunday at 5:30 pm. George said fine and asked me to send him a link, which I did. He texts me a big red heart Emogi. On Sunday when I didn’t hear from him, I resent the link, three times. No George. “Hey George, are you there? Click on the Houseparty link. Click on the link I sent you.” He didn’t call or text. In the old days, if we had a date and you shredded a flat tire or got sick, at least you called or texted. George did nothing. Suddenly, a message from Adam4Adam flashed on my PC. “It's Sunday night...the busiest time on A4A, come join us.” Okay, I am going on the website to see if George is on, just curious. A banner cajoles me to “Upgrade to get unlimited message history.” George’s messages are gone and I forgot his screen name. I don’t want to start scrolling through the online members. I get angry, then sad. I guess I should have upgraded. An instant A4A, alert comes at me. (I forgot to close the browser). Presto, who wants a long-term relationship messages me. I message back. “Hey Presto, Thanks for reaching out, I am looking for a long-term relationship with one guy, but, you’re in Pittsburg and I am in Los Angeles, so you are not the man for me. Good luck finding somebody to love.” I closed the browser. Finding someone to love…is the universal quest… but it ain’t easy. COVID changed me up; I’m not the man I used to be. There are lots of good, man-on-man love story movies on all the big streaming sites, from Amazon to Netflix and Youtube, too. Watching them; I get caught up in characters that need romantic love, just like me. These are sweet, steamy love stories. Some have happy endings, like God’s Own Country, others don’t, like Brokeback Mountain. There is a provocative new romantic series, staged in Texas, produced by Rob Lowe, who plays the dad, a fire chief; his son, also a fireman, falls in love with a policeman. They met at a flaming car crash – hot. Their love-making scenes so needy, so desperate, and romantic; they make me yearn for a man to love, even more. And I cry when lovers die, or end their relationships, to “move on”. When I was nineteen, I had l’Amour Feu, what the French call crazy love. It made me do silly things like sing and play my guitar under the window of my lover’s college dorm. His roommates thought I was nuts. My stomach physically hurt, when I didn’t have my arms around him. A few years later, when I was almost twenty-one, Steven, was another Crazy Love. We were obsessed to lie our bodies together and passionately kiss, for hours on end. When he disappeared for six months and I suddenly encountered him on a YMCA rooftop solarium, we couldn’t help but start kissing again. I lost my Y membership over that one. So embarrassing, when they hauled us off the roof and took away my Y card, in front of everyone. When you are in a hot cocoon of love and desire and gripped by l’Amour Feu, reason goes out the window. You don’t care who sees you, or what they think. That was my history; that was the spine of my love-life. Thankful, I am that I have no more of those heart-breaking episodes, as sweet as they were. I grew up; I’m too old, for that stuff. I want to love fully, but I want to love as an adult. After a few days, George texts me. I write back: “How can you care about me, and send me big red emoji hearts? How can you love me, and call me darling, when we have never met?” He texts back, “I’m not sure you want to know.” Then I write, “Of course, I do. Tell me, tell me, please? Why? Why? Why, George? I need to know." Often in life and love, there are no easy answers. And there are no more texts from George. So I go back and join the ranks of the lovelorn, in the middle of a pandemic, that knows no end. If I was going to title this post, I would call it , Queer Love in the Time of COVID