“I have been dating someone, and I’ve decided to see him exclusively.”

I was stunned, silent.

A homeless man approached and demanded $2 for cab fare to get two blocks to the Goodwill before it closed. A group of diners and others around us began fumbling for cash. There was a bit of a commotion.

In addition to the fact I’d just been dumped, the scene became surreal.

“I wanted to tell you after we sat down for dinner. I cannot believe this is happening.”

“I can,” I said.

We were about five minutes into our third (and, apparently, last) date. We were sitting outside the Olive Garden on Sports Arena Boulevard in Point Loma. When he chose the Olive Garden for our date, it should have been a warning sign. Rule No. 1: Never trust a man who opts for cheap, chain dining.

He quickly changed the subject. “I’m in the process of filling out grad school applications, so I’ve been busy ...” I stopped listening.

The hostess called his name. On our way to our table I detoured into the bathroom.

I sent a cryptic mass text message to friends: “I just got dumped at the Olive Garden.” I wanted to puke. Instead, I yelled an expletive, startling the man who walked in to use the urinal.

When I returned to the table, my thoughts were scrambled, and I didn’t hide it well. Friends have always said I have all the subtlety of a brick.

Sometime after his Tour of Italy and my chicken parmigiana arrived, I mustered all my class and courage to say, “So, tell me about the boy you’re dating.”

At the very least, it would make for entertaining fodder over drinks with friends later.

“Well,” he said. “He lives in Los Angeles …”

I stopped listening, but took cues when he stopped talking to spew some quasi-supportive “Of course long-distance relationships can work” bullshit.

When we parted, we hugged, said our goodbyes, and I immediately began to rationalize what went wrong.

“He just wasn’t that into me,” I told friends later over cocktails at Martinis Above Fourth.

“Oh Jesus, this again,” one said.

I’d read the popular self-help book He’s Just Not That Into You a few months prior, and it had become my Bible.

“No, no, really – he just wasn’t that into me,” I said. “He’s fantastic. He was honest. He was kind. I adored him. He just wasn’t that into me. In fact, he so just wasn’t that into me, that he actually chose to date someone who lives three hours away, versus dating me, who lives three minutes away. He didn’t choose me.”

“Well he’s an asshole,” another friend said.

“No, he isn’t, and that’s why I’m disappointed,” I said. “He’s actually incredible – and he was honest, which is more than I can say for most men. He took me to dinner to tell me to my face he was dating someone else. Most men just wouldn’t return my call.”

“The point being, I got dumped at the Olive Garden, and now I’m back on the market.”

Technically, I suppose, I was never off the market, and I don’t know that rejection on the third date qualifies as being dumped, but for the sake of this story we’ll proceed on those premises.

I’ll be 26 years old in two weeks and I’ve been single for … let’s see … 26 minus three months … I’ve been single for 25 years and 9 months. To be fair, I’ve only been dating for about four years, but I have become the quintessential single gay man. I’m consistently attracted to the wrong men, or men who, well, just aren’t that into me. I’ve dated all types of men, from 19 year olds to 36 year olds, Mac geniuses to gym rats, law enforcement officers to less-than-law-abiding citizens, models and Mary’s and military men and students and servers – it’s exhausting, in truth, but this short list is by no means exhaustive.

Where is this going? What is this story about? Is this a 2,000-word personal ad?

I certainly have a point. It is this: Dating is unique in San Diego, particularly for gay men. It differs from dating in Los Angeles or San Francisco.

“San Diego is a bedroom community,” said Patrick Perrine, CEO of MyPartner.com, a matchmaking site for gay singles. “There is a large population of young gay men who are out at Rich’s, and there is another population of people in relationships, who either don’t go out, or who host house parties with other couples. In San Diego, there’s a big divide between singles and couples. In San Francisco, there are a lot of couples with single friends, so there is less division between the social networks.”

