Digression: Short story

 I wrote this story sometime in 2019. It’s based on a monologue I heard in a diner about Grindr, the gay dating-app. 

“A few years back, before the bullshit, Grindr was the best dating app out there. 

I don’t care if y’all are straight or queer as they come. In terms of the basics, just objectively, Grindr was the shit. It was the bee’s knees. For a few years, you didn’t need to create an account linked to Facebook. For a while, you didn’t even need an email address. So what guys did was open an account, sometimes with just a first name, sometimes just a first initial, or even no name at all. 

It was wild. Totally badass. 

The worst, though, was the lack of photos. Like, I don’t give a shit if your name is Greg or Cody. But I do happen to care –

No, you’re good! Yeah, I’ll have the biscuits and gravy. The meat. Yeah. And can I get a refill? Thanks so much. 

God, I love a late breakfast. I feel like shit. 

Anyway. It was so great having a little anonymity on there. Like, the culture had totally harkened back to the glory hole era, but without the AIDS. It was magnificent. 

But the photos – or lack thereof – were an issue. So what you would do was just swipe through a ton of blank profiles. Maybe they had a name on there, but maybe not. And there was definitely not this Tinder bullshit or Bumble or whatever where you tell people what you do for a living. That’s, frankly, a twisted mating ritual. 

God, I feel like I’m 40. Y’all went out and danced yourselves clean; I just had a family thing and stayed up to midnight. How sad is that? And I’m too broke to even have a cat. 

Excuse me, do you have almond milk? Cool, thanks. 

Thing was, it worked. I didn’t even have a photo, and hordes of horny men would ping me. Like, ‘Are you looking?’ That’s how it was, and still is, in many ways. I feel for you straight bitches! There’s so much pressure to lead with a corny pickup line, or be witty or whatever. Fuck that. 

Like, let’s just get down to brass tacks. Put your fucking dick in my mouth. 

The meetups were bizarre, though: Basically a blind date with higher stakes. You can’t just walk away from the table. You’ve committed, to some degree. You’re either in their apartment or they’re in yours. Things could get weird. Things did get weird. 

This one time, I hooked up with a guy and literally never knew his name. He was one of the nameless ones, but he did have a photo. Cute twinky-looking guy who looked like his balls had just dropped. 

Yeah, never knew — well, we actually didn’t have sex. Nope, just oral stuff. 

Yeah. 

I know, cra — well, I gave him head, too! Who do you think I am?! I’m a goddamn gentleman, aren’t I?

Another time — and this is right around when we met, actually, though I didn’t mention it for obvious reasons — I was apparently blacked out and consulted with the app. Terrible idea. 

Also, this is all hearsay, because I have absolutely no recollection of this. 

But allegedly, I met a guy really, really, late back at my house. Mind you, I have like six roommates. It was basically a trap house, right around the corner from DU. So I met this guy. I have no idea what he looks like. 

We must have done the deed. I’ve been told that I disappeared around 3:30 in the morning. Nowhere to be found. And this guy started just wandering around the house in his boxes, piss-drunk, super disoriented. Like, beyond drunk. James, bless his heart, heard him walk down the stairs to the basement. 

He was mumbling something about the bathroom, which is up the flight of stairs and on the complete other side of the house. So, he was not doing well. But — again — apparently, he was really hot. So drunk me had done well for myself. 

Thank you, thank you. I know. I’m fabulous. 

So James helps this guy up the stairs. Looking right up his cute ass in the little boxer briefs. He pads his way into the bathroom, which was a sliding door. So James kind of pushes him in and slides the door closed, checking this nameless stud out a bit. But James has got class, so he lets him have his privacy. He stands in the hall to wait. 

But he doesn’t hear a goddamn thing. 

No trickle; nothing. No faucet running or anything like that. No shower. After a while, he thinks he’s dead. 

He knocks on the door and slowly slides it open. 

