I've only told this story to my closest friends. I haven’t even confided in my sister (for fear of the obvious shame). Please buckle in because this tale needs to be told in length.
I went to college in a Chicago, which has a large gay community. Now, gay men are true champions of leveraging technology to their sexual prowess. Grindr was on the map as the go-to hookup app years before the straights got into a tizzy about Tinder. I normally used Grindr to expedite getting my rocks off, but I was having an off-week and decided to use a platform that’s more to the point: Craigslist.
I posted a listing looking for a hookup with a good-looking, slightly-older man, and within a few hours I settled on a fit 30-something. This was a Friday night, and he agreed to pick me up at my apartment building. Then he would take me back to his place and we’d fool around.
He picks me up at my nearest intersection. He’s just as attractive as his picture, yes, but something is off personality-wise. I can only describe it as he was a little “off,” but he wasn’t “off” in a slow or stupid way. In fact, it was the total opposite. He was incredibly nice. His voice was kind and light, but there was something too practiced behind it. In retrospect, the more I think about it, the more it feels rehearsed, calculated -like a razor blade hiding in a Popsicle.
He asked me a little about myself, but then he didn’t respond when I would ask him the same questions. He’d just smile and laugh it off. What I did manage to get out of him was that he worked in real estate (remember this).
He had told me earlier through email that he lived on X and Y street. I wrote this off as a blip originally because these 2 streets ran parallel, and he essentially told me that he lived in the middle of the road.
We were in his car for about 8 minutes when he had already passed these 2 streets by a few blocks. I lived in a popular, walkable area, and at this moment I told myself, “You can get out of the car now and you can run home. You’re still close enough,” but I ignored my gut. I told myself that I was over analyzing this.
We get to his place after a 35 minute car ride. We’re out of the city and in a neighborhood. Right away, his house is clean. But again, it’s too clean. Everything was so polished, nothing out of place. There was a Dexter-level of cleanliness to it.
We go into the kitchen, which was in the back of the house, and after a minute or two of more awkward conversation, I wrap my hands around him and kiss him.
Except he doesn’t “receive the kiss.” My lips make contact with his, but his lips remain flat and at-rest. There is a moment of pause, and he smiles against my kiss. This wasn’t a friendly smile; this was a “knowing” smirk. He tells me this is his first time, and he’s very, very nervous. He excuses himself and RUNS down to the basement. The stairs down are next to the kitchen. They are not a straight staircase; they turn at a right angle halfway down, which prevents me from seeing what’s downstairs.
He’s down there for a good 5-10 minutes. I hear stuff rustling around -metal things clanking together. I yell down to get him back up. The sound stops. No reply. It starts again.
I run to the bathroom and lock the door. I think about jumping out the window (it’s a ranch). I text a friend. He’s tells me to get out. But I don’t want to offend my host.
There’s a knock on the bathroom door and he says to meet him in the bedroom. The kitchen is next to the bathroom. I consider pocketing a kitchen knife.
He comes back up and we finally start fooling around. He won’t kiss, and he keeps telling me that this is his first time doing this. The weird thing is that he’s oddly comfortable with my body, and he is actually good at gay stuff. He gets very aggressive at one point. I looked around the room and spotted a blue, glass vase. I tell myself that I can use this as a weapon if need be.
He doesn’t finish, but I ask if I may finish on him. He agrees. He freaks out after I do. He gets up, without saying a word and completely naked. He walks back down to the basement.
I put on my underwear and walk to the edge of the stairs. I hear whimpers and whispers. There is no one downstairs except for him, of this I am sure. The clanking metal sounds continue. They’re nothing loud. They sound like a scalpel being placed on a metal surgery tray, or tools bouncing in a toolbox.
He’s downstairs for 5, 10, 15 minutes now. I’m fully dressed. I’m giving my friend a play-by-play through text, and he tells me to drop him a pin. I don’t know how to so he walks me through the process. When I finally do send him my location, he calls me: “You have to get out of the house. Now.” Why I ask? “Do you know where you are? You’re out by O’Hare!”
My fight or flight completely kicks in, now understanding that I’m stranded in an area that has no access to public transportation, and I don’t have a car. I yell downstairs to see if he’s alright. All sounds stop. No reply.
For a moment, I think about grabbing his keys from his jacket, driving his car a few blocks from my place, and leaving it wherever. At this point, I yell down, “I’ll be waiting outside.” I hear what sounds like chains dropping and footsteps coming heavily up the stairs. I run to the door, fumbling with the lock, until I rip it open and get outside. He was naked last time I saw him, so I figure getting dressed will at least slow him down.
I freeze for a moment, and then I took off running. I made it 2 blocks away before I broke down crying and called an Uber. This was February in Chicago, and it was maybe 22 degrees outside and snowy. At this point mystery man tries calling me, and I hang up. He texts: “Ha ha where’d you go?” I say that I got a ride and that I’m okay. I block his number.
I hid between 2 cars at a used car lot while waiting 30 minutes for an Uber to pick me up. I saw mystery man’s car driving around.
2 Ubers had already cancelled, and I had to call the third Uber to make him promise that he wouldn’t cancel on me because I was in danger.
I block out this experience, mostly. There are some nights when I begin to go over all the details in my head. It destroys me and turns my blood cold. And it’s the little, red flags that deeply unnerve me.
1. I’m convinced that we were in a model home, or at least a home that he was selling.
2. He was gay and comfortable with himself, but I believe he was referring to something far more sinister when he was saying that this was his “first time.”
3. The smartest thing I did, among many foolish choices, was not going down to that basement. I do not think I would have come back upstairs if I had.
4. There’s a moment in the end of the Girl with the Dragon tattoo where a man goes with the killer into his house, knowing by now that he is the serial killer. And he killer says something along the lines of, “You knew, but you still came inside. We’re too afraid of being rude to go with out animal instinct and get away from danger.” I experienced this first hand.
5. I always think back to the story that was submitted here last year, about a man who was almost killed by John Wayne Gacy at a hotel as a teenager. He says that one day, he saw Gacy’s fact on the TV’s after being caught, and he had a total breakdown (knowing what almost became of him). Something deep inside me tells me that I may have a moment like that myself one day.
