Editor’s note:
I first want to say this is a long one, but cutting any of these details in favor of length would be completely antithetical to the purpose of this newsletter. You have the freedom to read this at your leisure, coming back to it to keep going when you so choose. I considered ranking these stories, but I believe that assigning any numerical order would tip the scale in an unnecessary way. I do have a favorite among these guys, which is clear not only in the story itself, but in how I tell it.
Secondly, I want to assure you that this newsletter issue does not contain a Burn Book quality, for many reasons. The main reason being that I’m 36 years old. But the second reason, which is possibly more important than the first, is that none of these men did me any harm, and they didn’t linger in my life longer than necessary. If I had to guess, I’d say that they think of me in their day-to-day lives with the same frequency I think of them. However, some of the things they’ve said have become cemented in my mind, making me shake my head or smile or full-on guffaw when I remember them. And for that, they deserve a little recognition.
“Are you still gay?”
It was 2011. I remember because this happened when I was living in my first apartment, where I’d painted the living and dining room walls the closest shade I could get to the color on the cover of My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy, which my friends and I listened to on repeat while painting it. I was sitting on my tan Rent-A-Center couch and staring at those walls when my laptop sounded an alert from Facebook chat.
I’d gone to high school with this guy, and I cannot for the life of me remember us ever speaking to each other during that time. This is remarkable, because my graduating class was eighty-something students. Statistically, it’s very possible we spoke to each other, but it left no mark on my psyche. I can say with certainty that he chose this moment to make up for lost time.
“Are you still gay?”
What an opener! I want to divulge something right now. That isn’t the only weird thing he said. In fact, it’s just a catalyst for the things to follow, which likely never would’ve happened if he didn’t really clinch a main detail upfront.
“Are you still gay?”
“I was never gay.”
“Really? We all thought you were gay.”
This question, at its core, is obviously hilarious. I can’t think of any basis he would’ve had for coming to the conclusion that I’m gay, outside of the fact that I never fucked him and he didn’t know anyone who did. For some men, I think that’s all it takes. But to ask if I’m still gay implies a hope that even my imagined homosexuality was a phase that I’d shake myself out of, which is pretty funny.
He then went into talking about himself, telling me that he worked at a bank and made good money. I was clicking through his photo album dedicated entirely to pictures of him in Iron Man costumes when he asked another question.
“Are you ticklish?”
You could argue that “Are you ticklish?” carries more weight than the previous question. I disagree. We wouldn’t have gotten here without such a carefully chosen opener. We owe it all to “Are you still gay?”
“Yeah kinda,” I replied to him. I wasn’t thinking of the question going anywhere. I was more focused on the fact that in the pictures where he wasn’t dressed as Iron Man, he was wearing an Iron Man t-shirt.
He then got into telling me about his business idea, which was creating a website that had videos of women being tickled.
“All types of women. And they would have their clothes on and everything,” he typed. “Nothing weird. I’m not into it, but guys pay a lot of money for stuff like that.”
He never specifically asked me to be one of the women, and the conversation ended with him giving me his cell phone number in case I “ever want to send pictures of my feet.”
I just checked, and we’re no longer friends on Facebook. I can’t remember if I unfriended him during one of the many times I cleaned house over there, or if, let’s all laugh, he decided to unfriend me for what I’m choosing to call “unknown reasons.” I looked through his pictures again, though, and while the Iron Man photo album is gone, the pictures still exist, including one where he used what appears to be MS Paint and drew the Iron Man mask over his face in a selfie. I won’t include a screenshot, because much like The Blair Witch Project, it’s way more impactful to use your imagination than be presented with what the movie monster looks like.
***
“Hitler was Obama’s grandfather.”
There’s literally no backstory with this guy. I hired him through Taskrabbit to hang a shade on my porch. I was freshly unemployed, and spent a lot of time smoking weed, cooking, and watching soon-to-be-canceled shows on streaming services. I was completely fixated on hanging a shade on my porch because, as I previously stated, I didn’t have a job.
When he was done — and I use the word ‘done’ loosely, as he didn’t bring all of the correct tools to properly finish the job and never anchored the whateveryoucallit, so the shade flaps in the wind instead of staying put — he sat down on the porch and we got to talking.
I always refer to the first part of our conversation as “the real part,” because it was rooted in reality. We talked about things that were actually happening, like police being corrupt and towns flooding and rich people getting richer; all of the things we’ve come to bow our heads and accept as routine before tap dancing off the stage and into the next disaster. He then noted that people “Don’t want to accept capitalism or the information that’s right in front of them,” before swerving into the statement “Like, Hitler was Obama’s grandfather, but nobody wants to talk about that. And the information is out there.”
I honestly just kept the conversation moving and didn’t address what he said. You may wonder how I was able to ignore it, and all I can say is that I’m very good at what I do. He eventually left to catch his bus, but not before handing me his business card so I could look at his art on Instagram.
I’m not linking to his art because of the aforementioned movie monster rules, but it’s safe to say that he’s definitely a hotep, which by the way, is a word that sounds like a slur when nonblack people say it.
“You’re not a musician, you wouldn’t get it.”
This one, while it appears smug and condescending, becomes less so when you consider the source and context. I dated this guy in college. College is a time I can point to and definitively state that everyone I was attracted to could be described as “just some guy.” Their main characteristics are that they probably really love Paul Rudd and still rewatch Anchorman or The Office, which, contrary to what the masterminds on Twitter will have you believe, is not indicative of anything sinister. This guy played 9 instruments, loved frisbee golf and used to smoke weed a lot in high school. He said he stopped because one day he was coming down from his high and realized that he had clipped all of his nails only halfway across on each finger.
