Would You Have Sex in a Murder House?

It's not as fun as you might think

Yes, it looked very similar to this (Photo by Jackson Simmer on Unsplash)

I’ve heard of cases where a couple met online and became blissfully happy for years. I’ve also heard of someone falling for the Prince of Yugandoblavakia and being taken for all their money.

I fall somewhere in between, but unfortunately the scales tip to the side of the Yugondoblavakian Prince, who isn’t as sexy as he sounds.

The Farter

I’ve used Grindr many times. Pretty much every gay man has. Show me a gay man who says he hasn’t downloaded Grindr and I’ll show you a flamer whose pants are in flames.

Almost everyone on Grindr is superficial. It’s an app infamously known for hookups, though a select few say they’re looking for Mr. Right. Even those individuals tend to pose shirtless. Superficial? No, they’re displaying the results of a skincare regimen and fitness program.

I met a guy who apparently didn’t care about appearance because he agreed to meet me. However, he was very cute. He was in his late twenties but lived with his parents—a red flag for a relationship, but for a hookup, who cares?

It was technically more than a hookup because we went to a movie. Before going in, I asked if he wanted anything.

Yes, popcorn.

I bought a large tub, and he pumped fake butter on it (without asking me) as if he were Paula Deen. It was swimming in yellow fat.

I don’t remember which movie we saw because my eyes were closed most of the time (not sleeping).

After the movie, we made out in the car and did… other things. More than once while making out, he turned his head and belched. He also farted while we were kissing. I’ve heard of couples who go years without hearing each other pass gas, but on a first date? Ridiculous.

However, he also told me—more than once—that I was very sexy. Who was I to point out what I (and probably everyone else) saw as rude behavior when he obviously had such great taste in men?

Despite his attractiveness, good kissing ability, and attraction to me, I couldn’t get over the butter, belching, and bottom-burping. We didn’t have a second date. He can butter up someone else.

The Talker

I met another guy through this app who was also quite cute. He lived in a mobile home that looked pretty “hoarder-like” but again, I wasn’t planning on taking this to a level of intimacy that compelled me to do his laundry. There was a path to the bed, which was the most important thing.

We had a lot of fun during our evening playtime, so we exchanged numbers to plan similar activities for future dates. Unfortunately, he was a talker. He wanted to call me multiple times a day to unload his emotional baggage and even spoke as if we were in a relationship. That’s what I get for being a good listener. Damn me.

He texted several times and called whenever he felt like it, including at two a.m. I’m fairly certain he didn’t have a job, but I had to get up early for mine. I didn’t appreciate a phone call in the middle of the night from anyone who wasn’t warning me that the local homophobic townsfolk were on their way with torches and pitchforks.

He was whiny and clingy, traits that weren’t worth the mediocre sex. I told him we seemed to have different priorities. Mine were making money and sleeping while his were whining and… hoarding? It takes a lot of dedication to be a hoarder and I didn’t feel like he had room for me in his life—literally.

Buffalo Bill

I responded to another profile and this guy lived about a half hour away. Driving 30 minutes wasn’t a big deal because I had to travel to do anything. The rural area where I lived afforded me nothing but pastures and honky tonk bars of homo-hating hicks. Even the cows are homophobic. I can read it in their blank stares as I drive by.

In our messages to each other (the guy online, not the cows), we described each other’s physical appearance because neither wanted to send a photo. In those days, it wasn’t as easy to simply upload a pic from your phone.

Now, let me tell you about written descriptions… No matter how great you are at descriptive writing, it is never detailed enough to provide a completely accurate mental picture. As is usually the case, men tend to add certain “embellishments” when describing their physique.

When I hear a person’s height, weight, eye color, and hair color, I create a person in my mind. He’s good-looking, of course. Why would I picture someone ugly? He may have even said he was “average.” Average looks aren’t bad. In fact, I would use this word as a descriptor for myself, which probably isn’t a gleaming endorsement. I had fairly good luck with online profiles until then, so I was optimistic.

We agreed to meet in the parking lot of a grocery store. Neither of us got out of our cars, but when I saw his face through the window, I could tell he wasn’t the Adonis I imagined.

I followed him back to his house because I already agreed to meet him and had driven 30 minutes. Also, I used to be a people-pleaser and had a difficult time saying no.

The house… how shall I describe it? Do you remember Buffalo Bill’s house in Silence of the Lambs? It was like that, except it was two or three stories. I followed him inside the dingy, dimly lit horror house, and up the stairs to his room. On the way up, at the first landing, a middle-aged man was in a room watching TV.

Dad? Step-dad? Pimp? I don’t know who he was, and I didn’t ask.

We got to his upstairs bedroom, and it was horrendous. I had to look away because my eyes were bulging out of their sockets. And believe me, that was the only thing bulging. I reluctantly sat down, hoping my denim jeans would protect me from the layer of herpes covering everything. He had the TV on Wheel of Fortune. I think the category was movie quotes and the puzzle answer was

Run, Forrest, Run!

As I sat there, regretting a couple of my recent decisions and wondering how long it might take for anyone to find my body, a mouse ran across the floor. I decided not to point it out because it seemed to belong among the piles of clothes and other detritus.

I probably would’ve been more surprised if I had not seen a mouse—or at the very least, a cockroach—scamper gleefully and freely across their master’s domain.

At that point, I decided to tell him that I changed my mind and did not want to do anything [sexual]. I think it was the mouse that did it for me. I’m not at all afraid of mice, but I take measures to avoid inviting them in or approving their applications for residency.

He offered to give me oral sex without anything in return, but I politely declined his generous offer. Perhaps it was the buzz from the TV every time someone chose an incorrect letter, the mysterious man downstairs, or the pitter-patter of little mousey feet, but mostly it was the fact that I was not attracted to this Pied Piper.

Just turn the lights off. A bj’s a bj.

Really? Oh yes, let’s turn the lights off in Buffalo Bill’s murder house. That’s a great idea. That’s probably what the man downstairs wanted as he positioned his night-vision goggles onto his face.

As I crept carefully down the stairs, I swear I heard Vanna White in the background saying, “Save yourself!” I glanced at the man in the chair to make sure he wasn’t slipping into a leather mask and a skin suit, or sharpening knives (he wasn’t) and then I escaped to my car.

Later, Stuart, the Rat King messaged me asking why I had changed my mind. Why, indeed.

Perhaps when you’ve lived in Buffalo Bill’s murder house for an extended period, it grows on you. Maybe it’s like Stockholm Syndrome and you learn to appreciate the eerie and squalid living conditions. The errant mouse or cockroach stealing a slice of last night’s pizza becomes normal.

I responded that he didn’t look exactly like who he’d described online, and he said, “Well, you didn’t either.”

Ah, touché, Bill, or do you prefer Buffalo?

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