Walking Through Dark Places - 1. Walking Through Dark Places

Waiting in the middle of the night is a scary thing to do, but it’s a prerequisite for gay hookups in the modern world, especially when you’re not out and proud. I married a woman I do not love, but I cannot leave her due to obligations. I cannot admit my sexuality to my family, because their sense of morality is binary between light and darkness, homosexuality would fall on the latter. I live in the public eye as the youngest state senator at age 26, representing a very conservative district. I am probably on the path to becoming a governor in a few years or even President. Yet, I must satisfy my urges and needs, so I use private hookup apps and websites to find willing men with no strings attached.

Thus, I am here waiting in the park late at night for a hookup to arrive. My wife thinks I am pulling a late night at the office or out with friends for drinks at one of the local watering holes. In truth, I am out here waiting for a man named Jeff, who is supposedly in his mid-thirties and a veteran. He’s a top, which is my preference in sexual positions for guys. The idea of a strong masculine ex-soldier was too good to pass up after weeks of pent-up passion. So, we made plans to meet up at night. He chose the park, which was a normal request among my hookups as it would allow us a public meeting spot without too many people around to see us. Of course, I am not using my real phone, rather I purchased a disposable burner phone with cash with a seven-day trial plan. So, my hookup will not be able to link me in any way to this encounter.

As the night wore on, it got colder and I had to pull out my high-end electric hand warmer, autumn is deceptively brutal with its comfortable days and frosty nights. A feeling of disappointment began to grow. He wouldn’t be the first guy, who catfished me, but I was hoping to get some much-needed release tonight. I know from other high-profile guys that you cannot have a steady lover, the potential for a million-dollar payday and a book tour would be too dangerous to risk. I accepted this life years ago when I chose to stay in the closet, to be what my parents wanted me to be, and to become a hypocrite for money. Sexuality isn’t a choice, I know that, but denying the truth to yourself is. Denial is the flip side of acceptance that no one ever talks about, it has its rewards and its costs.

I hear some leaves cracking and turn to face someone, unexpected. Instead of a chiseled muscular man with tattoos and fatigues, I saw a young man around my age shivering with rags for clothing in the middle of winter. Planning on leaving in any case, I began to move, but I hear him speak.

“I am cold, sir.”

Despite alarms blaring in my mind, I turned to face him. He had the same brown hair, double chin, and green eyes as me, but his body was shriveled and emaciated. He reminded me of old black and white photographs of concentration camp survivors, who had lived on hard labor, very little food and water, and constant fear from Nazis for years. It is a tragic reflection on America that we allow our less fortunate and homeless to live like that. I know people like me waste our resources by throwing away edible food, usable clothing, and mental energies on useless luxuries. Sadly, it’s not a priority for my constituency, who prefer to leave the affairs of poverty to God. Their priority is to protect life, no matter what quality it must live under, and to protect their rights, even though there are no dangers to them from what others desire.

I offer this man my hand warmer, “It has an eight-hour charge, it can keep you warm until sunrise.”

As the man came closer, I felt uneasy. There’s a cold air that hovers around him, something distinct from the cold autumn night. I wanted to just give him my hand warmer and leave him here in the park. I know it is a cold-hearted reaction to seeing someone so down on his luck, but I can’t help him without losing key polling demographics. The same folks, who sing praises of Jesus’ benevolence and charity, would rather not elect leaders who show the same benevolence with their tax dollars. I learned that life is perception, what others see of you is what they believe.

When he is close enough, he takes hold of my arm with his icy grip and tells me, “We can’t keep living like this, we have to go soon.”

This guy must have some mental health issues, which is not uncommon for the homeless.

I politely pull his hand away from me, “Thank you for the warning, I’m heading home now.”

He shakes his head, “Dad, won’t let us go back home, remember.”

Ignoring manners and social conventions, I just left this strange man and walked briskly to my car. When I reached where I parked, I was met with an empty parking lot. It was bizarre, but I have heard of political pranks and far worse tricks being pulled by operatives. I’ll have to delete the app, scrub my phone history, and request an ISP wipe when I get back home. Luckily for me, I always plan for contingencies and used the Uber App to get a ride with a prepaid American Express gift card.