Patrick makes an interesting point. Dating is made easier when you have a larger social network, which includes singles and couples. In truth, I’m a bit of a snob, so the challenge here was to expand my social network, schedule four dates or dating activities, and document my experience looking for Big Love in San Diego. I’ve always believed in Big Love – sweeping, grand romance, butterflies, and the thud, thud, thud your noisy heart makes when Big Love looks you in the eye.

My colleagues thought it would be fun for me to document my adventures in dating for the Gay & Lesbian Times Valentine’s Day feature. I’m a good sport, and thought it might be fun. I intended to go on eight blind dates, set up by friends. My friends, though, proved useless in introducing me to new men. So, I ventured out to find the victims on my own.

Now, you’re wondering why I’d have dinner with a bisexual woman. Let me explain.

I’ve run out of men. I’ve dated you (yes, you!) and your boyfriend. There are no men left.

I joke. At 22, I convinced myself I wasn’t gay. “I’m bisexual,” I explained to friends. “Big Love is about compatibility, not labels,” I lectured. “I’m capable of loving any person, regardless of anatomy.”

Since, I’ve realized this: I’m gay, gay, gay. I love women. I’m just not capable of loving a woman.

All that aside, I figured this would be an interesting experiment: a date with a successful, attractive, intelligent, independent bisexual woman. Essentially, she is everything I want in a man.

She’s a colleague of mine, someone who I respect, and when she called to ask if I’d accompany her to a restaurant opening last month, I jumped at the opportunity.

When we arrived, we hit up the hosted bar and sat down to dinner. There was never a lull in conversation – we chatted about writing, our industry, dating, relationships, we laughed and laughed and laughed.

I can’t for the life of me figure out why she’s single – particularly considering her dating pool is twice the size of mine! We concluded the city has something to do with it – it’s the weather or lack of seasons or overwhelming quantity of beautiful people. Yes, we decided, San Diego’s to blame.

At some point, nearing the end of our dinner, she sipped her cocktail, looked at me and said, “You know, if it weren’t for our sexualities, we’d be the perfect match.” I raised my glass, and my eyebrows. She was correct. And I wondered: What if “The One” is a woman? Is it possible to have Big Love with someone you never have sex with? I thought about my closest friends, both women. What I share with them is love, a unique love, and, save for sex, I share everything with them I’d like to share with someone in a relationship.

Now is no time for a sexual identity crisis, I told myself. There’s a job to be done – I have at least three more dates before I’m allowing an epiphany. And so I set the thoughts aside, toasted my date, and we ended a rather enjoyable evening.

Truth be told, it was the best goddamn date I’d been on in months.

Tip from Patrick: “Ask yourself the question: ‘What am I looking for? What don’t I have as a single person that I want?’ Is there something you see in other people, or in a couple that makes you think you want something more for yourself? Identify what you’re seeking. We’re always looking for something.”

Patrick wasn’t the first to ask me what I’m looking for or what it is I hope to accomplish on my dates.

“Why are you doing this?” a friend asked over dinner at Kemo Sabe.

“I … Well … I think … I’m … I’m not looking for love … I don’t think …”

“So, are you looking for sex?”

“No, I’m not going to sleep with all of my dates. I think there is going to be a ground rule: No sex.”

“Oh. So why are you doing this?”

“I … It’s a story. And I’m single.”

Talking with Patrick and my friend, I realized I needed to identify what it is I’m seeking. After my date with the bisexual woman, I deduced this: I am looking for a man. Great – so now that I’ve narrowed this down to bipeds with penises, I’m on a roll.

What else am I looking for? I’ll risk the cliché by referencing “Sex and the City.” In season five, episode 71 of the series (yes, I am that gay), Carrie confides to Charlotte, “I’m lonely. The loneliness is palpable.” What was uncomfortable about her revelation is this: If you’re single, you never admit you’re lonely. Alone, yes. Lonely, no. Lonely is desperate, sad, cats and scented candles and Lifetime television for women – you never admit you’re lonely.

I admired her honesty, though. So, in the interest of honesty, I’ll say this: I talk a big game, but I am looking for Big Love.

