The Summer of '24

Boston in the summer is supposed to be magical: getting shitfaced at Club Cafe, late-night walks by the Charles, and meeting someone who might actually text you back. Instead, my summer felt like a poorly written telenovela—except everyone was gay, emotionally unavailable, and had an ex lurking in the background like an unpaid extra.

Take Ian. I hooked up with him on what he said was his first day in the city. Wide-eyed, uncut, sexy tattoos, hot body, and an even sexier smile. The next day, I hooked up with Miguel, who was just as charming but a little distracted. It wasn’t until the post-hookup small talk that I learned the truth: Ian wasn’t just new to Boston—he was Miguel’s ex. You can imagine my shock when I realized I’d accidentally auditioned for a starring role in their breakup drama.

And then there was Dylan, a therapist who spent his days helping others process their trauma and his nights losing himself at Legacy, his Boston gay club of choice. He was hot, charming, and psychoanalyzed me in two minutes flat, but his attachment to the dance floor rivaled my attachment to emotionally unavailable men. Our fling began with promise—deep conversations, meaningful glances, and just enough sexual tension to keep me hooked. But Dylan, being Dylan, didn’t want to rush. “I’d rather we take it slow,” he said, which I interpreted as code for, “I’m not into you, but maybe we can be friends.” When I told him I was tired of the whole hooking up to just becoming only friends routine, he reassured me: no pressure here at all. Sweet, right? Except later, when I tried to clarify what “taking it slow” looked like, he hit me with, “You’re systemizing it too much.” Translation: Feel less. Think less. Be less. But how do you think and feel less with someone who leaves you standing alone at a club, dancing with strangers while refreshing your texts?

Louis, the Harvard twink with charm to spare, came next. Our first date was a whirlwind of honesty and vulnerability—he told me about his avoidant tendencies and how he craves intimacy but finds it hard to trust. It felt like a moment. We couldn't keep our lips off each other while sitting on the benches beside the Charles. I cuddled him and played with his hair as we watched the Boston skyline from the Cambridge side. We went through at least four tallboys of Mike's Hard Lemonade, with a second date plan made for Friday by the end of the night. Then, halfway through the week, he texted me: “Not to manifest the avoidant you thought I was, but this is too much too fast.” Classic Louis—running at the first sign of genuine connection. Honestly? Iconic. If emotional unavailability were an Olympic sport, Louis would take home gold.

Andrew, meanwhile, came straight from Grindr to my apartment. I told him I wasn’t sure about meeting, but he insisted, hopping in the shower and driving over like he was auditioning for a Fast & Furious spinoff. Things moved too quickly, and I froze. I apologized, told him I wasn’t ready, and he left graciously—but not before spending the rest of the night active on Grindr and Tinder. I spiraled, mapping out his every online move, checking my texts, and wondering why he couldn’t just tell me he got home safely.

Evan was different—or at least I thought he was. My first three-month situationship, he deserves his own blog post. I don't think I've ever even gotten past the third date before. A Pisces man with big feelings, soft eyes, and an uncanny ability to bring up other twinks at the most inopportune moments. We were inseparable—texting nonstop, spending weekends together, and sharing things I’d never told anyone before. But the deeper we got, the clearer it became that I was just a warm body keeping him company while his heart stayed stuck in the past. It wasn’t until I hooked up with Riley that I finally saw it for what it was: Evan wasn’t mine, and he probably never had been.

And Riley… well, Riley was a short top who changed my life. He swept in like a summer storm—quick, intense, and completely unforgettable. Riley made me feel seen in a way I hadn’t before. But the magic of Riley wasn’t in what we had; it was in what he helped me leave behind. I'll always miss my D.C. twink! 

Chris was still mourning his seven-year relationship. Nico moved to Tennessee before we even had a chance to figure out what we were. Forest moved to Seattle. The Evan (another Evan) who I bonded with over his research about Zika virus fizzled out as quick as it started. The sex with Javier was great, but he was just another whore Deloitte consultant. David reminded me that fem tops deserve more love than they get, while the other David made me wish I was back in California, far away from the chaos of Boston dating.

