One night, while fairly intoxicated at Pieces, I took out my phone and opened Grindr while my friends danced.
I got a message from someone 280 feet away. He was handsome, 38 years old and also named Ian. We chatted, he sent me some pictures of his ripped chest and I asked if I could come over, finishing my Captain and Coke.
“I don’t want you to come over just like that. I read your profile. I think I could be what you’re looking for.”
Wasted, I had to click on my profile to remember. “Dates before dicks. Anyone can get laid; it takes a certain skill to pull off a first date.” My caption: “Writer, Reader, Cat Lady.” I made a mental note to remove “Cat Lady.”
“At least take a walk with me, while I’m so close,” I responded.
We met on the corner of Waverly and 10th, walking around the block several times while I sobered up. He liked to read, mentioning some books I hadn’t read and some I hadn’t even heard of. I joked that being able to read put him ahead of the rest of the men I’d met on Grindr. Two girls walking by stopped us to tell us we were a cute couple. I swear, this 6’ jock blushed.
We met again that Friday for our first date. I arrived to Quality Italian 10 minutes late, per usual, but he already had a table near the back. He ordered a bottle of red wine, and when I snuck a peek at the price I almost fainted. Halfway through my chicken parm, he ordered another.
It was when the second bottle arrived that he finally let his guard down. “I want to call you lil’ bro,” he said.
I hadn’t eaten all day, and the first bottle hit me pretty hard. “OK!” I said, chipper, nomming on cheesy chicken goodness.
Ten minutes later, he added, “And I want you to call me big bro.”
I slurped noodles into my mouth. “O…K…”
“And I’d love to dress you up as a schoolboy, like in Harry Potter,” he continued. I realized I was wearing a crisp white shirt and wool short-shorts, already looking the part.
“Okie dokie…” I swallowed a large gulp of wine.
He leaned toward me across the table, and I took the bait, leaning forward myself. “And I want to rape your boy pussy.”
I almost spit out my mouthful of wine. I didn’t say anything back.
We finished the wine while he talked about accounting, and when we left I realized he was going to get us a taxi on the corner. We approached a subway station, and while he kept going on and on, without a word, I turned, went down the steps, and swiped my unlimited MTA card at the turnstile. I didn’t look back until I was through: He hadn’t followed me.
I haven’t heard from him since. I also haven’t picked up any of my Harry Potter books.
Instagram: ianmichaelinwonderland
Twitter: @ianinwonderland
