St Valentine’s Day

St Valentine’s Day lands in the gay calendar like a left over arse nobody asked for. Suddenly lurve is compulsory, and so so so visible, If you’re partnered, you’re expected to perform end of, often with military precision (so many codes and handkerchiefs, if you’re into that). If you’re single, the apps go strangely quiet, as if Grindr itself has decided to respect the sanctity of dinner reservations. Nope, that’s not going to happen. 

Restaurants roll out their “romantic” menus: microscopic portions, higher prices, and the quiet threat of sharing. Two men, one dessert, six forks. Around you, others negotiate eye contact, open relationships, and whether this counts as a date or just “Valentine’s adjacent.” Nothing tests modern gay intimacy like a fixed menu and a question mark.

For those flying solo, Valentine’s offers the familiar mix of defiance and low-grade introspection. You’re fine. Genuinely. You’ve been through worse than a pink-washed Thursday. You’ve survived the apps, the ghosting, the situation-ships, and the man who said he “wasn’t ready” while already halfway up the next relationship.

And yet — love persists. Not the branded, hetero-borrowed fantasy, but the scrappy, negotiated, so gay version: found in friendships, hook-ups that linger, chosen family, and mornings after. It turns up when it wants, ignores the calendar, and refuses to be boxed. Which is lucky, really. Because most of us already have enough of boxes.

Not that’s we’re cynical but we’ve been there and done that so many times, the fragrant whiff of defeat reminds that tomorrow, is, after all. another day.

Now bring me some effing chocs now!

The Heart | 2017 | 32s