Inside, he’s just sitting on the toilet with his boxers on, kind of nodding off. James – being the stand-up superstar that he is – helps him up. His eyes are closed and he’s still kind of muttering “bathroom.” Bizarre. By now, James is wondering where the fuck I am. 

So he runs and grabs a blanket and wraps it around this weirdo. Once again, James steers him down the hall, but up the stairs this time to my room. There’s no lights on in the hallways. A light is visible under the crack of my door. So they totter to the door, turn the knob and push it open. 

Voila! 

The smell hit him first. 

James scanned the room in horror: Empty, it was. The pillows and blankets were all off of the bed. Half-drank Coronas were scattered like mines. There was a shirt hanging off the ceiling fan. I kid you not – James told me this the next morning. 

I, however, was nowhere to be found. The reason? 

The turd in the corner. 

Yeah. Yeah! Hold on, I’ll tell you! Jesus Christ, people. 

Yep. James kind of freezes, just looking at the turd. Thankfully, it wasn’t diarrhea or a watery one. Just a nice, clean, brown log, about this long. 

So our basketcase stumbles over to the bed. He’s wrapped in the blanket and flops on the bed, curling up in the fetal position.

And he’s still muttering, “bathroom.”

James now knows what has taken place. The guy is so drunk, he straight up took a shit in the corner thinking it was the bathroom. Heinous. James calls me, and sure enough, I’m just fucking ranting, worked up as shit, goose-stepping my way to Brian’s to pass out there. I don’t remember any of this. He said I told him that we’d been asleep until the stench hit me.  

Alas, that was not the end of my time with Grindr. You’d think it would be. Any sane person would quit. 

But I kept using the app. Jesus, I feel like I’m talking too much. Cut me off at any time. 

Sorry? Just a splash, please. Thanks. Fuck, this place is crowded. It’s going to take us forever to get our food. 

Grindr, though. Christ. You could either get the best dick of your life, or a bedroom dump. Or, something in between. 

I don’t use that shit anymore. One of my last times using it, I was in Italy. Didn’t speak the language except for una focaccia no pomodoro; One focaccia, no tomatoes. I was so bloated the whole time I was studying abroad in Florence. 

So I swiped and found this Italian guy, also don’t know his name. But he’s sexy as fuck. I have no phone or anything, so I have to literally Mapquest his address and print it out at my host family’s spot. 

So I take the bus and get there. We start making out a little bit. He’s a really good kisser: Not a whole lot of tongue, which I like, and not sloppy; the man had intent. It was so refreshing after so many European dance floor make outs. So he goes to the bathroom, and me — thinking I’m going to surprise him — strips fully naked and lays on the chaise, like, ‘Paint me like one of your French girls.’” Like in Titanic. 

He walks out, sees me and kind of just stops in his tracks. 

Did I mention I was bloated from all the goddam bread and cheese in that hot-ass boot? 

He scans me up and down. And I can feel the smile fade from my lips. 

In broken English, he just says something like, “I’m sorry, but I just don’t think this is going to work out.” 

I know!

No, it’s OK, it’s OK. 

Seriously!

It was, actually, kind of a good thing for me. Because instead of just grabbing my clothes and dashing out, hysterical and obscene, I calmly put my clothes back on, gave him a hug, and said, “I understand, it’s OK. Thanks for having me in your home.” 

I walked out of there strangely at peace with myself, and my body. 

I came out to my friends and family after that study abroad trip, too — like, three weeks later. It helped me realize that you don’t have to please everyone. 

I’ve had plenty of incredible hookups and ruined relationships to know that I’m not damaged goods or anything. I don’t even get mad or down on myself about the occasional rejection, like I used to. The world is too big to be obsessing about your little corner of it all the time. 

So those are my Grindr moments. I’ll still swipe, though, occasionally. 

It’ll still be there, whenever I want it. 

Ooooh, is that our food!? Ah, it’s theirs. Bastards. And we were here before them!”