John Doe
A friend once told me that I was excellent at playing “the delusional gay guy.” After digesting the fact that to him, my two most notable identifiers were “delusional” and “gay” (which isn’t even true because I identify as bisexual), I set out to prove him wrong.
I was in San Diego for a friend’s goodbye party a few weeks ago. She was only leaving for seven months, yet when I moved away for a year, I didn’t get a goodbye party or even a goodbye text, but I’m not one to hold grudges. I was unbearably grumpy, which basically translates to “I was wearing a new shirt that I didn’t feel my most confident in.”
The first bar of the night was called “Local Bar,” aptly named because it’s local and a bar. Upon arriving, I was ditched by most of my friends for other endeavors, so I thought I should find one of my own. Within minutes of public pouting, I was approached by a tall, around 5 '10 (although he’s the type of person who would probably lie and claim he is six foot) man who wore a backward hat with two bleached, yellowish-blonde poofs sticking out the sides. He had a classic, homegrown pervert’s mustache and was covered in shitty tattoos. Emphasis on shitty. He literally had a tattoo of the poop emoji. All of this combined should have signaled the search and rescue team in my mind, but my delusion that night was proudly sponsored by the voddy soddy demon. For reasons later described, I’ll name him John Doe. JD told me he was visiting San Diego alone to visit his grandma for the holidays. This lovely anecdote warmed my heart because he seemed like the type of man who would prioritize a bump of coke over grandma’s homemade cookies. I’d soon come to find out my initial assumption was correct.
He followed my group around for the rest of the night as we went to PB Pub (named because it is a pub in Pacific Beach) and Water Bar (named because it is a bar next to water). At one bar, he offered to buy me a drink, but his PayPal debit card timed an unfortunate decline, so whoop de doo, no drink for me. Eventually, our short-lived bar crawl ended, and I took a liking to JD. His mind-numbing humor, which consisted of repeating everything I said back to me but with a different inflection through chortles that begged to be released from the back of his throat, reminded me of the first and only time I’d ever done a whippet; dull and uninspired. But, like a whippet, I’d try anything once, and I convinced myself he was cute enough for a potential late-night snog. I didn’t want our night to end, so I invited him back to my friend’s apartment who was hosting the afters.
Shame on me. Truly, shame on me. There is one singular lesson that everyone is taught growing up that is tried and true, and no, it is not “drugs are bad.” It is stranger fucking danger. Stranger Danger. The most recognizable pair of words to any child under the age of 10 just so happened to slip my mind, and as soon as they started to float to the surface, thanks to their undeniable buoyancy, John Doe told me he had a surprise for me. He pulled down his pants to reveal “Scotty!!!” tattooed on his leg. Yes, my name was proudly displayed amongst its shitty tattoo siblings. I took it as a sign from the universe that this man was not a stranger but a sentient being I had loved in a past life who had come to collect my heart once more.
After this excavation, JD and I began to partake in a deep conversation over some party favors I provided in the bathroom. He offered to pay me back after a transfer was cleared on his previously declined PayPal card. He opened up to me about his Soundcloud music career as one of his “tracks”-he referred to it as such- had over a million streams.
Everything was lining up in my favor. I was not delusional. This man had merit and passion and the right amount of charm that a stranger needed to entice me, and for God’s sake, he was standing in front of me wide-eyed with my name tattooed on him like he was a branded cow who had just returned to his long lost homestead. That is until he revealed his deepest, darkest secret. JD told me that when he was fourteen, he was involved in gang-affiliated crime and took the life of someone from an opposing gang during a drive-by shooting. He came across as guilt-ridden and extremely regretful. He told me that he was the only one who made contact and was left to hold the body of his enemy as his life came to a close. He then told me I was the only person with whom he had ever expressed this. This conversational turn took me aback because five minutes before, he showed me a video of him playing guitar and singing in his bedroom, which I thought would be the biggest crime committed that night.
Now, any sane person, after hearing that a stranger that they invited over confessed to the killing of another human, would politely and respectfully ask them to leave, but let’s not forget my most significant identifier; delusional. So, I brushed past it and did what any great listener would do: I shared a deeply traumatic story about myself that had no correlation to what he shared whatsoever. I guess I wasn’t sure how to proceed, and I didn’t want to ask any further questions because that, in some way, would incriminate me. I don’t know why exactly I thought that, but I am not very educated on criminal proceedings. I tried to watch Dateline once, thinking it was a reality dating show, and quickly turned it off when there were no hot singles and instead perverted (derogatory) criminals.
