Coin Toss

A reactionary essay inspired by when an old situationship of mine cropped my face out of a photo we took together and used it for his Grindr profile.

reader’s note: this essay was posted on my retired blog last year and was also the first thing I ever read to an audience. apologies to my close friends who’ve heard this more than once (I’m over it now I swear). ENJOY!

In my darker hours, when no Dune or Cabaret rewatch can lift my spirits, I turn inward to reflect upon my time with Stephen. I’ll admit that this introspection is painful for me, and the indulgent sulking that follows leaves me battered and emotionally bruised. Other than the Canadian two dollar coin he gave me, this feeling is the only proof that any of it was real, so I chase it.

It was the day after the May auctions, and nobody was in the office. I was hungover and had little work to do so naturally I redownloaded Grindr and decided to look around. I found myself quite bored amidst the unsettling grimaces of Midtown daddies and the faceless, toned physiques of curious finance bros. I was in dire need of a feeling - something to jolt me out of the lulling Thursday afternoon, and knock me back into Stephen and I’s whirlwind romance that had once occupied every fiber of my being.

I set the age filter to 32-35 and moved the orange search bar north, up the Hudson River, over the Adirondack Mountains and right over a little city on an island called Montréal. It would be easy to pick him out from all the other French-Canadians. He had a very distinct face, a happy middle between Clark Kent and Human Shrek. I had a plan: if I found him, I would refrain from opening his profile as I didn’t want to risk exposing my investigation. For the non-Grindr users here, if you view someone’s profile they get notified.

Before long, I found him on the grid, staring at me with his haunting green eyes. To my complete and utter horror, I noticed an arm around him, and the side profile of another man. The air escaped from my lungs when I realized it was a picture that we had taken together in Miami, and that the arm was my own. My face was cropped out just enough to conceal my identity, but the blue and white stripes of my Ralph Lauren polo and my red bracelet were unmistakably my own.

The picture was taken on my friend's digital camera. It was a photograph I knew all too well. A photograph that I clung onto as it shined up from my phone on the plane ride home. Suddenly my stomach felt heavy and cold, and my face radiated with heat.

I felt somehow equally furious and flattered, yet ultimately betrayed. Besides, when we were together in New York he told me he was still seeing the 21 year old he mentioned on our first night together–was he aware of this? I knew Stephen was not one for monogamy - few Aquarius men are, but this seemed low, even for him. Even lower than refusing to go on PrEP. In truth, I had no real reason to be upset with Stephen. He flew 334 miles to see me after all, but the sting of seeing this photo was quickly clouding my memory.

Looking back, my affection for Stephen persisted long after he visited me. Slowly but surely, that affection grew into a desire to be more like him, an impossible desire to age myself 11 years and instantly acquire the experience that comes with it. He was always going to avant-garde performances, sex parties, gallery shows. What was I doing? Although I found this reflection to be creatively inspired, I ultimately I lost sight of myself. Stephen’s coin had left me two Canadian dollars richer, but emotionally I was bankrupt.

On top of all of this, I still couldn’t get the Grindr photo out of my head. Eventually I arrived at a logical two-fold explanation. First and foremost, he looked strikingly handsome and stoic in this photo. Communicating with clarity his acquiescent and cool way, while also conveniently concealing his thirty four years of age. I sent him this particular photo of us a few weeks after Miami. He told me how cute I was in it. Little did I know I was fueling his Grindr advertisement, if I did I would’ve kept it to myself. Maybe.

This betrayal brought to mind his aforementioned 21 year old lover. I find myself rarely thinking of this twink–child bride, rather– partly because it makes me sick to think of Stephen leaving New York and immediately going back into the arms of another. The feeling I have isn’t jealousy. It’s something much more neurotic. I feel spiritually tethered to this other twink, as if he is living out my romance in my place–like we are interchangeable. I imagine we feel the same pain. The same pleasure. Cringe at the same bad takes. Two sides of the same coin, being flipped and flung by the same arrogant Canadian.

I wonder if this twink looks at Stephen’s blank stare and thinks of what could possibly be going on behind his eyes. I wonder if he knows that Stephen strictly tops, but will bottom for 70 year old leather daddies in the backs of bars. I wonder if that bothers him. Do they see each other often? Is this twink pursuing a liberal arts degree? Is he also addicted to Tik Tok? Does he also wait around for Stephen’s withholding text messages, and dissect their overly correct punctuation? I believe he does.

I can’t help but also wonder what said twink looks like. I’m led to believe he’s blonde, reflecting on Stephen’s urging to dye my hair. There was a time when I would’ve dyed it for him. In fact, I would’ve deleted my social media, drank creatine, and attended his friends’ performances. Maybe I’d even take on a lead role in one of his films. But he has his twink for all of that.

Of course, I could be exaggerating. Maybe they only fuck every two weeks, or maybe they’ll end up getting married in Ottawa. But I have always felt that Stephen, like the vapor from his grape-flavored vape, cannot be contained. You can hold it in your hands for a brief moment before it dissolves into the cold April wind. What’s left is the residue–in your clothes, on your bed, in your stories– long after the warmth of his heavy body boarded that plane and left.

On our last night together, I asked Stephen what the takeaway of our romantic weekend was. I had no idea what I wanted to hear. Something to prove that he wasn’t just another toxic Aquarius sent down by the universe to teach me a harsh lesson, but he didn’t say a word. It was then I realized what that takeaway was: I will never be like Stephen, and I don’t want to be.