I scrolled past his profile on Hinge, not because I wasn’t interested, but because I didn’t think I stood a chance. I’m a 5-foot-10 English major who, despite thousands of salads and ab crunches, has yet to lose the stubborn lower belly fat that prevents me from having fun at pool parties.
He had tens of thousands of Instagram followers and was friends with other disconcertingly attractive gay men my friends and I dubbed “the Instagays.” A retired college athlete with blond hair, a killer smile and washboard abs, he was the exact image of what I wasn’t. The only thing we seemed to have in common was that we were gay.
So when he invited me to connect on Hinge, I was stunned. I paced my apartment, thinking every thought between “I can’t believe the hot guy thinks I’m hot” and “This must be a mistake.” I accepted his request cautiously, half-convinced it wasn’t really him.
Our chat began with the usual song and dance of gay online dating: Cute dog. Cute cat. What do you do for work? How do your parents feel about you being gay? It dragged on for a week until I suggested we meet in person.
Much to my surprise, he agreed. We picked a Thai restaurant not far from me. He arrived shortly after I did, dressed in all black with Steve Madden boots and a Patagonia coat. When I stood to greet him, I was surprised by his reserved demeanor, completely different from the confident image I had projected onto him from his now-vanished social media presence. I had anticipated a guy who walked in with a chip on his shoulder, as if just showing up was doing me a favor. But that wasn’t the case. I could feel his nerves.
Was he embarrassed to be here with me? I wondered. Maybe I look different in person from online. Why was it so hard for me to consider that he might actually find me attractive?
Soon our conversation turned to music. We discovered we loved Lana Del Rey and agreed “Norman F— Rockwell” is her best album. Oddly, his favorite song, “Love Song,” was also mine. We talked about Charli XCX, Bon Iver, Frank Ocean and the recently departed Sophie.
By then, my curiosity had become full-blown infatuation. In the gay community, we’re often inundated with soulless club bangers. So meeting someone who appreciated music with fewer than 100 beats per minute felt like a revelation. I would’ve never guessed that someone who looked like him would listen to music with such introspection. Together, we found solace in lyrics that mirrored our unspoken truths. It felt oddly like we were trauma-bonding.
Conversation flowed effortlessly as we moved from music to families, my grad program, his internship abroad and our shared distaste for “The Tonight Show.” Eventually, we realized the restaurant was closing, the neighboring tables were cleared and the chairs were already stacked. We asked for to-go boxes and stepped out into the night.
As we walked side by side toward our cars, we paused in front of a bookstore on the corner, its windows glowing warmly against the cold. “Do you want to go in?” he asked, his breath visible in the frosty air.
“Sure,” I said, my voice catching a bit. I didn’t know why I felt so nervous. Maybe because it was the first time I realized I could love him. The hot guy was a secret nerd. Inside, he gravitated to the architecture section, pulling out thick design books and talking about his growing library at home. We moved to the queer lit shelves, where he held up “The Song of Achilles.”
“Have you read this yet?” he asked.
“No,” I admitted, adding it to my mental list.
We wandered toward the cookbooks. While he searched for recipes, I scanned for celebrities and found Antoni from “Queer Eye.”
“I hear he makes a killer guac,” I said sarcastically, holding the book out. He raised an eyebrow and indulged me with a laugh. We left the store, him empty-handed, me with Sally Rooney’s “Beautiful World, Where Are You.” At our cars, I longed to kiss him but held back. I couldn’t tell if he felt the same way.
We hugged goodbye, polite and with some distance. Even without a kiss, it was the best date I’d ever been on. When I got home, I noticed a new follower on Instagram. It was him, but not the profile I remembered. Gone were the shirtless pics, the Instagays, the party weekends in Palm Springs. His new account had just a few hundred followers and no selfies, just his design work. What happened to the guy I thought I knew? I couldn’t help but wonder if something had changed in him.
Maybe he had grown tired of performing perfection. Maybe the pressure to be desirable got too heavy. Or maybe he just stopped caring about what others thought. What must it feel like to not care? Growing up gay in a conservative Catholic environment, I had no blueprint for happy queerness.
The stories I saw were tragic: Gay men were lonely, addicted, dying. So I clung to external markers of success, hotness, followers and desirability as a kind of shield against shame. I thought if someone like him wanted me, maybe I could finally feel worthy. But what if he didn’t need any of that anymore? What if I’m still the one holding on?
We only went on two more dates. Every time I tried to plan a fourth, he had something else going on. It wasn’t quite ghosting; if I texted, he’d respond. But the message was clear, I cared more than he did.
It’s a strange thing falling for someone who seems to embody everything you’ve ever wanted to be. What made this so hard wasn’t losing him, but losing what might have been had he felt the way I did.
Ultimately, I’m not sure if I loved him or if I just wanted to be chosen by him. I wanted the world to look at us and say, “See? He’s enough.” But he taught me, maybe without knowing, that chasing external validation only leads back to the same question: Do I really love him or do I just hate myself?
The author is an award-winning writer and television producer who lives in West Hollywood. He’s on Instagram: @lmillernd.
L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email [email protected]. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
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