If a Guy likes me that much, something must be wrong with him.
That was my main thought during my time with Guy #181.
Guy #181 was actually kind of very hot. I say kind of, because he wasn’t perfect in each and every way: he had a great personality, he was smart, considerate, caring, empathetic, a decent top, an amazing bottom, he had a cute, boyish face, a great body and talking was only the third best thing he could do with his mouth.
And he liked me. A lot.
People sometimes ask me why I don’t have a boyfriend, instead spending my nights dividing my attention between Netflix and Grindr. I’d like to say it’s because I fail to meet the right Guys. In reality it’s because sometimes the right Guy is slightly too bald and has slightly more chest hair than a perfect 20 year old twink with a 40 year old personality would have.
I’m world champion in compromizing for the sake of others. Compromizing to do myself a favor is a skill I choose to lack:
Guy #181 came on to me one night. I let him. We had awesome sex, then exchanged phone numbers.
He apped me, a full week later. Not three days later as I always do when I project onto someone the aforementioned image of perfection, but a full week. That was hot.
I allowed Guy #181 to set up a second date, at my place, this time adding candlelight and poppers to the equation. It ranked among the best sex I ever had.
Yet I kept focusing on the fact Guy #181 was almost as old as I am and that he didn’t make me laugh at regular intervals. And then there was the chest hair, tiny amounts of it, but still.
A third date materialized, again because Guy #181 made the effort. It was great.
So great in fact that I couldn’t quite fathom Guy #181 being into me that much.
Guy #181 and I met up a fourth time, by accident.
He told me he’d been waiting for me to contact him, as I had more or less promised on our third date. I told him I was sorry, and then made up for it by once again having amazing sex with him.
It’s not that I don’t have any interest in having an actual relationship with someone, but I suppose I only do a relationship when the universe presents one on a golden platter with a waiter to cut my meat. If a relationship is a meal, I categorically refuse to touch any cutlery myself. No wonder I’m starving on Netflix and Grindr.
Guy #181 is someone I ought to have chased, if only a fraction of the amount he chased me. Instead I focused on celebrating my youth, going from Guy to Guy, bathing in attention or really mostly just hints thereof.
It was nice being wanted by Guy #181, but I suppose it was a certainty that came at the expense of the excitement I’ve grown addicted to. Every time you open Grindr, you quietly hope to strike up a bond with the most delicious piece of meat you ever tasted. Opening Grindr, then feeling your phone vibrate because you have a new message… it’s a deceptively little high I keep chasing. Even though Grindr in reality is an orgy of social awkwardness where attention is as meaningful as a clown at a funeral, many gays opt to stand out at a funeral instead of, well…just living life.
About a year after our last encounter Guy #181 popped up on Grindr, only a few minutes away from my place. We met up (his idea, not mine, because waiter must cut meat), had great sex, and agreed to see each other again soon.
Another year has passed since then.
I still have his number. Having had more than 300 Guys, I’ve grown tired of orgy culture, random hook-ups and drug induced friendships that fade the moment the high does. I hardly ever reply to anyone on Grindr anymore, and when I do the conversation always fades into oblivion well before getting off the ground. I simply can’t be bothered anymore.
Guy #181 strikes me as someone who I should hit up someday, just asking how he’s doing, to maybe tentatively show I think he’s well worth the effort of getting to know him and that I’m kind of ashamed of focusing on his hair while I should be blown away by everything else.
The reason I don’t text him and probably won’t in the foreseeable future?
Because I’m a bit of a sad gay stereotype. I resent it, but waiter must cut meat. For some reason, I prefer to flaunt my selfies on Grindr in hopes of getting so much attention I won’t feel like the 24 year old virgin I was when I first hooked up with a Guy.
Investing time and effort in someone like Guy #181 seems like a much easier, more effective way of straightening my issues.
Instead I went on Grindr just now. My phone vibrated: no less than two strangers sent me a message, along with this old Guy who keeps hitting me up every two weeks or so.
That felt slightly satisfying for a few seconds.
If a Guy likes me that much, something must be wrong with me.