I waited for this guy I met on a gay hookup app. How could I not? His profile picture showed a hot young thing sprawled out on a couch while saying “let me taste you.” At least that’s what I imagined him saying in the photo.
Did I mention younger guys do to me what kryptonite does to Superman? It’s a fucking weakness.
That night I was meeting up with a group of friends at the local gay bar when the seductive twink said he would meet me and even go out with us. He also said he risked his job by calling off so we could meet up.
So I waited. As the hour went on, I started drinking.
He sent me a message saying he was picking up two drunken friends from a bar and had to get them home because they were under house arrest. One of them puked in his car and now he was heading home to clean out the mess. I wasn’t listening at this point. I was still thinking about the house arrest part.
If I wasn’t turned off before, the thought of him cleaning up puke and having friends who were under house arrest should have done the trick. In reality, my proverbial horny brakes should have screeched right then and there. I needed to forget him and meet my friends at the club.
But I waited some more. And I drank some more.
It was past midnight when he finally showed up. I did a little bit of a drunken happy dance when I heard his car pull up. I was gonna go to the club, meet my friends, party it up, and the twink and I would be the perfect horny homo couple of the night. Patience was a virtue after all!
I opened the door. I tried to hide the absolute horror that spread on my face.
Behind the jowls, deep set in the enormous cheeks, above the double chins, was a remnant of the face I saw in the app profile. But this guy was different than the one in the profile. About a one hundred pound difference.
I suddenly remembered the horror stories I had heard from friends in this situation. Stories of how they met guys in person who were not the same person they met on the app.
You meet Bradley Cooper on the app, but meet Gary Busey in person. You should be able to sue for this kind of misrepresentation.
A friend of mine talked to a hot muscled guy for about a week and went to meet him at the restaurant for dinner but couldn’t find the guy anywhere. Then he saw an old man, bald and overweight, waving him over in the corner of the restaurant. My friend thought maybe it was the guy’s friend. Much to his astonishment, he found out it was the guy himself. My friend turned around and ran out of the restaurant as fast as he could. I imagine his tires squealed out of the parking lot.
This stupidity is called “catfishing.” It’s not just in the gay dating world either. Catfishing is when people will use photos from other profiles and pass it on as their own. Some even maintain relationships this way for a long period of time. But then for them to actually meet in person could mean only one thing: they’re fucking crazy.
Do they think they’ll magically appear as the person in the app profile even though they’re obviously not the same person? Or do they think their wonderful personality will overshadow this trick?
“Oh, you’re not even the same person on the app I’ve been talking to this whole time. You lied and fooled me, but since you have such a great personality I’ll forget about it. I want to have a relationship with you, travel the world with you, and let you meet my parents.”
This particular night, patience wasn’t a virtue for me. Patience was a motherfucker.
“Hello?” I asked. “Hi,” the hot-guy-from-the-app-who-wasn’t-a-hot-guy-on-my-front-porch said. “Sorry for being late.”
“I’m sorry. Who are you?”
“Dawson.” “Who?” I was giving quite the performance I must say.
“Dawson. We were just talking.”
“I’m sorry you must be mistaken.”
“What are you talking about? It’s you. We’ve been texting. You were waiting for me.”
“No I wasn’t.”
“It’s you. See?”
He took out his phone and showed me my profile.
I looked at it, at him, back at the profile.
“Here, I’ll even send you another message,” he said.
“Stay right here,” I said and closed the door.
I took out my phone and placed it on silent. Then I went right for the bottle of vodka. My empty glass sat next to it, but I ignored it. I picked up the bottle and started chugging.
After I took a long swig, I went back to the door with bottle in my hand. Partly because I could use it as a self-defense device if this guy got weird, but mostly because I wanted to get drunk and get drunk quick.
I opened the door and looked at this stranger again. It was like looking at a face transplant patient, a face that transported from a twink’s body to a bear’s body.
“Someone catfished me,” I said.
” “Yeah, they posted my pictures on a profile and then pretended to be me.”
“They knew your address?”
“It was probably someone getting back at me.”
He stood at the doorway, mouth agape. I chugged the vodka from the bottle again, not caring.
“Now,” I said, “if you don’t mind, I have to go. It was nice meeting you.”
“But you’re lying!”
He stood on my porch looking defeated. I started closing the door.
“Guess that makes two of us,” I said as the door snapped shut.
I stood by the door until I heard his car pull out of the driveway.
I was relieved. I managed to get out of the corner I had painted myself into. Then I realized my night was wasted. So I got wasted.
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