Obviously, we dated for two years. Toward the end of the relationship, we were arguing about some incredibly stupid shit. I don’t regret any of it, because this relationship was my introduction to bickering at what I consider to be a premium level. There were days where one of us would call the other and a heated, taunting tone would just permeate the phone lines, almost as audible as our voices themselves. One day he called me up to play “comparing notes” — a game we invented where we’d talk about what we were into at the moment and take turns arguing why our choice was better than the other person’s — something that sounds like it could be fun but absolutely never was.
One fun game we did play was simply called “Reba,” and it involved us watching Reba on mute because she “looked like an angry muppet.” We used to do this on the main floor of our dorm, and people would stop by on their way in or out, watch for a few seconds, and laugh. I cannot stress enough that neither of us smoked weed for the entirety of the relationship.
So he wanted to compare notes. “I’ll go first,” I remember him saying, followed by some of the most harrowing words in the English language: “I’ve been listening to the South Park movie soundtrack,” a horrible statement that he somehow outdid by then stating “and it’s the greatest music compilation ever made.”
You now see where his statement is going to come into play. I sanely responded “No, it’s not,” which is when he lowered the boom and delivered the line that has gone triple platinum in my household: “You’re not a musician, you wouldn’t get it.”
The crowd needs to be fucking cheering for this. While clearly nuts, you understand what I meant when I said to consider the source and context for his statement. This was a young man who believed in something, and he was willing to fight for a cause that was close to his heart. I told him I had to leave for work and hung up the phone. Obviously, as soon as I clocked in, I gathered the girls and crowdsourced suggestions for when and how I should break up with him. Everyone’s voice was heard, resulting in a landslide victory for “after my shift, over the phone.”
***
“You would look hot bald.”
This is a man who had what a lot of other men lack: unwavering confidence, a down-to-Earth mentality, and a lot of money. It was a combination I hadn’t encountered before him, and honestly haven’t since. He was from Buffalo and always called me by my last name. We lived in the same residence hall, where he and his redneck roommate regularly hosted movie nights on his huge plasma TV. On a weekly basis, he would buy all of the newest bootleg DVDs from Duck, a guy who lived two rooms down from me and always kept his door open while he blasted Jeezy through his speakers until quiet hours. On this particular night, we were watching V for Vendetta, a movie that I honestly cannot recall because of what I’m about to tell you.
I was squeezed next to him on the futon, and the room was packed with people either standing or sitting for this special viewing. At some point when Natalie Portman first became bald (??? I wish to God I could remember this movie), he looked into my eyes and said “You would look hot bald,” popped out his fake tooth, placed it on the coffee table in front of us, and put his arm around me.
This was one of the most genuinely positive experiences I’ve ever had with a man that I never dated. Although it’s a weird thing to say, he didn’t mean anything weird by it. He stated it with the same certainty as he would’ve said “The sky is blue,” or other facts that can’t be argued.
The last time I saw him was in 2010. He messaged me on Facebook to ask “Do you like Coheed and Cambria?” followed by “What’s your address?” A few days later, he showed up at my door with a friend and said "Let's go party.” After the show, we went to a few strip clubs, and then back to their hotel room. There were only two beds, and before I could say anything, he said “Bed is yours, Lewis,” popped out his fake tooth, laid down on the couch, and went to sleep.
“I can be your dog.”
Right, let’s get into it. Surprising literally no one, I met this guy on Tinder. He was a photographer, which is one of the few Types of Guys™ I’ve actually chosen to stay away from altogether. They’re too good at making something look better than it really is.
This was the first in a series of “What the fuck?” encounters I had with guys from dating apps last year, and it’s both a testament to my perseverance and hopeful spirit that I tried my best to forge ahead after this. Eventually, though, I became jaded (as one does) and deleted my accounts (as one also does).
I tried to use an approach I’ve heard about people using before, which is matching and going on a date without talking too much beforehand. This, they say, is so that you “don’t run out of things to talk about on the date.” I’ve come to realize that I don’t need to use this method, as I could talk to anyone for any length of time, and I’ve learned that I only run out of conversation with withholding people who wouldn’t be suitable for me to date anyway.
We were on a walk, which I feel is one of the murkier categories of what constitutes a date in the proper sense, and I’m sure you have your own ideas about how to categorize it. We can debate that at another time. But we were walking around, and ran into a bunch of different people who were walking their dogs. After petting a few and continuing on, this is what happened:
Him: “Do you have a dog?”
Me: “I did have a dog. He died two months ago.”
Yes, you’re correct, this is where he says it
Him: “I can be your dog.”
Me: “Did you say you can be my dog?”
Him: “Yeah! And I can wag my tail, and you can pet me…”
He then began wagging his ass and half panting like a dog. There on the sidewalk. In broad daylight. On a weekday.
For whatever reason, I only had one verbal response for this situation, which was “Well, you can’t be a dog, because you don’t have fur.”
This is the sort of “gotcha” statement you’d hear from a first grader, but let’s unpack it. I don’t think I’ve ever met a dog without fur, and maybe they exist because of some ghastly cross-breeding or an illness that renders it completely bald. In those situations, know that I still consider those animals to be dogs. But you know what the fuck I’m talking about, dude. He was not a dog. After consulting various friends, the emerging theory is that he’d already planned to say that freaky shit, and he wasn’t going to let a little blip like “My dog died two months ago” get in his way. He was expecting a clear ‘yes’ or ‘no,’ and my answer was off-script. All I can hope is that he workshopped his material before taking it on the road.
oddly proud that fake tooth guy is from buffalo
fake tooth can have me, honestly