James Barr: ‘The rules between open and monogamous friends – especially when one of you is single – are slippery’

Here, in his latest Attitude column, comedian, radio host and podcaster James Barr, known for co-hosting the award-winning LGBTQ+ podcast A Gay and a NonGay, opens up on the challenges of dating in London.

Every gay man has a demon twink in their life. If you don’t, then congratulations, slut, you are him. Me? My twink of spectacular mass destruction is a friend we’ll call Damon. 

Damon has a foolproof way to pull. He walks up to a guy and says, “I think we made out at Mighty Hoopla.” And… it works. Every time. Because here’s a universal gay truth: you can say that to pretty much any queer man in London, and they’ll believe you. Because odds are, you did. Or you almost did. Or you could have. At Hoopla, we’re free. There are no rules. Just the pop stars who made us who we are, gallons of White Claw and an endless supply of potential boyfriends to soft-launch on your Instagram story before never seeing them again. 

It’s beautiful. Until you fancy someone. And Damon gets there first. 

Brockwell Park. The sun is shining like it’s the 90s. I’m feeling good — hot, hopeful and emotionally reckless. I spot a handsome man who looks like he’s ruined someone’s life before and is ready to do it again. Perfect. But I barely have time to ‘accidentally’ spill my White Claw on his white Vans (a terrible idea for festival footwear) before Damon kisses him. 

Technically, no one did anything wrong. Damon’s in an open relationship. I’m single. The guy was clearly into it. But something in me shrieked like Regina George when she finds out she’s been eating weight-gain bars. I was looking for romance. Damon was looking for whatever Damon was looking for. And the hot, mysterious stranger was probably just looking for a puff on Damon’s vape, to be honest. 

The truth is, he wasn’t mine. He wasn’t Damon’s either. He was a person, possibly lovely, probably chaotic, and not a prize in a game I invented. 

But part of me still felt like I should get ‘priority’ because I’m single. I’m on O2, for goodness sake. I’ve paid for roaming — emotionally and otherwise. 

The rules between open and monogamous friends — especially when one of you is single — are slippery. It’s a case-by-case thing. And in moments like this, it’s hard to tell the difference between emotional maturity and patriarchal muscle memory. 

But I love my friend. And I love queer freedom. I’ve started to see friendships, and the love between my closest friends, as the most important relationships in my life. So why did that older part of me get so upset? Because I was raised to believe there’s only one kind of love. Romantic, exclusive and scarce. Like it could run out. 

But the truth is, it doesn’t. Queer love is abundant. Messy. Shared. Stupidly hot and weirdly wholesome all at once. 

As a result, I’ve decided to stop treating attraction like a zero-sum game. I’m single, but I’m staying open to whatever happens. And if a friend gets there first, I’ll either high-five them or join them. And then I’ll borrow their vape.