It was Sunday morning, and I wanted something gentle. When A, a wholesome, easygoing guy I had been talking to for a few months, messaged me, I invited him to my place after his jiu jitsu practice.
I found A waiting in the vestibule downstairs, sports duffle hanging from his shoulder. 6’1” and lanky, as his bio promised and photos attested. Buzzed head, strong nose, boyish seriousness. As he followed me up to my apartment, I tried to make small talk, but he responded in monosyllables, almost grunts. A dummy, I thought. I knew he was watching my ass as we ascended, the silver lining of a broken buzzer in a fourth-floor walkup.
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