Then there was Christian, the TikTok influencer whose life looked like a highlight reel of parties, thirst traps, and captions stolen from Pinterest quotes about self-love. Christian was spontaneous, his dick big, and the sex was great until I realized his ex was getting more airtime in his TikToks than I was in his actual life. Watching him talk about his ex felt like subscribing to a drama channel I didn’t sign up for. By the third time I saw his ex pop up in an Instagram Story, I half-expected a “Like and Subscribe!” banner to appear.

And Christian—different Christian, this one from Tesla—was a man of contradictions. He could write poems about EV batteries and market disruptions but couldn’t commit to something as simple as dinner plans. Every text exchange felt like scheduling a meeting with a CEO who “circles back” after three weeks. His favorite excuse? “I’m super busy right now.” 

Kyle, the biotech twink, came with a different kind of chaos. Sweet, nerdy, and perpetually optimistic, Kyle was like a freshly published research paper—exciting at first glance, but with glaring inconsistencies as you read further. His attachment style mirrored his lab results: sporadic, confusing, and prone to error. One moment, he was talking about how attractive he found me, then he told me he couldn't have sex with me because I was his friend and he couldn't get hard. But then he would start making out with me and leading my hand to his member, and then we would stop and pet his cat instead. A week later, he posted a story of him, his parents, and his uncut Brazillian twunk boyfriend on vacation in Cape Cod. 

There were so many others—Brady, who was still not over Dylan (yes, another Dylan, that I also had a fling with); Luke, the avoidant neuroscience major twink who went to Northeastern, is the bane of my existence (although if he texted me again, I would make out with him in a heartbeat). Joe, who I made out with in the rain and opened my heart to while lying on the Esplanade counting stars, only to be friend-zoned faster than you can say 'twink' three times.

Creighton and Jordan (both were two lanky yt twinks who went to Brown, autistic, and confusing as hell) taught me that sometimes you need a decoder ring to figure out if you’re dating or just really intense pen pals. Dylan (the therapist) told me to work on myself, while Dylan (who sent good morning texts for a week straight with no response after we hooked up) reminded me why I don’t really need to. 

Honestly, I've lost track of the amount of love triangles I found myself in the middle of. 

And how could I forget Elias? The BPD twink who turned my life into a beautifully destructive whirlwind of drama, passion, and chaos. He swore all he felt for me was lust, but he left a mark on me in ways I’ll never admit out loud. He was everything I should have avoided, and yet, I couldn’t stay away.

By the end of it all, I wasn’t just exhausted—I was angry. Angry at the men who left me on read. Angry at the ones who ran the second things got real. But mostly? Angry at myself for bending over backward for men who wouldn’t even lean forward for me.

I changed so much for them. For Evan, I re-downloaded Snapchat, kept my Duolingo streak alive, curated playlists, and sat quietly while he snapped his hoes and swiped on Tinder while we were in bed together. I gave Louis the benefit of the doubt, even when his actions screamed, Run, Jay, run for the fucking hills. I let Dylan dictate the pace, even though I knew he was still figuring out his own. For Andrew, I let him into my space even when I knew I needed solitude.

But the truth is, it’s not just about them—it’s about me, too. I overthink. I overfeel. I let slow replies and vague texts unravel me like a $10 H&M sweater. My texting needs are like a full-time job. I get so caught up in the what-ifs that I forget to focus on what’s right in front of me: men who aren’t ready, aren’t interested, or just aren’t enough.

By the time August rolled around, I wasn’t asking “What are we?” anymore. Instead, I was asking, “Do I have a fetish for emotional unavailability?”

I was tired, exasperated, and maybe just a little wiser. My summer wasn’t about finding love; it was about finding myself in the in-between moments. The hookups, the heartbreaks, and the hilarious, messy connections that make life worth living.

They say every connection teaches you something. If that’s true, then every man I met this summer gave me a master’s degree in knowing what I don’t want—and a PhD in writing blog posts about it.