Note to Reader: I
wrote the essay below some time ago, before I opened this blog. In it, I recount a hook-up at my home that
went awry. Only recently, the world
learned of the horrific murder of Jun Lin, allegedly at the hands of Luka Rocco
Magnotta. Facts seem hazy, but it
appears that the two men knew each other for some time before the murder, a
murder that was filmed and posted on a gore website. I and my friends who have welcomed strangers
into our homes for hook-ups wondered how we had avoided inviting over a
psychotic like this Magnotta character.
The story I relate below is of an experience that is nearly comical in
contrast to Jun Lin’s killing, and yet it still had me thinking about the
dangers of hook-ups. The question I pose
to readers is: Did the Luka Rocco
Magnotta crime make anyone out there skittish about inviting a guy over for a
hook-up? Is it the end of hook-ups?
How is it that one knows they’ve reached the end of an
era? How is it that you wake up and find
that what used to work for you no longer works?
Is that just a part of getting older?
I had always loved hook-ups.
Hunting a guy online and having him come over. Or going over to his place. The thrill of the hunt, the thrill of the
unknown. So often, though, I was
disappointed with what I found in reality once he arrived at my door. I rarely, if ever, thought of the dangers –
how did I know that a psycho killer wasn’t going to enter my apartment? That is the power of sex. And the down low, illicit nature of an online
hook-up was part of the thrill. Sexual
adventurism at its height. Some would
say sexual stupidity at its height. But
there is something undeniably hot about a guy showing up at your door, as if
you had ordered a pizza, and willing to drop his pants and have sex without the
preamble of dinner and a movie. Without
the effort of even going to a bar. A guy
who, like you, needs sex and will go sight unseen (except for pics seen online)
and go clear across town to be with another horny guy.
Like drinking, when does it stop being a fun lark and start
being an addiction? I always thought I
was in control, when in reality, an online hook-up steals your control – you
don’t know if you’ll really like what shows up, you don’t know if they’re
mentally balanced, etc. After a long
while, after years of this, I had to ask – Was the dog wagging the tail, or was
the tail wagging the dog?
Don’t get me wrong – some of the hook-ups I’ve had have been
fantastic, wherein I lucked out and had a great time. But that great time was often followed by a
hollowness that I would seek to fill in with more hook-ups. But recently, I had a hook-up that beat all
hook-ups. And the utter surreal nature
of it had me questioning whether I could continue to let unknown men into my
home.
Let’s call him Greg.
On a Friday night, I was on Manhunt.net and he was the only guy online
that night that caught my eye, so I messaged him. I’d like to start now by mentioning one of
the red flags that cropped up, red flags that I chose to downplay. In one of his two pics, his eyes were
closed. An odd picture to put up, but
eyes open or closed, he looked cute. He
looked street tough, with shaggy hair topped with a ball-cap, a few days growth
of stubble, wearing a hoodie, approximately 25 to 28 years old. He didn’t message back right away, but when
he did, I was somewhat taken aback when he alluded to coming over and playing
right away. Some nights while hunting
men online, that was exactly what I wanted – zero small talk bullshit, just a
plan to meet and screw. But on this
night, I wasn`t there yet – perhaps I needed a few more drinks to get me to
that point. On this night in particular,
I wasn’t looking for an immediate hook-up.
I think I was already wearying of them, so I asked if he’d like to grab
a beer the next day, the next day being a Saturday. He agreed.
The next day, I called him, and he was still on for
meeting. Turns out that he lived with
his parents quite far out in the suburbs, but no problem – his dad would drive
him to the nearest subway stop so he could get downtown to my place. “Um,” I stammered, “does your dad know that
he’s driving you to a hook-up with a guy you’ve never met in person?” “ Oh sure,” he replied, “Mom and Dad both
know. Mom gave me a condom.” Hippie parents? Negligent parents? He was a full-fledged adult, but this sounded
ridiculous. But I let the red flag
go. Just because my parents would have
had a coronary at the thought of me going to meet a stranger for sex didn’t
mean all parents thought this way, did it?
We sexted a bit, and he phoned to say he’d cut his cock shaving. “It’s all your fault,” he told me. “I want you so bad, that I couldn’t
concentrate on shaving. Hey, why don’t
we just skip the beer and I’ll just come to your place. If we don’t click I’ll just leave.” Dear Reader,
you know I said “ok”, don’t you? I told
him that I had previously arranged to hang out with my sister at about 9:30, so
could he be here by 7? He said no
problem – he had other friends that he could hang out with in the Village
after. But if we clicked, would I like
to get together after I was through at my sister’s? Could he crash at my place, since it would be
too late to get the metro back to the burbs?
We hadn’t even met yet, and already he was arranging a sleep over. I, who don’t know how to say no when I should
sometimes, said “sure”.
He arrived and knocked on the door, and I took a deep
breath. When I opened the door, I would
see the real deal, and that would make all the difference. I stealed myself and opened the door, and was
disappointed. It was him, the guy in the
pictures I’d seen online, but it wasn’t him, you know? I had endowed his two pictures with qualities
that didn’t exist in reality. But I
smiled and let him in. He was wearing a
ball cap, a t-shirt and torn jeans. I
was wearing a black tank to show off the muscles, and jeans and a ball cap
too. He kissed me right away, and the
kiss did not taste good. There was no
chemistry, right from the get go. Still,
ever the host with the most, I let this stranger in and offered him a beer.