I met bachelor No. 2 in a bar not too long ago with friends. I was intrigued from the start. He was sexy; not cute or handsome or attractive – sexy. It was a rare amalgam of his confidence and approachability that caught my attention. A mutual friend introduced us, and we got to talking. On my way out, he was the aggressor, asking when he could see me again. We scheduled a Wednesday date at a Downtown restaurant near his work. We traded phone numbers, and I waited through the first half of the week for him to call. Monday, nothing. Tuesday, nothing. Wednesday at noon, I got antsy. I called. Voicemail. I waited.

Finally, Wednesday at 7 p.m. (about an hour before my bed time) he called. We decided to meet Downtown at 8 p.m. I was nervous – the way he looked at me in the bar made me uncomfortable, in a good way. I hadn’t been this nervous with a boy in a very long time.

We sat down to dinner and I promptly began perusing the cocktail list. I read the names of a few out loud and asked if any caught his attention. Our waitress approached and asked us what we’d have to drink – I’d settled on a cocktail, but deferred to my date to order.

“Oh, water is fine, thanks. I don’t like to drink and drive.”

I was stunned, silent.

Our waitress looked at me, as if to say, “Well, are you going to be drinking and driving?”

“Water will be fine, thank you.”

Let’s get something straight: I’m not one to go on a bender and then joy ride the streets of Downtown San Diego. I don’t, however, see a problem having one or two cocktails with dinner in a two-hour span, and then driving home.

A cocktail on a first date is essential – it loosens lips, spurs conversation, eases interaction. And here I am, forced to date sober.

I then realized he is the boy who is only fun when he’s drunk. The sober bachelor bored me, nearly to tears. There was no excitement, no electricity. He was ho-hum. The sexy, confident, aggressive demeanor was a side effect of Jagermeister.

In truth, the date wasn’t memorable. We trudged through conversation about family, work, growing up, blah, blah, blah.

As soon as he walked me to my car and I was safely inside, I called friends.

“Meet me for a drink?” We debriefed the bad date, and I wondered if he’d call. He didn’t, and about two weeks later I saw him out. He was drinking, talking, laughing, and for a moment, I considered making him my bar boyfriend – the boy you see out with friends, and go home with at the end of the night. I knew, though, that it wouldn’t work. I’d wake up in the morning, and he’d still be boring.

I’ve never been terribly insecure. In fact, I find insecurity incredibly unattractive, a deal breaker in most relationships. I refuse to validate someone who consistently puts himself down. On the other hand, I tend to stray from men who are uber attractive. I like men who are not conventionally attractive, whose appeal relies more on quirks and personality traits.

So, when a friend of a friend introduced me to bachelor No. 3, a stunning physical specimen, I ruled him out as a love interest – until he asked me on a date.

“So,” I reasoned with a friend, “What do you think he wants with me?”

“Don’t do that,” she said. “Don’t. Don’t become that needy, insecure girl. It isn’t cute.”

“No! I’m not becoming that needy, insecure girl. It’s just this: He can, essentially, have any boy he wants. So what does he want with me?”

I’ll say this: I’m 5-foot-8 inches and I weigh about a buck forty. I haven’t bench pressed a weight since freshman year, sixth period gym (yup – in high school!). I hate the gym. I have a membership. I pay for it. I hate it. Consequently, I’m a runt.

And this man, The Perfect Man as he will heretofore be known, is quite the opposite. Words really do not do him justice.

To add insult to injury, he’s a genuinely nice guy, a guy’s guy – a career-oriented, successful, stable, intelligent, loyal, property owning, humble (that’s the key), non-smoking Democrat. In short, he’s the gay Holy Grail.

My nerves during dinner required a cocktail. He ordered a beer, so I ordered a beer. Stop. My first mistake, a warning sign: I had been in his vicinity for less than 15 minutes and already, I’d made a poor choice. I ordered beer, instead of wine or vodka. Beer is butch. Real men drink beer. I wanted him to want me, and the only way I could conceive to make this happen was to project an image.