However, I could recognize in my feeble, oxygen-gasping brain that what he just said to me was ridiculous, and if I take it at face value, no matter the regret he seemed to express, I brought a liability as a guest into an apartment flooded with people I love and care about.
I texted my friends that I had something crazy to share with them, but my intoxication took over, and I placed it on the back burner for the following day. I still enjoyed JD’s company, and his confession didn’t necessarily change my feelings towards him. Everyone has baggage, and who am I to leave his overweight suitcase unattended at the carousel?
The night had grown old, and it was now time to leave. JD told me he had no money for an Uber and would be very grateful for a place to crash. Choosing to see the goodness of his spirit over his recently discovered murderous capabilities, I brought him with me to my place of rest.
Once everyone went to bed, the two of us continued to talk. Well, it was more so JD was talking about his life regrets as I dozed in and out of sleep. I regained consciousness and realized he wasn’t going to stop talking, so I decided to engage in his monologue with “mhmm,” “yeah,” and the occasional whispered sigh of compassion. One thing led to another between us, and we began to make out (the details aren’t necessary). He would pull away to tell me how much he cared for me and how he adored my spirit. Again, how could I be delusional when the evidence is right there? I had only met this man a mere six hours before, and he told me I was perfect. That’s like the literal American Dream.
This continued until the sun was teasing its rise, and he said he had an Uber to pick him up. I wasn’t sure how this was possible due to his consistently declining PayPal debit card. I let it go because I was too exhausted to play detective. I then asked him to hold me. I know this may be embarrassing to admit, but on a scale of touch starved to satiated, I would be considered anorexic. He held me as he whispered everything I wanted to hear and more, wiping away any memory of the story he had shared with me hours before. It felt good to be desired and embraced by his hands, even if they were stained with blood and gunpowder.
Before he left, we exchanged numbers and Instagram handles through cuddled mumbles, and he told me to contact him whenever and that he would send me the money the next day.
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The next day, I woke up, said good morning over text like a gentleman, and asked him to pay me back for the night before. He didn’t respond immediately, and I figured he was asleep after our long night together. In the meantime, I filled my friends in on what he had told me and was met with much-deserved backlash. Everyone was mad at me for allowing him into not one but two of my friend’s homes, and with a cleansed conscience, I understood that I was thinking with my cock and not the head on my shoulders. I defended him. I claimed that he was harmless and no one was taken as another victim in either of the homes he was welcomed into, so his past didn’t matter as much. His admission of murder and my allowing his accompaniment seemed like minor issues compared to the cheating, breaking and entering, and other crimes members of the friend group had taken part in the night before.
He didn’t respond to me all day. I went home and took a nap. I felt a little giddy over our connection, but that may have been due to my lack of true fulfillment over the past few months. After my nap, he still had yet to respond. I had a hunch. I checked Instagram and realized I was blocked. I attempted to send a follow-up text to him to no avail. He erased me completely, which I can’t blame him for, as he told me his biggest mistake and was probably afraid of being exposed. This is only validated now, as I am writing about it for a column he’ll never read.
Recently, I believed myself to be some sort of born-again celibate, almost erasing my “gay” identifier altogether. I did the whole personal exploitation thing from a young age and now confidently claim it, through this column, as an ink stain on the parchment of my life. But, although I used to mistake pain for pleasure, I am wiser now. Like honestly, I am. I’m completely off the grid – I deleted every gayting (gay-dating) app, and I really like to know a person before claiming any stakes on them (that is, until the demon that is a vodka soda, or “voddy soddy,” enters my bloodstream). I have succumbed to my identifiers, although I can’t claim that I ever gave them a real fight, as summed up from this night. I led with my delusion and with my gayness (although I still claim my bisexuality with golden valor). I believe, to some extent, I’ve learned my lesson, but is it ever possible for a delusional gay guy to truly learn anything?
This essay is a part of Revenge of the Gay Boyfriends, a column by Scotty Herrera who has been on lots of dates. Like so many dates. Like more dates than you could ever think of. Like whatever number you’re thinking of now- wayyyyy more than that. This badge of honor as “The Most Dated Person Ever” comes with a heavy burden of horribly toxic yet eye-opening lessons that are admittedly forgotten as soon as the next day comes along. Granted, he’s only had boy (space) friends, but never a boyfriend. Maybe this column is some sore way of trying to comfort himself of this fact.