There’s an old Sandra Bernhardt schtick about Grindr where she riffs on the gays being idiots for needing an app to find…let’s call it a date. She says something along the lines of. “I don’t need an app to tell me there’s a hot guy three feet from me!”
And she’s kind of right about the ridiculousness and depth of our retardation if we need an app to introduce us to one another. That’s partly why I call gay (let’s stick with this for now) dating apps asocial media.
But for once it actually seemed to work out as ridiculously as she described it.
I “met” a guy who lives on the next block.
He was in my neighborhood and was a cute lil Sparky, so I threw him a woof. Immediately after which, I recalled from his profile how he said “messages work better than woofs” so I sent him a message culpa.
It worked and we began chatting. I learned that he’d moved up here recently from SoCal and lived in the Elizabeth, which is one of my aspirational Pearl District homes.
Not my favorite, but with units priced starting at a cool half mil for us plebeian folk…darned affordable.
And, literally on the block right behind me.
One of the few people to ever earn the distinction of being blocked by me on an asocial media site was an old guy who lived in the Elizabeth. Our units faced each other until the hotel on the backside of my block was built. We used to chat online over our morning coffees and had a nice virtual friendship. He was looking for more, I was looking for less so we were at a little impasse of interest levels.
But still, we randomly chatted.
The third time he reminded me what I can expect my junk to look like in 15 years, I blocked him. I felt for him, we are living the same plight. Too old to catch the interest of a gay of our very own, too young to actually be dead. But, I don’t want to see my friends naked, and him pulling this shit on me every month or so demonstrated an ulterior motive I didn’t want to deal with, so we never met.
But, boy-oh! If only I could manage my attractions, I coulda been living in a dream house.
However, now I was chatting with a 31 year old unreasonably good looking guy that lived in the very same building.
Quite a package deal!
Bonus points were given that after a week of chatting, I still didn’t know what his junk looked like.
And it was a week of talking about hobbies, and tacos and post coital ice cream and beer and wine and working out…but after that first day on the app, I never “saw” him in my neighborhood again. He was always 2-3 miles away, which I randomly attributed to him being at work or at the gym – one of the only pics he’d sent me was him working out, and it wasn’t at either of the gyms in the Pearl so I assumed that he had a distant gym that he preferred.
I try to assume the best.
But I did have some misgivings, based not only on his phone’s inability to accurately place him where he said he physically was, but also because I really doubted that he could afford a place in the Elizabeth. My suspicion was that he didn’t live in the Elizabeth, but maybe somewhere, oh…2-3 miles away.
He mentioned briefly that he had been engaged and his fiancé had died suddenly last year. I didn’t pursue it via chat, but my mind briefly flashed back to my old neighbor and I began wondering what ever happened to him.
Actually, in my mind I had decided that was his fiancé and he’d died, leaving my condo to The Widow.
Nonetheless, despite those minor, niggling misgivings, I asked him out for a Friday drink. I told him that I needed to be in bed – alone – by 8 for work the next day, but we could meet for a beer at 6 and I would introduce him to some of my favorite Oregon IPAs that he hadn’t met yet.
Sure, in a sweet way, saying that he wanted more time together for our first meet up. Ok, sure…how long does it take to drink a few beers and chat? Two hours seemed like plenty, but I accepted his tentative alternate of Monday.
<ignores obvious warning whistles>
I just assumed that his current weekend was booked up, which I got used to while dating in Shittatle.
Here’s the funny part:
No, I swear, this is gonna kill ya.
Me, being playful me, texted him early on Friday and suggested he sneak out of work early and we could grab some happy hour since it was gorgeous out. He replied, in what I assumed was a genuinely adult tone about how he’d just been sucked into a project that was gonna keep him late at work.
Oh, well…and I go about my day. This does involve replying to random messages I’m getting on Scruff, mostly from people flying into town for the weekend who want to know if I’d like to give them a congratulatory fuck for arriving in Portland.
But, while responding to one such message, I happen to see The Widow is online…aaaaand 146 miles away.
I click on his profile, and sure enough:
Travel icon engaged, upcoming trip announced and, as I mentioned, he’s 146 miles away.
Oh, well. I’m not upset by this. I’m really more just curious as to why he wouldn’t say he’s going out of town.
Between my favorite sounding board, the Silver Fox – who insists I’m too hard on people, we decide that I should just let it lie until we meet on Monday.
“If he makes it back, I grumble.”
But I do.
He messages me at 6:20, “I’m off!”
That’s your long day?!?
I continue to let it lie until he messages me again later that night. I’ve already popped my melatonin, as I do in order to be able to fall asleep at 8 pm. I forget the context of the message, but my response is something along the lines of, “Let’s talk about it Monday. Enjoy Seattle!”
Because I just couldn’t help myself. I blame the melatonin.
He gets into this innocent act, thinking my response was meant for someone else. When I explain my text, he insists he’s at home and basically dates me to meet up.
It’s about 7:45 now, so that’s a “no” from me, but I fall asleep wondering what would have happened if I’d called that bluff.
The next couple of days were spent with him asking to meet up again on Saturday and then immediately taking offense at some innocent pith I tossed out a few minutes later. Same thing on Sunday, which ultimately ended with him asserting that he’s been trying to get me to meet up, but I won’t commit, so he’s walking away.
Good, I think and tell him, “In the last 48 hours, you’ve called me an asshole, a dick, passive aggressive and a few other pretty hostile things while continuing to alternate between asking me to get together and then manufacturing offense to get out of it, all while your phone thinks you’re in Seattle. But, ok. Bye.”
I feel bad when shit like that happens, especially with someone you’ve never met. But what can ya do? Given the evidence I witnessed and the behavior I experienced, I’m fine believing he was in Seattle – possibly at a Black Widow convention, maybe not – and just didn’t like being called out on it.
Haven’t heard from him since and still haven’t seen him around the ‘hood, so I’ll call this a lose/win situation.
One thought on “The Widow”
Dealing with that sort of one sided can’t hear you got a name to call you because my ears are stooped up with ME wax will turn your brain into oatmeal. I mean, you say “It is what is from over here” and there’s another “I can;t hear you” rebuttal. The internet. What a neighborhood.
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