What does a gay man do when stuck in rural Oklahoma?

In all my years as a lecherous homosexual, I have never, not even once, hooked up with someone in my hometown. The primary reason being: My hometown is miles away from anywhere an openly gay man would likely take up residence.

That’s not to say I don’t enjoy visiting home. I do. I enjoy getting away from D.C. I enjoy seeing the buffalo out at the wildlife refuge. I enjoy visiting my parents’ donkeys in the barn. I enjoy the wide-open skies, unobstructed by skyscrapers and billboards and smokestacks.

But damn, it’s impossible to catch a dick out there.

And so, whenever I find myself in my old room with its lovely view of the mountains and the miles upon miles of yellow grass we call the Great Plains, I am forced to find another outlet for my sexual energy — one that doesn’t involve actually meeting anyone.

The best app for this, by far, is Scruff.

Scruff is different from its notorious counterpart Grindr in a number of ways. For one, it feels more chill. You can “woof” at people you find attractive instead of messaging them, an appealing option for an introvert. But most importantly, unlike distance-based dating apps, you can talk to people from all over the world.

In my neck of the woods, the nearest guy on Scruff, a self-described “53 y/o DTF white male,” is located 13 miles away from me. He always, without fail, has as his default picture a horrifying photograph of a human head mounted on a wall with gazelle antlers sprouting from its skull.

Not my type.

Unwilling to become the next head on the white male’s wall, and too lazy to entertain the idea of driving thirty minutes to meet up with guys from the nearest city, I typically choose to spend my time on Scruff chatting up men from Brazil. Sometimes they teach me disgusting words in Portuguese (a service you won’t find on Rosetta Stone).

But the last time I went home, something strange happened. A blank profile messaged me from about a mile away.

Given that this was during the dead of night, my first instinct was to open the blinds of my windows and check to see if I could spot a glowing light out in the field. A mile in rural Oklahoma is too close for comfort. It might as well be coming from inside the house.

“Hi,” the message read.

Curious, I responded. “What’s up?”

A few minutes passed.

“I think you know me lol.”

Things were getting interesting.

I flipped through my Rolodex of possibilities, but the only gay man I knew of who lived in the area was my best friend from high school, and he had philosophical differences with dating apps. With a rush of excitement, I deduced that this must be a teacher I once had. A specific one. I knew it, I thought.

“We went to school together,” the blank profile continued.

“We did?” I replied, on edge. “Who are you?”

“You probably don’t like me… haha. I was a little mean to you.”

A familiar feeling bubbled up in my gut: Panic.

I knew which school he meant. There was only one for miles and miles around. It was my former middle school, the one where I’d been mercilessly bullied for being gay.Even after I’d left and after I’d grown up a bit, I still couldn’t drive through town or pass the school without having a visceral reaction. My hands would shake. My stomach would tie itself in knots. This was my body saying, “You’re in danger.”

I didn’t really have one bully. I had quite a few back then. And this guy's blank dating profile provided didn’t narrow it down much. I mentally rifled through names and faces.

“Who?” I asked again.

He sent a picture.

I instantly recognized him. He wasn’t one of my main bullies. That much was a relief. And yet, for one reason or another, despite being more or less a background character during the worst years of my life, his was one of the faces of my past I still clearly remembered.