Hola Papi by John Paul Brammer

Author:John Paul Brammer
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Simon & Schuster
Published: 2021-06-08T00:00:00+00:00

¡Hola Papi!

How do I forgive and forget?

Signed,

Unapologetic

How to Chat with Your Childhood Bully over a Gay Dating App

My hometown provides slim pickings in terms of hookups, Unapologetic. As a generally lecherous person who enjoys casual sex, this is bad news for me, as it means I must simply go without whenever I visit home, like I’m some kind of ascetic monk. That doesn’t mean I don’t try. Oh, I try. I will open up Grindr, or Scruff, or Tinder, and desperately troll for some dirty, sexy chat. I’ve spent a lot of my time on the international “explore” feature of Scruff, chatting up bearded dudes from Brazil in broken Portuguese. Maybe I wouldn’t have to do this if there were anything else to do in Cache, but there isn’t really, unless you’re into vaping or looking at prairie dogs.

“The grid,” the nearby profiles, has stayed pretty much the same in my hometown for all of my visits. The nearest profile to my parents’ house is about two miles away and reliably dons a profile picture of a human head with gazelle horns sprouting out of it, mounted on a wall. The profile’s stats are listed as “white” and “six feet tall” and “just browsing.”

Not really my type!

Anything closer than two miles, mind you, would be cause for alarm, as there isn’t much but fields all around the house. I once saw a profile located a few hundred feet away and had to look outside and scan the horizon for someone hiding among the wheat. A glitch.

I went home for Thanksgiving one year. (At the time, I was living in DC, working as a blogger for a doomed content mill.) The leaves had changed and there was a crisp, cold nip in the air. I would go for walks, bored out of my mind in between watching the news with my abuela (“I would kill Dick Cheney myself if I could, mijo”) and sexting Bulgarians on Scruff. I was on one of these walks when I got a Scruff notification of a more domestic kind: the profile was two miles away.

“Hey,” it said. I was used to fielding messages from faceless profiles in my brief career as a chronic sex-haver. In bigger cities, I’d ignore these brief missives. But without much else to do in my neck of the woods, I decided to entertain it.

“What’s up?” I asked. A few minutes passed.

“I think you know me,” the mystery profile responded.

I immediately conjured some suspects.

First, there were my hopes: maybe it was a former football player from my high school, one of the guys who’d been a part of the Fellowship of Christian Athletes. There’d always been some sexual tension there between us. “We went to middle school together,” the next notification said.

Hope turned to panic. This person had definitely gone to school with me in Cache, which was much closer to my current location. So they’d been present for the worst years of my life. “Were we friends?” I stupidly asked.

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