He drank like a fish, and finished the first beer in record
time. Why in hell did I feel the need to
be so accommodating that I quickly offered him another? I could tell that he was really attracted to
me – he told me so. I couldn’t bear to
tell this guy who had come all the way from the suburbs that it wasn’t
working. Instead, I was going to make it
work, putting my own needs and desires aside in a misguided attempt to be a
nice guy to a fellow sexual traveller.
Against my better judgement, we began to fool around and our
tops came off. His chest revealed a
non-descript tattoo on the left pec. He
straddled me and we kissed, rubbing each other’s crotches through our
jeans. He was out of shape and said he
was working to get rid of the winter fat.
At this point, I was on automatic.
I’d been down this road so many times that, like a housewife doing her
conjugal duty, I just wanted him to get off and go. And so he lay down on the couch, and I
struggled to undo his belt. Finally
getting that off, I slowly undid the zipper on his jeans, and began to pulling
the jeans aside to release his cock and start sucking it. And that’s when I noticed the red blotch.
“Dude,” I said, “I think your cock in bleeding.” “No,” he answered, “I cut myself shaving, but
it should be scabbed over by now.” Was
he implying that I should go ahead and suck a scabby cock? Had all of this sunk so low that it was now
going to be about sucking a scab? Did he
really believe that I would do it? It
was an epiphany. Ten years of hook-ups
had led to this moment, and I took note.
At what point would I say to myself that enough was enough?
But the cut had not scabbed over, not at all. He was bleeding, and I told him so. He stood up and looked and saw that I was
right. The blood began to drip on his
jeans and narrowly missed my carpet. I
told him to head to the bathroom, and luckily, only when he hit the tile that
led to the bathroom did his blood hit the floor. Carpet saved.
I got him a wet cloth, followed the trail of blood to the bathroom, and
found him trying in vain to stop the bleeding with tissue. Was this going to need stitches? But the wet cloth stopped it, and he
deposited the bloody cloth in my sink. A
present for me? How thoughtful.
He pulled up his jeans, which showed a large blood stain on
the crotch. I assumed that he was
mortified that this was happening in a stranger’s home – wouldn’t anyone
be? But he wasn’t apoplectic with
apologies – he was quite cool about it, at least outwardly. Lord in Heaven, why I didn’t tell him to
leave and go home? I gave him a pair of
my underwear since he had been commando, and put a towel on my leather couch
for us to sit on and actually offered him another beer. I wanted to appear to be the guy who could
handle crazy situations like this and put him at ease, feeling that if the
tables were reversed, I would hope my host would not freak out.
I had to wipe the blood off the floor. He said, “I’m negative, just in case you’re
worried about the blood.” I didn’t
answer him, I just wiped the blood spots as carefully as possible. I humourously asked him how mortified he was
feeling, on a scale of 1 to 10, 10 being the worst. He, surprisingly, because of his apparent
ease with the situation, answered a 9.
Secretly, I was thrilled that something had intervened to prevent me
from having unwanted sex with him.
Instead we chatted for a while, and he had a fourth beer. I said that I needed to get going to my
sister’s – would he be going home to change his pants and see how his cock was
healing? “No, I’m gonna text my friends and hang out in the village while
you’re at your sister’s. But hey, I
grabbed the wrong wallet on the way out the door and this one is empty. Could you spare me $20?” I gave it to him so I could be absolved of
all responsibility. What I worried about
was how much he was wobbling after the four beers I had served him. “I’m really feeling it because I had a few
beers with my dad this afternoon while watching the game. “
He left and quickly texted me to say that I was
attractive. I texted back asking where
he was going. He wrote, “Dunno. Maybe to the baths for a few hours?” He was going to go to a bath house with a
bleeding cock. And he seemed to expect
that we would see each other again later and that he could still crash at my
place for the night. Lord help us all.
Shortly thereafter, I texted him to say that I would be
hanging with my sister for the rest of the evening and that he wouldn’t be able
to stay at my place for the night. I did
this early enough so that he could still catch the subway home if he was so
inclined. and for the first time in ten years of actively having
hook-ups, I looked in the mirror and asked myself what the fuck I was looking
for that I would open my home to this kind of experience. What bleeding wound did I possess inside that
made me create a space in my life where such things could happen? The experience would almost be funny if it
weren’t so damn tragic. I’m a slow
learner, but it finally dawned on me that I had reached an impasse.
Greg texted me the next day, apologizing for his bleeding
and hoping it didn’t freak me out too much.
I was glad that he was ok – I had, after all, sent him out of my
apartment drunk and bleeding. I played
it cool and texted that I was glad he was alright. And neither of us communicated again. I, however, began communicating with my higher
self. The idea of letting a stranger in
the sanctity of my home became anathema to me.
Sexually, I would need to find other ways to satisfy myself because
online hook-ups were seemingly more and more discordant with what I
needed. The song was ending, and I
needed to learn a new melody.
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