I moved beyond his profile in the hinge, not because he was not interested, but because I did not think he had a chance. I am an English and 10 -inch English commander who, despite thousands of AB salads and abs, has not yet lost the stubborn fat of the lower belly that prevents me from having fun at the pool parties.
I had tens of thousands of Instagram followers and was a friend of other disconcertingly attractive homosexual men that my friends and I called “The Instagays.” A university athlete withdrawn with blond hair, a murderous smile and abdominals from the washing table, was the exact image of what it was not. The only thing we seemed in common was that we were homosexuals.
So, when he invited me to connect in the hinge, he surprised me. I walked my apartment, thinking about each thought between “I can't believe that the hot boy thinks I am hot” and “this must be an error.” I accepted his order with caution, half conflicted, it wasn't really him.
Our chat began with the usual song and the dance of the quotes online: Nice dog. Nice cat. What are you doing to work? How do your parents feel about being gay? He extended for a week until I suggested that we met in person.
To my surprise, he agreed. We chose a Thai restaurant not far from me. He arrived shortly after I did it, dressed in black with Steve Madden boots and a coat of Patagonia. When I stood up to greet him, I was surprised by his reserved behavior, completely different from the safe image he had projected on his presence of social networks now missing. I had anticipated a guy who entered with a chip on the shoulder, as if appearing I was doing a favor. But that was not the case. I could feel his nerves.
Was he ashamed to be here with me? I wondered. Maybe he sees me differently in person from online. Why was it so difficult for me to consider that I could actually find me attractive?
Soon our conversation became music. We discovered that we love Lana del Rey and agreed that “Norman F— Rockwell” is his best album. Interestingly, his favorite song, “Love Song”, was also mine. We talked about Charli XCX, Bon Iver, Frank Ocean and the recently deceased Sophie.
By then, my curiosity had become a complete crush. In the gay community, we are often flooded with Soulless Club Bangers. So, knowing someone to appreciate music with less than 100 beats per minute was felt as a revelation. He would never have guessed that someone who resembles him listened to music with such introspection. Together, we found comfort in the letters that reflected our tacit truths. He felt strangely as if we were in a trauma.
The conversation flowed effortlessly when we moved from music to families, my graduation program, their internship abroad and our disgust shared by “The Tonight Show”. Finally, we realized that the restaurant was closing, the neighboring tables were clear and the chairs were already stacked. We ask for boxes to go and we go out at night.
While we walked next to our cars, we stopped in front of a bookstore in the corner, its windows shone hot against the cold. “Would you like to come inside?” He asked, his visible breath in the icy air.
“Of course,” I said, my voice takes hold a little. I didn't know why I felt so nervous. Maybe because it was the first time I realized that I could love him. The hot boy was a secret nerd. Inside, he gravitated the architecture section, taking thick design books and talking about his growing library at home. We moved to the enlightened queer shelves, where he said “The Song of Achilles”.
“Have you read this yet?” asked.
“No,” I admitted, adding it to my mental list.
We walk to the kitchen books. While looking for recipes, I scanned for celebrities and found Antoni from “Queer Eye”.
“I heard that a murderer does,” I said sarcastically, holding the book. He raised an eyebrow and gave me a laugh. We leave the store, he empty -handed, with the “beautiful world of Sally Rooney, where you are.” In our cars, I longed to kiss him, but he contained me. I couldn't say if I felt the same.
We say goodbye, polite and with a certain distance. Even without a kiss, it was the best event he had been. When I got home, I noticed a new follower on Instagram. It was him, but not the profile he remembered. Gone were the photos without a shirt, the Instagays, on the weekends of the party at Palm Springs. His new account had only a few hundred followers and without selfies, only his design work. What happened to the boy I thought I knew? I couldn't help asking me if something had changed in him.
Maybe he had tired of performing perfection. Maybe the pressure of being desirable became too heavy. Or maybe just stopped worrying about what others thought. What should feel when it doesn't matter? When gay grows up in a conservative Catholic environment, I did not have a plan for happy rarity.
The stories I saw were tragic: homosexual men were alone, addicted, dying. So I clung to external markers of success, heat, followers and convenience as a kind of shield against shame. I thought if someone like him loved me, maybe I could finally feel worthy. But what if I didn't need any of that anymore? What happens if I'm still the one who endures?
We only had two more dates. Every time he tried to plan a room, he had something else. It was not quite ghost; If he sent text messages, he would answer. But the message was clear, I worried more than him.
It is something strange for someone who seems to embody everything you wanted to be. What did this so difficult was not losing it, but losing what could have been if I had felt like me.
Ultimately, I'm not sure if I loved him or if he just wanted to be chosen by him. I wanted the world to look at us and say: “You see? It's enough.” But he taught me, perhaps without knowing that pursuing external validation only leads to the same question: Do I really love him or do I hate myself?
The author is a winter writer and producer who lives in West Hollywood. Is on Instagram: @lmillernd.
Los Angeles Affairs Chronices The search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the Los Angeles area, and we want to listen to their real history. We pay $ 400 for a published essay. Email [email protected]. You can find presentation guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
