Not only my patented theory of course since I've seen this particular hypothesis expounded several times elsewhere - and the number of caffe mochas I've shared with my ISO as we argued over late nights can back this claim up. If you'll recall, I mentioned something about love hurts a few days back so here's my take on that.
Though I'm sure I'll hear a hue and cry denouncing such a blasphemous claim, a large number of gay men are all little hormonally-driven, prepubescent teens when it comes to love. Hence the frequent chaotic drama and hysterical soap-operatic complications therein.
It's not our fault. Seriously. Throughout our school life, we try our best to suppress all our deepest feelings and budding emotions - hiding even the smallest hint of our sexuality like a tightly guarded Vatican conspiracy in fear of exposure, out-machoing even the biggest brainless jocks in school in the hopes that no one would even dare raise a question while blatantly bluffing our way through the various rituals of straight boy culture. And then hastily averting our secret lustful gazes when the self-same high school jocks start to strip for the showers.
What if I just took a bite?
Hiding your budding feelings for the hunky football hero. Trying not to shiver in an obvious manner as that increasingly handsome best friend brushes his hand against yours. Afraid to make a move in case everything goes wrong and bloodshed ensues. That's a whole lot of suppressed emotions and hormones boiling within just waiting for the right trigger to make it explode.
Then once we're free from the restrictive ball-and-chains of high school, we go all out crazy wanting to try out the delicious smorgasbord of men available for sampling, vainly trying to compensate for what we all missed out years back in school when everyone else ( heterosexual that is! ) was too busy in the proverbial backseat finding out what the whosits and whatsits were for.
Whether we're 20 or 30 ( sometimes even 40! ) when we finally break out of that infamous closet, we're still all awkward pimply freshmen at heart. Is it any wonder that when we first come out, our woeful dating skills are sadly almost comparable to those of a blubbering, oversexed neanderthal?
Adam : Duh.
Steve : Ugh.
Adam : You. Me. My cave. Ooga ooga.
Steve : Ugh.
Sometimes - no matter how blatantly sexy and fuckable he looks in that shocking pink Armani tank top and painted-on denim ( or Ferragamo fig leaf as the case might be ) - Steve doesn't even progress beyond that monosyllabic grunt. Still. A whole decade of pent-up boiling testosterone drives us and honestly, there's very little discernment when the blood's running hot in the veins. At that time, I'd have fucked a damned letterbox if it would stand still long enough. Add that to the fact that despite several amazing evolutionary leaps, we're still all faithless, wandering males ( albeit a little bent ) searching for that impossibly perfect genetic mate and it's obvious that commitment's practically a four letter word to some.
Still there is hope. We do grow up in time - and start yearning for that Pottery Barn inspired home with Himalayan whistle kid included in the package. But for some of us, it takes more than a full decade of reverberating thumpa-thumpa gay disco beats before that happens. Patience is the keyword here. :)