COVID Made Me GAY

It was late one evening, at dinner time, when my mother broke down in tears. A first for my then 29-year-old-ass.

We don’t cry in my family unless we are watching a sad movie. Even then, it’s a game of who can blink their tears back in the quickest. We don’t hug or kiss unless outside airport terminals and we only text “Love you!” right before takeoff, just in case the plane goes down.

Seeing my immunocompromised mother cry right in front of us, chicken still half-chewed in my mouth, I knew this was serious.

It was April, 2020. We had been hearing about this killer disease and every night we saw the case numbers creep closer to our own social circles.

After consoling her by saying that this would fizzle out in a few weeks (we were a bit short), I escaped to my bedroom.

Is this it? I thought. Is this how we go?

And more importantly: Am I going to die before getting to be gay?

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The first whiff of queerness arrived when I was 13, in a random dream where I saw my cousin laying in bed wearing bright blue briefs. I hovered towards him, Nosferatu-style, until my hand was but a millimeter shy away from his bulge, only to suddenly wake up.

That night sealed two fates: I was going to have a fluid sexuality and I’d never see the 3rd act of any sex dream.

For the next 15 years, bogged down by toxic prejudgments and not exactly feeling “100% top, masc to masc, no smooths, no twinks,” I was like: Why even bother? I’ll just carry on as a straightie, occasionally lusting for Zac Efron’s biceps like any normal, liberal dude.

But then COVID and the threat of imminent death appeared.

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In January 2022, I moved to Vancouver with three goals: be social, be gayer, and marry quickly to stay in the country. (I’m still missing the third, please inquire after the show.) By nightfall, I had downloaded Grindr.

“How goes it?” a faceless profile asked.

What does that mean? How goes what? I thought. “Hi. How are you?” I replied.

Though surely thinking I was a little slow, this faceless man kept texting and before I knew it he shot: “Send pics.”

“Ok. What do you want to see?”

“Dick and ass,” he replied.

What an assertive man, I thought. I hadn’t planned in advance, so I quickly scrammed to take some pics lest I lose the attention of this prized individual. I was more pressured than aroused, so my photos didn’t represent my full potential. Even so, I must’ve charmed him because he then shared his location.

I was staying at an Airbnb near 41st and Knight. The map showed him across Duffin Donuts, south of a Shell station.

“On my way,” I sent, and my body started shaking uncontrollably. Oh – wow. Being gay is super fun, I thought.

I went outside. The wind had picked up and that Pacific Northwest mist felt a bit like horizontal rain. The weather and my nerves were wreaking havoc on my Mexican skin.

As soon as I turned the corner where this dude lived, I froze. It was a dark, damp, and scary-looking backstreet. I’ll get murdered, I thought. I’ll star as a victim on one of those Netflix exploitative documentaries about homosexual cannibals, confirming my parents’ belief that gays are ‘More passionate than straight people’!

I ran back to my Airbnb.

“Sorry. I’m actually kinda cold – lol,” I texted.

“No problem. I get it. You’re new at this. I could tell,” the would-be-cannibal replied.

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Even though I eventually wanted to find my legally Canadian partner, I wanted to have some fun before committing. Unfortunately, within the following weeks I discovered I sucked at hookups.

It would always go something like this:

1 – Get horny EXCLUSIVELY after 11pm on a weeknight and find a suitor after an extensive background check.

2 – Invite them over after making sure—just in case—that they knew my big, rugby-playing roommate was sleeping next room. (I live alone.)

3 – Shiver uncontrollably during foreplay. “Are you okay?” “Just cold,” I’d whisper next to my roaring heater.

4 – Say goodbye with a “Sorry. I think I’m just tired,” after failing to finish the deal. “But coffee sometime?”

5 – I’d get blocked.

My body refused to cooperate with my desire for casual sex. After a few lukewarm wins, I theorized hookups weren’t my jam. I was, apparently, a monogamous family man.

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A couple months after, I had moved into my current place—a garden suite located in one of those “scary backstreets” which, turns out, are quite lovely. My Grindr exploits had slowed down since I started dating this dude who, I was sure, was going to be my forever.

Being my first homosexual relationship, I unfortunately fell infatuated with the guy, which made the text he sent me one night hit like a brick:

“Hey, I think I see you more as a friend.”

“Oh—“

“And I’m also kinda married.”

“Ah.”

I was not looking to break up a marriage, but I was baffled. What happened? Am I boring? Ugly? Not gay enough? What does his husband have that I don’t? Pick me. Choose me. LOVE ME.

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“Can you fart all over my face? You’re so hot,” read a message on Grindr. I had gone back to the app after a couple of weeks of listening to Sam Smith, journaling, and burning letters.

“Oh – wow. How does that work?”

“Special chair. You sit; I put my face under it.”

Despite just having a protein-heavy dinner, I politely declined. I’m pretty open but wasn’t in the mood to take that kind of a dive.

“You know you can monetize this?” my brother said after I shared the screenshot.

“I don’t think my visa allows for this type of entrepreneurial venture,” I replied.

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Months turned into years of me being on every app and meeting random men. I got better and more confident in my hookups and dates, but something still hadn’t quite clicked. Much like snow in Vancouver, nothing stuck. I was still missing something. I kept having these brief connections that led only to me sending them off into the night.

In January 2025, my brother and best friend both moved away during the same weekend, leaving me at zero: no friends, no family, no partner. After allowing myself a two-day pity party, I got to work on a new, more critical mission: finding community.

I started attending every event or public meetup that came across my desk. Running groups, drag show events, art exhibits, board game nights—nothing was off the table. I started dancing with strangers at 1181, cheering queens at Junction, sharing beers with bears at Pumpjack. And slowly, something started to finally click.

In my limited view as a prejudiced baby-homo, I thought being gay meant being a regular dude who happens to have sex with men—which is true. But I’d missed that being anyone means being a universe of thoughts, history, connections, feelings, beliefs, perspectives; and being part of a community meant sharing these universes.

By hyperfocusing on trying to find sex and partners, I had been living vicariously through morsels of experiences men shared with me between climaxing and the door.

It is through actively participating that I’ve started to scratch the surface of actually being part of a community. Talking to people, sharing stories, and celebrating one another is what has made me feel closer to “being gay.” And what a joy it’s been!

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“If you ever need your pits licked, let me know,” someone texted me the other night.

“Sure,” I replied. “… but we gotta be quiet. My big, rugby-playing roommate is sleeping next door.”

I still live alone.