The Darkest Blues Are Black

Dear Walter:

I’m new to the online gay dating scene and I’m wondering if you ever encountered a dangerous situation with an app?

I want to meet guys but I’ve heard horror stories online about guys getting raped, robbed, and even murdered.

So my question is have you ever met someone online and something bad happened? And how did you handle it?

-Reluctant Online Dater

 

Dear Reluctant Online Dater:

My body went still when he came towards me.

“Fuck you, I should kill you,” he said while darting his finger at me.

I stumbled to put my clothes on in the living room. I nearly tripped over his air bed to grab my sneakers. He pushed me.

“Don’t touch me,” I said with a smirk. I laughed to defuse the tension – it only made it worse.

He grabbed my arm with his rough hands, which matched his dry leathery skin. But that dryness was eclipsed by his even drier salt and pepper colored dreadlocks.

“I’m gonna call someone to fuck you up.” He buzzed through his phone like he was actually going to call someone to whip my ass. Beads of sweat formed on the back of my neck.

As this intensified, I considered how I got in this situation in the first place.

It amazed me how often I ended up stranded on Friday nights in D.C. I thought those days were over when I turned 22 and 25, and 27. But at 31 you would have thought I knew better.

I used my favorite dating app as a homeless shelter. I just needed a place until sunrise. The sun had saved my ass before. So, I still relied on it. I messaged several guys. I searched for someone moderately attractive in a nearby hotel. That was my best option. It worked once about six months ago. My friend and I sought refuge at a 7 Eleven after escaping a fight at a crack house. Another friend pulled out a knife on a crackhead, while Sean ate my ass in the kitchen. I knocked back shots in between the shouting. Good times. We were drunk off cheap vodka and overpriced powder.

Before we arrived there, where we stood for hours on 17th street talking to this drag queen that was on RuPaul’s Drag Race, I pretended not to remember. Besides, she wasn’t that memorable. She was trying to make moves on Sean all night. Unfortunately, for her, Sean flirted with some White queen, whom he thought had money and a place for him to stay. Sean was so cute with his bald head and beard, dressed in a ball cap and backpack.

After seeing his plan unfold, I was on Jack’d making mine. I found a Black guy with a cute profile. He was staying at the Hotel Helix, which was five blocks away.

But Sean, wouldn’t let me leave until he connected with his ride. And that’s how we ended up charging his phone at that 7 Eleven. With my plans well in motion, I asked the drag queen for a ride. Her bitter ass said no and pulled off in her sky blue station wagon. She has a whole lot of shit in there. Like she was moving in the middle of the night. Or worse that she was living out of her car. So, I walked down the street, still drunk and still high.

I finally arrived at the hotel. He was dark and stocky but still cute. He answered the door in a white robe, which was both chic and suggestive. I didn’t even care what his plans were, but I knew I needed a shower before anything was going to happen. I stripped down and slipped into the shower.

There is something soothing about showering in a nice hotel that makes even the dumbest decisions seem okay. I was living in the moment. I let the water wash over me. I didn’t have a douche. Who carries one around? But I positioned my ass under the faucet to create my own homemade remedy.

When I emerged out the bathroom, he was asleep. What a relief, I thought. I climbed into his plush bed, wrapped in a white towel. As soon as I laid down, he grabbed me and pulled me close. Oh lord, I thought. I hope he doesn’t want to have sex. I was in no mood to do all that work, and for free. Not that I’m a prostitute but it just seems like a waste for someone you’re only going to fuck once. He kissed the back of my neck and fell asleep.

About three hours later, the sun rose and so did he.

“Damn, I want some,” he said.

“Oh,” I stared down at his short and stout penis, which was punctuated with a bump the size of a raisin. I was so turned off. There is nothing worse than seeing a short penis adorned with something extra.

“Do you have a condom?” I asked trying to consider whether I was going to let him fuck me.

“Nah, I ain’t got one,” he said with a country accent.

He was in town for a couple of days for a conference. He also had a boyfriend whom he recently had a fight with, and subsequently broke up with. But I suspected he was fudging the details. Apparently, his ex-boyfriend was an “unemployed thug,” which was his type.

“I don’t know why I like thugs, I know they ain’t shit but I love them.”

Thugs represented a ghetto hood stereotype, a sexy enigma, holding the Black community back. No thanks. I fucked, dressed, and cried over – and cooked for, too many thugs before. Clearly, I didn’t represent that aesthetic in a draped ensemble with relaxed hair. But I digress. Perhaps there were no thugs in the vicinity?

