Beautiful man

When your profile came up in my feed, never in a million years would I have foreseen you being into me, but still, I wrote to you and hit send. 

You saw past my gauche, corny opening chat and replied.

Ten days after we matched on Hinge, I had fallen sick with COVID-19, the UK was in Lockdown 1: The Deprivation.

Your presence made the very unbearable easier to bear. 

You were there with me every day - checking in, trading outrages, swapping YouTube and Spotify suggestions. I felt immensely comfortable talking to you. Our dialogue grew and grew yet held zero guile, pretence or skeeviness. It felt freer than removing a bra. It was real. (Why/how was it so real?)

Chat migration to WhatsApp brought a definite sea change. The man who made me feel safe was now also making me hot. We tentatively agreed to an hour-long video call on Duo, in which, we spoke, flirted, giggled, teased and laughed for three and a half hours. The next day you deleted your Hinge profile, I gleefully followed suit.

We spent a week communicating in meaningful music, saying I love you (and stowing it in a box until saying it openly was less shocking to the both of us).

Meeting you in person, I physically shook. I could not believe that it was you, exactly as I knew you to be. We were real. Naturally, our in-person date lasted three and a half days.

I loved every moment spent living with you throughout Lockdown 2: The Irritation. 

Fuck living thirty miles apart. Fuck the persistent downgrading of intimacy to behind a lifeless screen. 

Now in Lockdown 3: The Desperation, I’m reflecting on the fact that I found you, the love of my life - amid a global pandemic - on Hinge.

Undeniably these last 10months, where you came and lit up my life from the inside out, are the happiest I’ve ever known.  

The absolute gorgeousness of you. 

Kind-hearted, sharp of mind and tongue, sweet, generous, brilliant, (so) talented, kinky, funny and fucking pulchritudinous.

In short, a Beautiful Man.