In all my years as a lecherous homosexual, I have never, not even once, hooked up with someone in my hometown. The primary reason being: My hometown is miles away from anywhere an openly gay man would likely take up residence. I enjoy getting away from D. I enjoy seeing the buffalo out at the wildlife refuge. I enjoy the wide-open skies, unobstructed by skyscrapers and billboards and smokestacks. Scruff is different from its notorious counterpart Grindr in a number of ways.
For one, it feels more chill. But most importantly, unlike distance-based dating apps, you can talk to people from all over the world. He always, without fail, has as his default picture a horrifying photograph of a human head mounted on a wall with gazelle antlers sprouting from its skull. But the last time I went home, something strange happened.
A blank profile messaged me from about a mile away. Given that this was during the dead of night, my first instinct was to open the blinds of my windows and check to see if I could spot a glowing light out in the field. A mile in rural Oklahoma is too close for comfort. It might as well be coming from inside the house. I flipped through my Rolodex of possibilities, but the only gay man I knew of who lived in the area was my best friend from high school, and he had philosophical differences with dating apps.
With a rush of excitement, I deduced that this must be a teacher I once had. A specific one. I knew it, I thought. I knew which school he meant. There was only one for miles and miles around. My hands would shake. My stomach would tie itself in knots. I had quite a few back then. I mentally rifled through names and faces. I instantly recognized him. That much was a relief.
And yet, for one reason or another, despite being more or less a background character during the worst years of my life, his was one of the faces of my past I still clearly remembered.
