As a single gay man, new in town, I’ve chosen the internet to be the main route to make new connections.

My close friends, with whom I’ve kept in contact since leaving Dublin in 1993, are, of course, still a joy to know. But like many 40 and 50-somethings, most of them have got kids and busy lives now. Which means the old frequency of contact is just not possible. A universal law of relationships, across the board, is that couples tend to socialize with each other or other couples, and single people get left out. That’s not sour grapes – it’s just the way of the world.
Like many single people, of whatever sex or sexual orientation, the net seems to offer, at least in theory, the opportunity to put your best foot forward and present yourself to the world, and, simultaneously, to get a sense of another person, before agreeing to meet. I remember when I first discovered the net, back in the early ‘90s, how excited I was at the prospect of having a personal profile saying something about me and my life, detailing my interests and passions, with a few smiling photos and a general invitation to anyone compatible to get in touch and start a dialogue.
I saw it as a vast improvement on the main alternative for me at the time, hanging around bars on my own, and being someone who enjoys conversation and a good debate, I thought that, from the comfort of my own home, I’d be able to tap into a nexus of like-minded people and instantly become a popular social being. There would be no need to go up to ask strange silent men in bars if they “came here often” or if I could buy them a drink, hoping to click instantly and discover a warm heart and a generous soul, or at least share a joke; internet dating could offer a meeting of minds, first and foremost, and then companionship and friendship (and perhaps romance) would inevitably follow.
How innocent I was, then. What I failed dismally to appreciate is the extraordinary reluctance of so many men to socialize, to be relational beings. And, as a subset of men, those of us who choose to spend time in virtual worlds are often those least comfortable with real companionship and sociability. The net allows men to get away with expressing desires and fantasies that are, in essence, anti-social, contrary to easy and relaxed acquaintance and friendship. Our desire to stay in control, to consume and to exploit, to take without having to give in return, to place sexual pleasure as our first priority, and to avoid the complications of relationship or accountability to another, is given free rein on the internet.
We are our own worst enemies, because repeated studies show that men are far more content in relationships; and yet, left to our own devices, we often go out of our way to demonstrate that the last thing we want is relationship, which many of us associate with far too much discomfort and loss of control. At home alone with a computer screen, the virtual world of infinite possibility overstimulates and undernourishes. It can be a thrill a minute, as much of an addictive rush as cocaine. Or perhaps a better analogy is sport, or computer games – fast moving battles of wit and strategy that are engrossing and escapist.
My straightforward “decent” dating profiles lasted only a few years, and I can think of only one friend I made through them, someone who is just as conflicted as I am over the values and pitfalls of the internet, but whom I could easily have met anyway socially in Dublin, as we have friends in common. The sense of rejection I felt when my grinning photo and open-hearted musings about life, the universe and everything did not produce a queue of men eager to get to know me was of course an offence to my narcissistic belief that I deserved relationship and lots of friends, just for being me.
I realised that if I couldn’t beat them, I should join them, and so began a far more “successful” run of internet profiles that didn’t bother about polite introductions and were far more about instant gratification. Contrary to my expectations, these racy profiles have provided me with far more friends than the ones of which my mother would approve; because anyone with an ounce of wit or heart getting in touch with me, with a similar appreciation of the absurd, would be met with an immediate agreement to drop the game-playing and meet for a laugh over a few pints.
The internet gives one the illusion of living in a “big city”, and offers the tantalising dream that, somewhere out there, there is someone who can meet every need one has, sexual, emotional and intellectual. But paradoxically, the smaller the community, the better the relationships, as people let go of impossible dreams and fantasies, and have to start dealing with the regular but endearing disappointments of being human and fallible, and learn the value and the cost of interdependence and of passing the time pleasantly with each other.
Those who can’t bear paying that price end up in big cities, generally, as I did for half my adult life. Coming back home, for me, is as much about a willingness to abandon those old defences and controlling patterns as anything else.
Ireland, a small country, has taken to the internet with gusto, and yet the “big city” syndrome of treating people as being disposable playthings has yet to catch on to any serious degree. (Although, to my horror, I saw my first Irish “bugchaser” internet profile this week.) Like anywhere, there are exploitative assholes leaving a wake of bruised hearts behind them, and so it shall always be. But in the main there is a genial sense of humour and a less brutal way of engaging with each other, among men in Ireland, than I encountered in cruel-cool London, and that can only be a good thing.
I only hope it lasts.