WHERE HE REMAINS

3

**INSTALLED**—a harsh light beamed straight into my eyes, blinding me for a moment. A pang of regret flickered through my mind, but I quickly pushed it aside. What else was there to do on a night like this? I settled into the familiar chaos of my thoughts, surrendering to the inevitability of sleep that loomed ahead.

To be completely honest, my experiences on Grindr haven’t been particularly terrifying or overwhelmingly pleasant; they’ve been somewhere in the middle—just okay. I log on a few times a month, usually when boredom strikes or when an unexpected wave of horniness hits. It’s a way to subdue the fire inside me, seeking out the thrill of phone sex with a stranger. ( Not really ).

It was the same as before. My inbox overflowed with a relentless stream of messages, the majority of which consisted of the same repetitive questions: “What’s your age? What’s your role? What are your preferences?” Not a single “Hello” or “Hey” in sight. Just cold, mechanical inquiries that set my teeth on edge.

Each ping of my phone felt like a reminder of how disconnected people had become, and I couldn’t help but feel a surge of irritation rise within me. I longed for the warmth of a genuine greeting, a simple word that would bring a smile to my face.
As a result, I found myself skimming through the endless barrage of messages, choosing to ignore any that lacked that essential spark of friendliness. I had standards, after all. I believed that conversation should be more than just data collection; it should be an exchange of humanity. I would only engage with those who made the effort to say something that amused or intrigued me or atleast greeted with "Hello" but it was Grindr after all , I shouldn't have expected much from here.

For a little while, I found myself having a meaningless conversation with a guy my age about pop songs and music. Well, something is better than nothing. I listened to all genres of music, and as my friends would say, I had magnificent taste. I enjoyed artists who were popular among Gen Z and sometimes those who were in the spotlight with millennials. Old artists, new ones, the deceased, and the up-and-coming—everything. Music was one reason that made me feel a little less inhumane.

"Lana Del Rey and Lorde, mostly," the boy replied when I asked which artists he had been listening to lately. I wasn’t surprised—I had seen that coming. Predicting the tastes of Gen Z is almost second nature to me; their preferences rarely catch me off guard.
   "Cool," I replied as dryly as I could, sensing this was about to turn into a meandering chit-chat about songs and music. Honestly, I'd rather know about his taste in men.

  So, cutting the conversation short, I texted  "What's your preference in men?" 

And I instantly regretted asking him about his preferences after reading his lengthy response. To be precise, he was searching for someone like Timothée Chalamet from *Call Me by Your Name*—but in Varanasi. Really?
I respect that people set their standards high, aiming for the peak of a massive hill. But one should be aware of their limits. Why aim for Everest without a particular reason? Maybe I've simply set my bars too low.

Annoyance crept inside me as I placed my phone upside down on my flat chest and closed my eyes. Just a second later, it buzzed with another notification—"Drrrrrrmp." I was determined to ignore it, but no matter how hard I tried, I always felt the magnetic pull of that yellow-masked icon. It was irresistible. Finally, I gave in and checked the message.

"Hello dear, how are you?" read the top message, timestamped 1:18 AM.

It felt as though a river had finally washed over a long-parched seashore, a hope realized after decades. The text I read wasn’t extraordinary, nothing that would typically give me butterflies, but somehow, it stirred something deep within me. A shudder of refreshment coursed through me, knowing that at least one person out there cared enough to ask how I was truly doing.

"Good, good. Just blocked someone a few minutes ago," I replied, deliberately leaving a hint of mystery.

"Why’s that...?" he asked after a moment, his response slow enough to suggest he was either pondering or simply a slow texter.

"Someone wanted to date a guy like a Hollywood hot twinky actor," I explained. "And sure, I'm a twink, but I'm not that hot—and definitely not an actor. So…"

"Oh dear," he texted as if he chuckled. "Well, I hope he finds what he's looking for. But I have to admit, it's pretty amusing that you blocked him for such reason."

"Yeah," I replied again, wondering if that was really an amusing thing to do. "So, what's keeping you awake at this hour?" I added later to continue the conversation.

I knew he would take his time to respond, so I found myself instinctively tapping on his profile icon, curious about who he really was. No profile picture—typical. But then, the details began to unfold.

"Rahul Singh." 
"5'10"." 
"3 miles away." 
"Age 48." 
"Top." 
"Tribe: Daddy." 
The usual stuff. Then, I noticed something that made me pause. 

"Married."

It wasn’t entirely surprising, but it wasn’t the kind of shock you’d brace for, either. From the moment I first downloaded Grindr to this very night, I’ve learned more than I ever expected about the people who populate the app and the curious quirks of their personalities. It didn’t take long to see how infidelity had spread like a contagious virus—silent, pervasive, and dangerously common. The most unsettling part? Most people seemed blissfully unaware of their own entanglement in it, as if they were walking through an epidemic without ever realizing they’d caught the bug.

"I’ve been looking for someone like you—but not for love or a relationship." His reply didn’t come instantly; it lingered for a few minutes, as if he had to carefully choose his words before sending them.

Instead of responding directly to his message, I couldn’t help but throw a question his way. “Aren’t you married? Doesn’t it feel wrong to be on this app?”

His reply came quickly. “Yes, yes, I’m happily married. But it’s hard to explain myself fully over text.”

I hesitated, unsure how to respond. After a moment, I simply typed, “Oh.”
“But it’s so wrong, isn’t it? Being married and yet looking for someone on here—it’s cheating,” I texted, unable to resist.

He responded almost immediately, as if with a sigh. “Dear,” he began, his words carrying a tone that made me feel naïve, “Let’s exchange numbers and talk about it later. It’s almost 3 AM.”

“Shit!” I gasped, suddenly realizing how late it was. I hadn’t slept yet, and I had classes tomorrow at 7:30 AM sharp. No way was I planning to doze off during them.

In a rush, I sent him my contact number. “Call me o text me tosau evenbg after 6:00 PM,” I typed, hurriedly correcting my typos. “Or* Today* Evening*”

“Sure, dear. Wishing you a good night—and sweet, but maybe a little salty, dreams.”

Yeah you too , GN" , I texted at last ending the conversation and masturbated later because I don't remember why but the night made me incredibly horny so I ended up masturbating imagining myself with Matt Bomer. Oh god , he's so hot.