Rugged Fox and the Burning Bush

part four of "the grindr monologues"

Fasten your seatbelts folks because this is part four of “The Grindr Monologues.” For those of you who are just taking a seat, allow me to bring you up to speed. After compromising his credit card in a virtual threesome on Grindr, the Fox is terrified he might have to fly high and a dry on a Westjet flight to Ottawa. When the sassy gay flight attendant rejects his prepaid credit card, Rugged Fox is forced to pull his pant leg up and show some skin. Exchanging his humiliating story for sips of gin with the beautiful woman seated next to him, the Fox begins to spill how this entire mess began.

biceps drawn to scale“So did you go to his or did he come to yours?” inquired Erin, the beautiful lady in the middle seat, also known as my new best friend with gin.

“None of the above,” I replied. “It was eleven o`clock in the morning, and while I should have been up writing, instead I found myself in bed, listening to Q and wondering why I did not have more likes on Instagram. If I was looking to hook-up with someone on their lunch break, I would have been searching Craigslist instead.”

“But you said you accepted his request to jerk!”

I would love to tell you that this last line of Erin’s was whispered into the private depths of my pierced ear, except sadly that was not the case. Her scream echoed into the back of the cabin and, in total, attracted six dirty looks, two scoffs and one baby’s cry. It became readily apparent that not only had she grown impatient with my propensity to dilly dally; but she also crushed several double gins before the flight. For safekeeping, I transferred the gin and tonic from her tray table to mine.

“I did acquiesce his invitation!” I decrescendo-ed in attempt to bring her volume back to an appropriate level. “I just didn’t meet him in person. I hadn’t even brushed my teeth yet.”

“So what did you do?”

“Well at first I tried to negotiate the logistics of the situation. It had been years since I last stripped down in a chat room and I wanted to make sure I had set the mood right. At first, I considered typing out my favourite Shakespearean sonnet from 10 Things I Hate About You; but I was too afraid the iambic pentameter might get lost in translation. I was just about to quote Keats when an image lit up the screen before me.

Seven inches tall, shaved and cut like a slice of prosciutto, it was clear that rose petals were not going to be necessary in this sexual encounter.

Now, before we move forward, I must take pause to note that, although I do appreciate the rhythmic nature of the term “dick pic,” given the fact there is a six-year-old boy sitting across the aisle from me, I shall proceed henceforth to use the term “head shot” instead.

‘It is nice to make your acquaintance,’ I typed into a blue message bubble. It does not take much to cross the line between nobility and vulgarity when responding to a picture of a penis.

‘And u?’ he replied.

Blast! I squealed. Unlike other men, who keep a collection of head shots stored on their phone, I prefer to live in the moment, delete the moment, and then cross my fingers that same moment doesn’t end up on the internet.

I knew if I was going to keep the blood flowing I was going to have send a picture in return. Even though I consider myself to be quite the skilled wordsmith, no one likes to zoom in to a dirty adjective. And so, with gazelle-like motion, I sprung out of bed and swapped my Joe Fresh boxers for the only pair of black CK briefs I had left. Meryl knows, it does not take long for a man to lose his entire lingerie collection when the only person he ever beds is himself.

Jumping back into bed, I adjusted my IKEA reading lamp on the night stand before adjusting myself and then snapped the perfect shot. 

What followed could best be described as a typical exchange between two single gay men in the twenty-first century. Both sitting at home alone, the two of us held on to our cell phones in one hand and ourselves in the other. While I polished my grammar and continued to firm up my sentence structure, he remained rigid in his use of abbreviated text and questionable emoji’s. Ten minutes passed and just as our conversation was about to reach its climax, I came to a full stop when another photo arrived.

Unlike the previous head shots that he had sent, there was a major difference with this one: a full head of hair. My bush is always burning bright so continuity is not an issue I would have in this situation.

Sitting up in my bed, I felt as if the fourth wall had collapsed on the imaginary encounter I had just created for myself. How could I be so foolish? Somehow, I had bought into the illusion that this alternative universe of profile photos, head lines and measurements was actually real. The air began leaking from my tires as I began to question everything I thought I knew about this gentleman caller. Was he even at home? Was that even his head shot? Did he even like Bruce Springsteen?

The phone rang at that second and I screamed.

I then proceeded to scream again once a picture of Mama Bear popped up on the phone!

There was no use ignoring her call. The phone would just keep ringing.

RF: Mom! Hi.

MB: Oh, Rugged I am so glad I reached you.

RF: Mother dearest I must confide to you that I currently find myself in the throes of an existential crisis and must implore you to call me back at a later time. Like in six minutes.

MB: Did you forget to eat breakfast again?

RF: No, what? My hands are just tied up at the moment.

Pulling a blanket over myself, I returned to my previous conversation on Grindr and texted a very simple question in a language this man was certainly able to understand,

“where r u?”

“at werk,” he replied. 

Dear Meryl.

“Where do you work?” I asked.

“DQ” he wrote back, a three-minute walk away from my basement apartment.

Returning to my aisle seat on the Westjet flight I noticed the plastic cup in my right hand was empty and Erin was sound asleep on my shoulder. I had still yet to secure a mini-bottle of red wine.

to be continued.