TNG reader Jack submitted this piece.

This is a declaration of new love. That corny, uninhibited, only-see-the-positive joy of a crush in its first stages, before things inevitably calm down, or go just a little bit sour. I’ve had this plenty of times before with guys, but this time it’s different. It’s not a guy. I’m crushing hardcore on Washington, D.C. and all you adorable, friendly, well-meaning and earnest (if slightly uptight) homos.

I know a love like this can draw scorn. I wilted a little when I stumbled across whyihatedc and I’ve grown used to the embarrassed laughs and averted eyes when I say too much. But I know all that is just for self defense. You’ve grown a thick skin over the years and don’t see how beautiful you are. Since I’m well aware that the luster soon will fade, and I may lose my giddy infatuation, I hope you will allow me to seize the moment while it lasts and tell you why I love this gay old town.

I’m from New Hampshire. I grew up in a cold, dark place that boasted more cows than cock suckers. Snow suffocated everything for six months of the year and the local bar closed at ten o’clock. A good Saturday night was a bonfire in a field. A bad (and typical) Saturday night was hanging out in the Foodstop parking lot for four hours and then going home. One of the local cops was called “Twink”- but that was because he always ate Twinkies. The unintended joke was lost on everyone but me.

I moved to D.C. in January and suddenly I’m like that guy that uses his Facebook status to broadcast love notes to his boyfriend. It’s embarrassing. But I can’t help it. First of all, is anyone straight in this town? And why are you all so nice? Complete strangers say “good morning” on the street! Do they want to sleep with me? Are they trying to take my money? Do I know them? We don’t do that in New Hampshire. If a stranger says “hello”, you give them a funny look and cross to the other side of the road.

And what’s with all these dinner parties and happy hours? I had no idea there was so much to celebrate and be happy about. But there is! People invite you to their housewarming parties thirty seconds after meeting you for the first time, and everyone’s always “doing lunch” or brunch. Ah, brunch. I didn’t even know that meal existed. This is probably because only gay men eat brunch. Apparently nobody else is hungry then.

And don’t get me started about the weather. It’s March and I went for a bike ride on Sunday in shorts and a t-shirt. Where I’m from, March is when you celebrate your first bath in four months. And the boys! Sure enough, everywhere I looked I saw homos. Like spring bulbs cheerfully exposing themselves to the world after a winter spent underground.

There are literally all kinds of you here. In my first few weeks of work on the hill I thought I could never get my fill of guys in slim-cut suits and pink ties. Then I discovered the guilty pleasure of staring at fratty, sweatpant-clad Georgetown boys on their way to the gym. And now, after hitting up the TNG party and Taint last week (It’s called Taint? Really?), I lie awake thinking of bearded men in tight jeans and plaid. No seriously, I swear I recognized this bike messenger who zipped by me today. The last time I saw him I think he was hanging upside down, shirtless, from the rafters at DC9.

People tell me that D.C. gets old. It’s a small town, they say. You get tired of the same old bars, the same old faces. Pretty soon you leave, or you move in with your boyfriend, buy a jeep and a dog and are never heard from again. But everyone who tells me this says it with a smile. They’re still here. Who knows. Maybe I’ll get sick of you after a while and stop listening to the “Crush” playlist on repeat on my iPod. But for now, it’s my first spring in the District, and I’m in love.

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