Jedidiah Jenkins on Love: An Exclusive Guest Post from the Author of Like Streams to the Ocean: Notes on Ego, Love, and the Things That Make Us Who We Are

 I was late to love. I had my first kiss at 27 years old. I had sex for the first time at 30. This isn’t all that unusual for a gay kid raised Evangelical Christian. Especially one who isn’t so handsome that someone else’s passion overrode my piety. I guess this doesn’t mean I was late to love though. I knew love from longing. Male friendship. Best-friendship. Soul mates. I wrote love letters in the shape of gratitude-poetry to my male friends. I thrived on their attention. On their compliments. On their brotherhood.
It is a clarifying thing to have who you love a subject of debate. The very nature of my attractions, loving other men, was scandalous. Waking up into myself was a minefield.
I’ve learned that who I fall for has everything to do with who I think I am. Specific inadequacies I felt as I developed have woven into my desires, my body seeking to heal what it lacks through intimacy. I found that I was attracted to whatever wasn’t me. I was seeking sexual dimorphism: a repudiation of myself — like a mutant from X-Men, one who could absorb someone’s power through falling in love with them and having them fall for me. There’s also a relationship theory called “Imago.” It’s this idea that inner wounding seeks out its cause. We are attracted to the source of our hurting from childhood. I clearly do this. Maybe we all do.
So much energy is given to finding love, being attractive enough for love, being lovable, maintaining love. What does this mean? Certainly, it’s the unthinking progress of evolution. But our consciousness is also along for the ride: I think we want love because we want to feel worthy of existence. We want to feel not only that we are here, but we are wanted. We belong. We are hungered for.

It’s a humbling thing to examine the nature of your own attraction. To see what wounds are behind the wheel. In my quest for love, I’ve found that I have been attracted to people who are not sure who they are. And this makes them noncommittal. I am attracted to the “new gay” who is coaxed out of the closet by my confidence and my words. They tell me how amazing I make them feel. How safe. But they don’t know much else. They listen to my slick words, explaining human sexuality and the gay man’s velvet rage shaped by oppression and repression … and they take a step into themselves. But what happens? Now they are free, and I was the door. And they walk right through the door and head out into the world. Why do I do this? Because I feel unworthy. I feel unsexy. And so, if I take a fragile baby bird, and give it something that feels like safety, I have a purpose. And perhaps this purpose, this power, makes me worthy of their affections. More specifically, their bodies. Their intimacy.
I’ve recognized this in myself: “Why do I always date guys who have never had a boyfriend before? Why do I date younger guys?” I am trying to be worthy. I felt so late to sexuality, I felt so unlovely that I found some other thing.
This recognition doesn’t change the direction of my attraction, at least not yet. It just lets me spot a potential problem sooner. It lets me see my motivations and potentially prevent a catastrophe.  Perhaps it will let red flags be stop lights instead of yellow lights that I speed up to make it through. This remains to be seen.
The crux of what I’m saying is: the unexamined heart is doomed to confusion, repetition, and ultimately bitterness. It will see the world as rigged against it. It is our job to look closely at our motivations, to parse out who we love and why, and ultimately, grow toward a love that is healthy. I am far from this, but as one of my favorite quotes goes, “A problem well-stated is half-solved.”