As I waited for my ride to arrive, the same strange guy followed me to the empty parking lot. Despite his haggard appearance, I’m suspecting he’s a political operative or some tabloid reporter, trying to out me right now. It wouldn’t be too crazy to imagine the opposition party to do casting calls for someone like him.

He walks beside me and whispers in his subdued tone, “We can’t keep running away forever, the truth will come out.”

Annoyed at my rotten luck tonight at being catfished, car-jacked, and played by some two-bit acting class reject, I explode, “Look, I don’t know whom you think you are or what you think you know, but this is harassment. I’ll sue you and your bosses for libel. You will be someone’s prison bitch before Christmas.”

He just stares at me blankly, then replies, “Prison would be nicer than the life we’ve had on streets ever since dad found out we’re gay.”

I face the guy and point a finger at him, “You keep saying “we”, but for your information, I am a happily married man with a wife and a baby boy. There’s nothing that you and I share.”

The boy pulls up the left sleeve of his tattered and dirty long-sleeve shirt to reveal a scar on his elbow, remarkably like the one I have, “We got this when we were six and fell from a tree. We cried due to the pain until dad slapped us and told us to shut up. Mom was scared that we broke our arm, but dad said we needed to toughen ourselves up.”

It must be opposition research; it must be. I never told anyone what happened or why I have a scar on my elbow. My dad may have told his friends though and it could have been leaked to the press. If Kavanaugh and Biden’s rape allegation from thirty years ago can be unearthed, why can’t a story about my scars or my father’s abusive behavior? No, I am not going to fall for the bait, if I say nothing to this guy, he won’t have anything on me except this spurious story.

He pulls up his left pant legs and pointed to an indentation on his skin, “Tommy took a bite on our leg, he said that will mark us as his property. He was our first and we loved him. We met him in bible camp and he took our virginity out in the woods.”

Tom Cramer, who is now a leading evangelical minister, was my first gay relationship, but no one should know that. Tom would never admit it, either, due to the fallout of his career. We have seen each other several times over the years, he even held fundraisers for me, but we never hooked up again. We obliquely acknowledge that neither one of us can afford the political or religious firestorm such a relationship would unleash on our lives. I don’t know how this guy is getting his information and it makes me uncomfortable.

I sigh and look at my app, 2 minutes until my Uber arrives, “Fuck!”

He points to me, “Why can’t we accept who we are?”

I’ve seen enough horror movies and TV shows to know what a paranormal experience is, this feels like one of those old Unsolved Mystery segments. I don’t know if this guy is the devil or an angel sent by God, but I don’t want to buy what he’s selling. I deny the power of Satan or Almighty God in my life because I must deny it. Otherwise, I am completely screwed as I have sinned or I have lived my life wrong. No matter what choice I take, my current comfortable life would be ruined. That’s why so many people believe in these so-called “internet messiahs” and theories about how the work will be fixed, the conclusion that facts or truth lead is just too destructive.

I remain silent, hoping he will leave me alone, but he does not, “We should move on from here, we should go.”

I ask, “Where do you want me to go?”

He points up with one hand and points down with the other, “We do not know where we will end up, but we do not belong in this world any longer. We have denied the truth for too long, it is time to face our judgment.”

My Uber finally arrives, and I stare back at him, “My ride is here, I’m sorry I can’t go with you to heaven, hell, or where ever you came from. I am sorry, it’s just not me.”

He frowns, “We are denying our death again.”

With those words, I jump into the uber and rush back home. I don’t want to think about that guy again or what the encounter means for my life. I’m starting to remember all of it though; my dad finding out that I liked boys, then kicking me out. The lonely nights I spent out in the park were filled with hunger and cold. It was a horrible life, where no one cared, except this one guy, who came by and offered me a warm coffee and food in exchange for a blowjob. I remember going to his grandmother’s house and…No, it’s not my life. I am a state senator, my family doesn’t know I’m gay, I have money, and I am alive. All those memories belonged to another person.

When I got home, I looked around the room and knew the truth, but I don’t care. I will deny it until they pull me away from this death dream.