I don't like going out to bars or clubs by myself. It's almost like I've developed a phobia about it. I'm scared I'll look awkward and pathetic, and since I stick out wherever I go because of my height, I can't hide. But mostly I'm scared I'll come home feeling depressed because I interacted with nobody. The odd thing is that I used to go out so much by myself when I was in my twenties. But when I stopped going out last time, in my early thirties, it was because I'd suddenly realized I wasn't enjoying it, and that it was in fact doing nothing but making me feel lonely. So that reasoning stuck with me, and got built up in my mind to this phobia.

I really wanted to go to the big circuit party, Alegria, the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, but neither of my two friends in New York wanted to go. So I sought out some company on Gay.com, and set things up with a young Japanese man named Masa. We arranged to call each other Wednesday night, and make arrangements. When he called, I realized that communication was going to be a problem, since his English was poor. But he sounded warm and engaging on the phone - quick to laugh at his mistakes, so I felt relieved. We agreed to meet at my place, then walk over to Sound Factory, which was only about ten minutes walk over to the Hudson.

But he was late, and as the minutes kept ticking by, I kept thinking I'd been ditched, and I'd face the choice of either going disappointedly to bed, or going out by myself. Then the phone rang, and it was Masa. He was lost, and I thought to myself Oh Lord what am I getting myself into here. Ten minutes later, he finally found my place, and we met outside and set off towards Sound Factory. He was twenty-two years old, fairly tall, and skinny, with bad posture, but a friendly face. Our conversation was easy, and I decided things were going to turn out okay for the evening.

Although it was 11.45 when we got to Sound Factory (a big 'SF' flag flutters outside - I've often gone running past that flag, and I thought it stood for San Francisco), the place was dead. It was still far too early for most New Yorkers to go clubbing, so we went to a 24-hour diner on 11th Avenue for a coffee. There were only two other customers, both sharply suited, amply hair-gelled, goodlooking men in their early thirties with an air of accustomed authority to them; plain-clothed detectives as I later realized when one of them flashed open his wallet to reveal a shield.

We got to Sound Factory (the second time) around 12.15, but things didn't really get going until 1.30. We lost each other after our first period of dancing, when I left the dance floor to go to the toilet, and that was the last we saw of each other, apart from a brief sight I had of Masa dancing with someone a couple of hours later. I was determined to be more forward than in the past, and did indeed approach a couple of guys who took my fancy - with mixed results. One (achingly beautiful guy) was friendly, and we chatted for a while; another smiled but continued dancing. A few guys approached me; a gorgeous black guy, boyfriend in tow, hung around for a while, running his hand playfully over my abs; and I danced with a cute Asian boy before he lurched off to sit down somewhere, saying he was too high to dance.

Usually, when I've ended up at a club by myself, after an hour or so of dancing interrupted by periods of walking around looking at the crowd, I start to feel discouraged, and head home. What was I looking for? I guess, a repeat of some other enjoyable nights out, where I meet a cute guy, and we dance together. This time I decided to stick it out, and eventually I did meet somebody, a lean, muscular Phillipino with big, beautiful eyes and a sexy, masculine way of dancing. I first caught sight of him as he walked past me. Then, to my delight, he paused and looked back, and then went onto the dance floor, turning to look at me and smile. So I joined him. Before long, we were dancing close to each other, holding each other, grinning. Even as late as a couple of years ago, I could never have imagined that I could be so free with a complete stranger.

At around five, we left together, and walked back to my place. In the streetlight, bundled up in a heavy coat, hat and scarf, he looked older, as I imagined I did to him also. He was friendly, playful, and a little bit arch; a nurse by profession, living on the Upper East Side. In bed, he proved to be very affectionate, which was something I enjoyed at first. But later, as I tried to go to sleep, I began to wish he would let go of me for a while.

We were woken up rudely shortly after nine by the marching bands of the Macys Thanksgiving Days Parade, which was proceeding, floats and all, right past my building. It was nice to wake up with a sexy, warm man next to me, and we made out lazily to the sounds of the parade. But I began to feel restless again; this physical intimacy is something I'd been craving. Now I had it, and it felt too much. Or rather it was that the emotions weren't there to support it. So I got up, and took a few photos of the parade from my balcony, and took a shower. After he'd showered too, we met a friend of his at Route 66 for brunch, and that was that. I wonder if I'll see him again.

On Friday, I had another unexpected sexual encounter. I'd chatted online a few days earlier, when looking for someone with whom to go to Alegria, with a very cute young guy named Steven. We'd subsequently talked on the phone, and had agreed to meet up on Friday for coffee. On the phone that morning, he sounded a little awkward, and for some reason, when I met him, I expected that he wouldn't be interested in me. He was even cuter in person than in his photo, which only served to intensify my feeling that there would be no sparks between us.

But we had pretty good conversation, sitting in a little cafe on Eighth Avenue, while I scoffed down a post-gym lunch of quiche and pecan pie. He was smart, and funny, with an endearing accent made up of a mix of English, Texan, Chinese and French. After lunch, he needed to go use the bathroom, and since he lived right round the corner, we stopped by his place. I'd been self-massaging a genuine crick in the neck, which he'd noticed, so when he emerged from the bathroom, he offered to massage me. He had a tiny apartment, so the only place to sit was on the corner of his bed, with him sitting behind me. And he surprised me by immediately pulling off my t-shirt. And, as you'd expect, things pretty much accelerated from there. It really did take me by surprise.

Yet I felt awkward still. Certain types of guys have that affect on me - usually short, young, cute, compact guys like him. I become very self-conscious of my height, and the acne on my back (a result of my treatment for chronic fatigue). And, well, it was also that I really wanted more from him than sex. Going straight into sex with him like that just felt cheap. I wanted to get to know him, to feel affectionate towards him. But he just wanted sex. I tried to oblige, but couldn't get hard to save my life, despite his continual praise. And eventually, I put an end to things, gently saying that I felt we just wanted different things.

Afterward, I didn't feel badly about what happened. It's all part of the experience, part of my time here in New York. I guess it left me thinking that I should be careful what I wish for .... What do I really want from guys? And why is it so hard to find?