Two summers ago, I decided to join OK Cupid. And it was thrilling. I could go on a date every night of the week if I wanted to! And I wanted to. So I did.

In my second week of obsessive OK Cupid dating, I set a date with a man who seemed lovely online. Smart, attractive, definitely interesting. We decided to meet up at KramerBooks in Dupont Circle for a beer.

When I met him, I honestly didn’t recognize him from his picture. He was very effeminate looking and very tiny – short and slender. But, hey, it was a date, and I was there, so I was going all in. We got a couple of beers and a beet salad, and started to talk.

Within the first half hour of conversation, he told me that he was an “ex” gay prostitute. He was only “gay for pay,” he assured me, and was otherwise totally straight. Plus, he didn’t do it anymore, anyway, so it didn’t matter. Odd first date disclosure, but sure, we all have strange pasts.

Then he went on to tell me about all of the senators he had, uh, met up with in his travels through the world of gay prostitution. He bragged about how much money he had made in a night. And he told me that he “sucked the best dick in the world.” It really, really didn’t seem like he didn’t do it anymore (Did I mention that he still worked as a barback at a gay bar?). Ok. It was clear. I was on a date with a gay prostitute. It was a first.

I knew at that point that I wasn’t going to date this guy. I wasn’t attracted to him, let alone the gay-prostitute bit. But at that point, there was no way in hell I was leaving the date. No, sirree Bob. I was riding this one out for the rest of the night, because who knew what I would learn next? This guy was fascinating. So I went along with the story (sure thing, you’re on a straight track to corporate America!) and let the date continue.

We went to another bar, where he bought me a shot of Grand Marnier. I assume you’re thinking, “who the hell drinks a shot of Grand Marnier?” Good question. That’s what I was thinking. But I wasn’t about to turn down free booze, so I went with it.

We decided to go for a walk. It was a beautiful night. The neighborhood surrounding Dupont Circle is full of trees and it really is nice to walk through. I kept a safe enough distance that he couldn’t kiss me. Life was good.

At one point in the walk, he stopped me.

“By the way,” he said, “I used to be a meth addict.”

Ok. Interesting first date disclosure number two. And it definitely explained why he had been so damn tweaky all evening.

He explained that, when he was a gay prostitute (wink, wink), he took a lot of meth to stay awake and stay hard while he was turning tricks. I affirmed him. Totally understandable. And then he went on to talk about how amazing meth was. And how essential it was to the field of gay prostitution. This was not the talk or behavior of an ex-addict. Dude was addicted to meth.

Ok. Gay prostitute? Check. Meth addict? Check. The guy was hitting all my buttons. So I let the night go on just a bit longer.

Within the next half hour, he told me that he had HPV. It was no big deal, he said, as long as I had gotten the vaccine. He told me that he could only date women under 26, because those older weren’t eligible for the vaccine, which was a huge loss.

And he had officially hit a home run. A gay prostitute who was addicted to meth who also had a potentially cancer-causing and incurable STI? I had met my dream man.

When he had disclosed anything he could possibly disclose, the evening wound down. I let him walk me back to the metro. We both expressed that we had had a lovely time together. I gave him a quick hug, and turned to go home.

“Wait,” he said. “Do you, uh, wanna come back to my place?”

I just went with a simple, “No, thank you, but have a great night.”

We went our separate ways. He texted me a few times, but I never got in touch again.

 

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