It was Valentine’s Day 2010. My mom and I were sitting in the kitchen when she asked me why I wasn’t dating anybody. What was holding me back, she wondered? Had her divorce made me leery of starting a relationship of my own? I was 23 years old after all; wedding bells were already ringing for most of my friends.
“Mom, I’m gay.”
I could hear my heart pounding in my ears, as well as Everybody Loves Raymond playing in the background.
“So…are you dating a guy right now?”
“No,” I said.
This was actually true, but in my mind, I was lying. Let me explain:
Three months earlier I’d met a beautiful Italian man online (whom I shall now refer to as BIM). This was pre-Grindr, thank goodness. And even if dating apps had existed back then, I lived in rural southeast Missouri — my only match would have been a down-low, probably-married guy named Bud or Rick. And he more than likely would have been one of my classmate’s uncles.
Even if Grindr had existed back then, I lived in rural southeast Missouri — my only match would have been a down-low, probably-married guy named Bud or Rick. And he more than likely would have been one of my classmate’s uncles.
Not that the website was any classier. It was essentially a dating site disguised as a health and fitness site for gay men. This means it had just as many shirtless photos as a Grindr profile, but on the plus side, it didn’t have the creepy GPS stalker interface that told me a potential mate was 47 feet away.
BIM lived in Los Angeles. He was an architect, he surfed, he made pizza, and, oh yeah, he was 2,000 miles away. We’d never met in person, and yet here I was telling myself that we were “sort of dating.”
So as you can see, when I told my mom “No,” I was indeed telling the truth. But the sad, delusional part of me — the part of me that never experienced an intimate, emotional connection with another human being for the entirety of high school and college — equated Skyping five times with the beginnings of a new relationship.
He was, indeed, the LaFawnduh to my Kip.
Fueled by a newfound sense of confidence and elation that only comes with being a “new gay,” I booked a flight to Los Angeles the following month to meet him. Of course, nobody knew I was traveling there to meet someone I’d met online. I think I went there under the pretense that, as a writer, I’d “just always wanted to see what LA was like.”
My arrival at LAX was very cinematic, at least when I play it back in my mind. The escalator to the exit has a low, slanted ceiling that initally blocks your view of the ground floor. As I descended, we were both slowly revealed to one another, from toe to head.
By the end of the week, I was pleased to discover that I hadn’t been murdered and buried in a shallow grave off Mulholland Drive. BIM, as it turns out, was even more wonderful in flesh than he was in pixels. And he had already surpassed my expectations by not killing me.
By the end of the week, I was pleased to discover that I hadn’t been murdered and buried in a shallow grave off Mulholland Drive.
Three months later — and with the unconditional, yet hesitant support of my mother — I left my first big-boy job with medical benefits to move to California with a carload of my belongings.
Let me just clarify that nobody knew about BIM yet. Nobody yet knew that I was uprooting my life for a man I met online, and I preferred to keep it that way for as long as possible. This is what crazy people did — and I was not crazy, just daring and adventurous, right? RIGHT?!!
The fact that I had no job prospects and knew nobody else never really crossed my mind. I was pursuing happiness, and when you’re in that dreamlike state of mind, the logistics of life never really come into play.
I was pursuing happiness, and when you’re in that dreamlike state of mind, the logistics of life never really come into play.
Oh, I forgot to mention that BIM flew to Missouri so he could drive with me out to Los Angeles. I was also involved in a minor car accident on my way to pick him up at the airport. And when we spent the night in Oklahoma, a series of tornados wiped out part of the city just a few blocks from our motel.
In most cases, I would have interpreted these misfortunes as the universe’s way of telling me to turn around and go home. Not this time. I was bound and determined to live my life according to Katy Perry’s “California Gurls.”
Undeterred by the fact that I nearly died in the rubble of a Motel 6 with a man I met online, we hopped in the car and continued our journey out west. Two days later, we arrived in the City of Angels.
Undeterred by the fact that I nearly died in the rubble of a Motel 6 with a man I met online, we hopped in the car and continued our journey out west.
I remember the first thing I said as we made our way down the 405:
“What’s that smell?”
“Pollution,” he said.
While the air quality was questionable, it was definitely drier than what I was used to. Growing up in Missouri, the ever-present humidity made being outside a chore. Breathing was rarely accomplished without a gnat or mosquito flying directly into your nostril like a missile launch.
We were entering a part of Los Angeles known as the San Fernando Valley, or “The Valley” as it’s known regionally. Sherman Oaks to be exact. In my research before moving, I learned that Jennifer Aniston was born there and that if you lived in West Los Angeles, you were supposed to hate The Valley. That’s about all my research turned up.
For $800 a month, I was to live in the room of a house owned by BIM’s friend’s boyfriend. He was an actor and personal trainer, prone to walking around shirtless and making me hate my Midwestern doughiness. He had two parrots, four dogs, and — unbeknownst to him — a giant sewer rat that later took up residence in my underwear drawer.
This was my new home. Now all I needed was a job, friends, and a relationship that hopefully didn’t turn to shit in a week.
To be continued…because I need a snack.