He took a shower, while I got dressed. I charged my phone and planned my day. He needed me out early because his coworkers were staying on the same floor. Talk about cutting it close.

That night turned out okay. I didn’t compromise my morals too much. I was twice as drunk and half as desperate. I used everything in my wheelhouse: nude photos, sexy one-liners, promises I couldn’t keep. But nothing prepared me for this scene.

My best shot was at a hotel several miles away. And he was cute enough. And traveling on foot turned a 20-minute ride into a two-hour walk. After 5 am, he became unresponsive. And there’s nothing crazier than going door to door with no room number or first and last name. So I went with plan B. This guy’s place was in South East, a bit of a distance from downtown D.C. He seemed to understand my commute, although he didn’t offer to pay for a cab ride. Instead, he gave me directions that included two buses with an ETA of 6:30 am.

I lived 15 minutes away from him. I was in no mood to go home. Something was stopping me from going. There was an emptiness permeating within me. No amount of drinking or drugging could fill me up. I was a sedated bitch walking through life not giving a fuck about anything.

I arrived in front of his place at 6:45 am. Unfortunately, the address he gave me didn’t exist. And it was an apartment building with no apartment number. I called and called and called. No answer. I panicked. I came all this way and this motherfucker was either asleep or avoiding me.

Five phone calls and five minutes later: “Hello,” he said in an African accent. I don’t know which country. I’m not that clever but definitely from the motherland.

He was a lot older than I anticipated. He appeared in dirty socks and a dingy white towel.

“Damn, man you took a while getting here.”

“I know, the perils of public transportation.”

“Well, I got something to drink in the kitchen.”

I noticed two plastic cups on the floor as if someone had been there before me. Either way, I was relieved. I needed a drink, something with the intensity of coffee, without the sobering side effects.

He disappeared into the bathroom where he seemed to freshen up. I waited on the side of the bed sipping my cocktail out of a plastic cup until he exited the bathroom.

“How about you sit here, and let me give you a massage,” he said.

Oh, I wasn’t exactly in the mood to be touched. But who turns down a free massage? I came all this way. He groped my back with his hands and pulled up my t-shirt. I guess he was trying to get into my nooks and crannies. He shimmied my pants down. This massage had a cost. He distracted me to get me naked. My heart raced. My mouth went dry. I wanted this dirty old man off of me. I felt exposed like a juicy turkey on a Thanksgiving table, waiting to be devoured. I fretted about how to handle this awkward situation. I had to do something quick.

“I feel like we are moving too fast.” I slid my body up. He pressed down on my lower back and suppressed my movement. My heart sank. He was clearly trying to ignore me.

He turned me over revealing his erect penis. His gray pubes protruded out like weeds. He pointed his penis at my face for me to suck it.

“Absolutely not,” I said with disdain.

“Oh, okay.”

He shifted my body back over with both hands, quenching my sides with his fingernails to force himself in.

“I’m not comfortable with this.”

He sucked his teeth and continued. Every time he plowed, I clench my butt cheeks to keep him out. Not today. I will not let this motherfucker rape me. I pushed him off for the sake of my future.

“You’re not fucking me raw. I didn’t sign up for this.”

“Ain’t nobody trying to force you.” He pointed his fingers at me. “Get the fuck out.”

He reached over and grabbed his phone. “Mike S.E. Top” flashed on the screen.

“Look here, we discussed all of this.” He had a crazed look on his face. He scrolled down feverishly pulling up messages suggesting that I agreed to all of this.

“I’m sorry but you’re mistaken. But maybe you can have that ‘Mike the S.E. Top’ come and fuck you raw.”

“Shut up. You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

He shoved my shoulder. I took a step back and laughed as I slipped my shoes on. Never again. When I escaped his dungeon, I vowed to never put myself in a situation like that again.

I could have been raped.

Let this be a cautionary tale Reluctant Online Dater. Yet sometimes shit happens. You can’t let the prospect of danger get in the way of living your life. At any moment you can get hit by a car just by crossing the street. But if you let fear guide you, you’ll never make it across. But if you look both ways before crossing, you’ll survive. You may even find love.

Love,

Walter

 

Got a question? Email your letters at Walter.Reed@soule.lgbt. Tweet me @LoveWalterHQ 

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