I'd just been certified for 40 meters, and my little scuba diving self was vibrating with excitement. There was a wall dive in the Channel Islands I'd heard about and wanted to try, so after many phone calls for arrangements, and waiting what seemed like centuries for my vacation time, I went. It was everything, and more, than I'd hoped for and by that evening I felt like a conqueror. The guy behind the hotel desk seemed up to handling a discrete question, so I secured directions to the nearest gay bar. I wanted flashing lights, loud music, and...well, sex.

The loud music greeted me in the parking lot, and the flashing lights assaulted me as soon as I walked through the door. Sex, of course, is harder to find. I got a beer, smiled a lot and looked around. Couples throbbed on the dance floor. Tables were full of laughing, smiling people, and the smell of cologne was enough to make me want my tanks and mask back. All was right with the world. I wandered around, smiling, nodding, trying not to look like I was wearing a sign that said, "My balls hurt...Help me." I stopped for a second to watch two couples at a table. Four men in comfortable middle age, holding hands with their partners openly, talking and laughing with their friends. That always makes me mushy and hopeful and vaguely weepy. I sensed something and turned my head. Leaning against the wall, radiating aloneness was a man, sipping a drink and staring at the foursome with both joy and agonizing envy. I drifted over to him like a current had caught me and I'd just surrendered to it.

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