So, this whole time I’ve been trying to date new people in NYC, I’ve been dating a hot, young guy in Palm Springs for the past three years. Or more to the point, he thinks he’s been dating me. I’m not sure why. I don’t know if he even knows my last name. I know I don’t know his. In my phone I have him listed only as MOkc
Even still, right before my first NYC trip a year ago, MOkc texts me, “Hi Queenie, guess who?”
“Hi there, I thought you lost interest. I haven’t heard from you in a while,” I say.
“Are you kidding?” he says. “I’m in love with you.”
My first reaction is to block and delete him. My second reaction is to ask, “Are you mentally ill? I’m not prejudiced against mentally ill people. I just want to know what kind of mental illness I’m dealing with.”
I soften my response and say instead, “Um, uh, we don’t know each other very well. I’m not sure how you can say that.”
He laughs. “You know all you need to know about me. I told you my sexual preferences, so we’re all good.”
I think back to a recent conversation when he said he wanted to be my cuckhold.
“What’s a cuckhold?” I ask.
“It means you can sleep with lots of men and I’ll be loyal to you. You can be dominant in the relationship, and I’ll do whatever you say,” he says.
“Really? Do whatever I say?” I ask.
“Right,” he says.
Wow, I think. This sounds great—like having a job and getting paid for it, but not having to work. I think of the endless cups of coffee he’ll bring me in bed, him walking the dog, cleaning the house, agreeing with me whatever I say-- not having pointless arguments over who’s right or wrong.
“That sound great, but I don’t think I’d have the energy to sleep with multiple men,” I say.
“Oh come on, you’re just being modest. You could sleep with one of your students.”
I laugh. As a teacher, you get fired for that. If I had to choose, though, I’d pick “John”—a convicted felon in his early 30s with tattooed tear drops on his face, who wrote great poetry and entertained the class with his prison stories. But this may be setting the bar too low.
I first met MOkc, a house builder who’s nine years younger than me, online right before the pandemic. We have two things in common: We both love pot and dogs. I send him my stories and photos of my paintings.
“They’re amazing,” he says and in turn sends me videos of him playing heavy metal guitar.
“I know we’re not 18 or 20, but do you ever see yourself starting over with someone?” he writes.
I smile at his naivete and ask what I ask everyone: “What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?”
He hears the question wrong, and says, “The worst thing that ever happened to me was I was raped. I was in prison for selling LSD, and these Aryan brothers beat me up and raped me for sticking up for a black guy they were tormenting.”
“Wow,” I say.
“What’s the worst thing that’s happened to you?” he asks.
“I was raped, too,” I say.
“So, we have something in common,” he says.
“Yes,” I say.
I drive down to Palm Springs and stay with him in his two-room unfinished house, with 300 pot plants stuffed into the garage, the sink overflowing with dirty dishes, the ratty, torn-up couch and black and white tv, which look like they were pulled out of the garbage from the curb.
He’s handsome with longish-blonde hair he stuffs under a baseball cap and bright blue hopeful eyes. During the day he takes me sightseeing in his old, beat-up truck with its insides torn out. We traipse around the desert looking at odd art installations and strange rock formations. At night we smoke pot and lie on the couch watching reruns of the Odd Couple and Taxi. We hold hands on the couch, but don’t kiss. In bed, we wrap our arms around each other, but do nothing else.
We are so innocent together. When I leave for home, he presses his body against mine for several long seconds. He texts and calls a lot after that. He says he’s lonely and his big toe hurts and people are assholes and he pays too much in taxes and he’s pushing 50 and he’s never been married and the 100-plus degree weather is killing him. “I wish you were here,” he writes. “I miss holding hands in front of the tv.”
I sigh. He thinks I can solve his problems, but I know better. I might ease his loneliness at first, but when I’m not everything he’s dreamed of, I won’t be the solution to his problems. I’ll be the problem.
I tell him I’m moving to NYC to pursue my literary career and create a new life. One night he asks, “Do you ever think about getting married again?”
I nearly retch. “No, no, no, no….God no, ” I say.
“If we got married, I’d build you the best house ever,” he says.
I grimace. He's not listening. I already have the best house ever. I try ghosting him, but he keeps calling. One time when I’m lonely, I pick up and invite him to visit me in Three Rivers.
I’m worried, though. He carries a handgun and someone’s been stealing his tools, and if he ever catches the guy, he’s going to shoot him. I don’t want to be around for that. Plus, I’m worried if he knows where I live, he might stalk me. It’s going to be hard having a relationship with him if I don't want to tell him where I live. So, once again, I ignore his calls and get on a flight to NYC.
He texts me while I’m here and asks, “Can I call you? It would be so good to hear your voice.”
“Yes,” I say one lonely night.
He calls and says, “It’s so good to talk to you. I love your voice. I love everything about you. I love you.”
I want to tell him it isn’t true—that he doesn’t love me. He just loves the idea of me. After we hang up, he texts me: “I want to be loyoyla onto tooth you. We are three years into this. I want us to be together. Tell me yes or no.”
I shudder. If he really knew me, he would never send a text declaring his love with typos. I hesitate. In the past, I might have used him as a backup, as someone to reassure me when I’m lonely. But it isn’t right for me to string him along. So I take a deep breath and type: “I’m sorry. I don’t feel this way. This isn’t what I want.”
“Thank you for being conscientious and kind and considerate,” he says.
He texts the next night and the night after, but I don’t answer. He doesn’t yet know what I know: I can't help him. He can't help me.
We can only just barely help ourselves.