Dear Diary,
Last night, I attended an extreme gay party. On the surface, it was enjoyable—vivid lights, energetic music, and beautiful people—but if I’m honest, I wished I were at home with my boyfriend, curled up on the couch, watching a movie, and heading to bed early. That’s how I imagine Sundays should feel: warm, intimate, safe. But that’s not my reality. I’m single. It’s a hard truth to admit, but I feel lonely. Sometimes I just crave love—or even just the illusion of it—just to feel good about myself for a fleeting moment. So when Kevin (not his real name) invited me out, I said yes.
Kevin and I used to work together at a luxury hotel. I didn’t like him at first—I was jealous. He had this boldness, a way of expressing his feelings openly, while I buried mine beneath a façade. Over time, though, I began to see him for who he was: someone a lot like me, but different in one key way. I masked my pain with a perfect-world illusion; he masked his reality with lies. His eyes betray his own hidden trauma. Maybe that’s why he constructs a life he can control.
The party itself was nothing extraordinary. I’ve been to countless events like this—shirtless men with gym-sculpted bodies, pulsating house and techno music, the inevitable darkroom. But this one had a lounge area where drag queens performed, adding a touch of vibrancy. Kevin was already waiting for me when I arrived, but as soon as I stepped inside, my social anxiety flared up. My mind raced, so I did what I always do in these situations: I started drinking. I don’t get drunk easily, but it helps me loosen up.
The night was predictable. I made out with guys, exchanged numbers, danced a little, then repeated the cycle. It’s not a lifestyle I love, but it temporarily numbs the emptiness. It’s hard to explain—it’s not fulfillment I’m chasing, just a fleeting connection.
Later, Kevin introduced me to William, a former friend from my early days in the city. William and I used to be close, and occasionally, we slept together. But our friendship ended when I realized he had feelings for me. I couldn’t bear watching others take advantage of his kindness. William comes from wealth—his family owns penthouses and shopping streets—but he’s never flaunted it. Despite his financial privilege, he’s a vulnerable soul, awkward and kindhearted. Seeing him last night, I could tell he still harbored feelings for me, even after seven years.
We danced together, the three of us, until I started kissing a random guy. But I wasn’t feeling it, so I slipped away. On my way to the bar, I bumped into a guy I’d dated the week before. He seemed so interested during the date, but then never texted. Oddly, I found myself drawn more to his friend, who clearly liked me too. But I’m not the type to pursue someone else’s date. After some awkward conversation, I walked away.
Upstairs, I locked eyes with a handsome stranger. Our mutual attraction was immediate, and we started kissing passionately. He told me his name, but I’ve forgotten it. We exchanged Instagrams before I left to find Kevin.
Back downstairs, I ran into Kevin, who was stepping out for a smoke. While outside, I met another man—muscular, with chest hair. He wasn’t my usual type, but I felt drawn to him. There was an unspoken tension between us, but I didn’t make the first move. Later, on the dance floor, we found each other again. This time, he kissed me, and we danced together, lost in the moment. It felt magical, like we were the only two people in the room. For a while, we lay together in the lounge, watching drag queens perform, before parting ways to find our friends.
The rest of the night was a blur of encounters: a trip to the darkroom with one man, another kiss with the guy I’d dated last week, and an encounter with a gorgeous blonde who turned out to have a boyfriend. It was all so fleeting, so shallow, yet I kept searching for something deeper in those moments.
By the end of the night, I was exhausted. I wanted to go home, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing. On my way to the train station, I decided to visit my ex. I hadn’t seen him in months. Our relationship was toxic—jealousy, mistrust, constant arguments. I wanted to love him, to build a future together, but we only had fleeting good moments, not good days. When my grandmother died, we broke up for good. I shut down emotionally, buried myself in work and fitness, and went on countless dates, but none of it healed the void. I needed closure, and seeing him one last time felt like the only way to move on.
When I arrived at his workplace, he wasn’t there. Another man was on duty. I felt a pang of disappointment but kept walking toward the train station. The night had come full circle, leaving me with the same emptiness I’d started with. These parties, these fleeting connections—they only mask the loneliness for a moment. When the music fades, I’m left with myself.