A writer's journey of dating and living gay in Seattle exposed.
by Tristan Wilde
Never talk to strangers. As children, this is one of the first life lessons repeatedly taught to us. It’s drilled into our developing minds by our mothers as they send us off to school. We’re educated on the subject of “stranger danger” by elementary school teachers, in hopes that they’ll see our innocent faces in class the next day. If a stranger invites you into his car, run. If a stranger tries to talk to you, ignore him. Don’t let him tempt you with candy or money. Find an adult immediately. We’re taught the worst possible scenario. Ultimately, we grow up learning that strangers are capable of any number of heinous acts. But what happens when the stranger becomes the hero of the story? How do we react when the person we’re taught to avoid has become our savior?
I wake up in a tangle of damp sheets. The dull, gray light of an overcast day peeks at me through the vertical blinds of a bedroom I’ve never seen. I quickly panic and sit bolt upright. It feels like a fog has invaded my brain, limiting any clear thought. I’m thirsty; my tongue is veritably sticking to the roof of my mouth. I observe my surroundings and discover a cherry wood dresser bureau, a matching computer desk, and nightstands on either side of the bed in which I sit. Nothing but standard bedroom furniture. I’m in my underwear, which has me continuously attempting to recollect the events of last night. I instantly begin scanning the floor to locate my t-shirt and jeans.
