A writer's journey of dating and living gay in Seattle exposed.
So there’s this guy that I’ll call
The Stylist. Our
meeting starts out as nothing more than a friendly, “Happy Birthday”
gesture made on my Facebook timeline. I’m one of those people who has
thousands of “friends” on the social networks, and The Stylist is one
such “friend” who I don’t personally know. Nonetheless, his post comes
at just the right time in the early morning (before it gets buried
beneath thousands of other birthday messages) and I send him a private
message thanking him for the kind gesture. Although I’m tired and just
getting ready for bed (it’s 3 o’clock in the morning, mind you), he
immediately responds to my message. He asks me where I’m at in Seattle
(obviously noticing my location shown on my profile). I tell him that
I’m in the northern part of the city, adding that I just moved here from
Phoenix. Within seconds, he responds back with, “I used to live in
Scottsdale. We should go for coffee or drinks soon.” I reply back from
my smartphone since I can barely keep my eyes open and have already
crawled into bed. “Sounds good. Send me your number and we’ll
coordinate.”