I wanted him to see me as a career-oriented, successful, stable, intelligent, loyal, apartment-renting, humble, non-smoking Democrat.

I played up my two years as a sportswriter (sports are butch!), talked about my conservative Christian college (I promise I’m not a drunk!), and launched into a review of the election (politics are smart!).

In the process, I wound up spewing verbal vomit all over the white linen table cloth. I talked, talked, talked, and on our way to a post-dinner cocktail, I realized: You’re becoming that needy, insecure girl, I told myself. It was too late, then, to rebound, and redirect the evening. When we stopped at my house after, I wanted, simultaneously, for him to kiss me, and for him to leave, so I could drive to the Coronado bridge and leap.

I’d like to re-write history, and tell you I was a-OK when he didn’t call the next week, or next month. I wasn’t. I was disappointed, more with myself than with him. I’d better stick with geeks, I told myself.

Bachelor No. 4 is recently 21. I’ve known him for a little more than a year. You do the math. I was apprehensive when we met about dating – I couldn’t picture dating someone younger. Not just younger, but 20 – an entire half decade younger.

Before he reached legal age, we’d make plans, and I’d break plans. I flirted and toyed with him, enjoying the game, and relishing the way he looked at me. Deeper, though, I knew that this boy was likely more of a man than any I’d dated. He had more substance, more integrity and more ambition than most men my age.

We lost touch, but, much to my delight, we ran into each other again at The Flame just more than a month ago. We danced and laughed and talked and he bought shots for my friends and I. Through my blurred, squinty, double vision, I began to see something I hadn’t seen before: potential.

He called the next morning to see how I was feeling. We laughed and talked, and then scheduled a lunch date for the next week. I was excited – there seemed to be a very real possibility that this boy, a boy I’d discarded before, could be someone significant in my life.

During lunch, we were candid about how he’d pursued me, and how I’d turned him away. The age difference was only evident once: I recalled listening to Usher’s hit single “Yeah!” while drinking at P.B. Bar & Grill my senior year of college. He recalled listening to Usher’s hit single “Yeah!” at his junior prom.

We laughed about it, and when he hugged me goodbye, I felt warm.

“Would you disown me if I dated a 21-year-old?” I asked friends. Blank stares. I decided I didn’t care – so what if friends call me a “daddy” or a “cougar.” I wanted this boy – I let him go once, and I was determined not to let him go again.

We text messaged back and forth for about two weeks – cute texts that make single folk want to vomit. Then, abruptly, it stopped. Or, I should say, he stopped. I’d text and receive no response, or a long-delayed response.

A week or so later, he told me he was dating someone else. Without him having to say it, I knew what had been implied: “I have been dating someone, and I’ve decided to see him exclusively.”

And I was back at square one.

I’ve thought quite a bit about what Patrick Perrine, CEO of MyPartner.com, said before I ventured out on my dates: “Ask yourself the question: ‘What am I looking for? What don’t I have as a single person that I want?’”

At the end of four dates, I have very little in terms of important criteria established: One, a man (a given); two, a drunk; three, an unattractive geek; and four, someone who was legally of age to drink when Usher’s “Yeah!” was No. 1 on the charts.

What does that say about me? Well, the obvious, I suppose: I’m neurotic beyond explanation.

Moreover, though, it may say that I’m not ready for Big Love; that as much as I like the idea of love, I’m not where I need to be yet to be in a healthy, happy, reciprocal, loving relationship with another man.

A few weeks ago, a columnist of mine wrote this: fake it until you feel it.

Though the mantra wasn’t applied to relationships, I paused, and read it again: fake it until you feel it.

I thought of every opportunity I’ve had to fake it. I’m sure I could have made one or more of my past failed attempts at dating materialize into a relationship – but I would have had to fake it. It could be argued that, faking my way through a first, second or third date, might have sealed the deal with a few men. And eventually, I’m sure, I would have felt something (anything).

Call me old fashioned, but I’d rather feel it than fake it.