Sitting before my trusty MacBook, I stop myself from doing something I’ve done for as long as I can remember. I do not crack my knuckles. Last week, while sharing a pizza—thin crust, always!—my date, Austin, said his chiropractor-father claims cracking your knuckles causes arthritis. As I’m twenty-five, arthritis isn’t high on my list of concerns. However, I am a stickler for accurate information—just ask my eighth-grade students about my stance on Facebook as a citable news source. Later that night, I searched the topic online. According to Harvard Health, while “cracking knuckles probably won’t raise your risk of arthritis. . .it may reduce grip strength.” As a tennis player, reading that was as horrifying as a college student learning that Hot Pockets cause impotence. I shouldn’t have to clarify that eating Hot Pockets does not cause impotence, but for the sake of illustration, it has equivalent shock value.

And so I set my fingers, sans cracked knuckles, onto the keyboard, ready to tap, tap, tap out a new blog post for Mates on Dates. Commonly, I get this far only to pause while awaiting a strike of inspiration. This is no such time. I have a thought. And as is often the case, it’s about another guy. Spoiler alert: it’s the chiropractor’s son, Austin.

MATES ON DATES: Butterfly Stampede
Hello readers. Hayden, here. Welcome to my blog, Mates on Dates, where I take on issues related to the sometimes thrilling, often perplexing, and reliably crapshooty world of gay dating. If a topic has anything to do with dude-on-dude wooing, you might find me discussing it here. You will have already noticed that for this post I have come up with a provocative title. As is the case with many of my writings, this one is autobiographical.

It all started a week ago at Hunters when I finally got up the courage to cross the dance floor and talk to this guy I’d been ogling for weeks. For the purpose of anonymity, I’ll call him “Dallas.” I’d noticed Dallas for a couple of months. He ticks all my boxes. Fit but not overly muscled, smells of soap, not cologne, and doesn’t appear to spend more time on his hair than a Queen on RuPaul’s Drag Race. In a word, Dallas is swoony. Is that cornball to say? One thousand percent! But swoony is the first word that pops to mind whenever I see him or think of him or envision him strolling the beach in board shorts, his golden locks wet and tousled from the surf.

The day after meeting at the club, we texted and agreed to get together at a pizza place not far from my West Seattle apartment. As I sat waiting for Dallas to arrive, my stomach began to churn. I mean, seriously, like a caldron worthy of Lord Voldemort’s stovetop. My mind jumped to a recounting of all food and drink I’d consumed earlier that day, with particular brow-raised wondering about the expiration date on the tub of yogurt I’d found in the teachers’ lounge fridge.

Then suddenly it hit me. Butterflies. But not your garden-variety fluttering. This was a full-on, wing-beating, antenna-hurtling butterfly stampede!

Dallas arrived at seven sharp, increasing my intestinal gurgle to a rapid boil—I find punctuality a turn-on. The next ninety minutes were the best time I’d spent since partnering with my best friend Hollister in bringing down an International criminal enterprise—a very long story. Over slices of Veggie Supreme, I learned Dallas is super cool, easy to talk to, and we have lots in common. We both like hard cider, animals, with the notable exception of emus, and Ed Sheeran—like me, a ginger. And, wait for it, we’re both teachers! Me: junior high school social studies. Dallas: elementary special ed. See what I mean? Swoony. After a hug lasting a few moments longer than that between mere friends, we agreed to meet up again soon. I floated back to my car as happy as a teacher on the first day of summer break.

And now, dear readers, to the moral of my little story. Although not every date is destined to let loose a stampede of butterflies, isn’t that the sensation we all desire? Isn’t that why we wrestle with our hair’s untamable cowlick, check our breath in the palm of our hand, and grin like a nutter in the rearview mirror to make sure our choppers are free of debris? Isn’t the reason we keep putting ourselves out there because we are looking for that one special person who gives us the best form of indigestion? I know I am. If that sounds like you, I hope you’ll keep reading. Our best adventures have yet to begin.

Till next time, I’m Hayden

And remember, if you can’t be good, be safe!

Devil’s Chew Toy
Genre: Cozy
Release: February 2022
Purchase Link

Perfect for fans of Carl Hiaasen and Armistead Maupin, this light, LGBT mystery follows an unlucky in love—and life—teacher who unwittingly ends up the prime suspect in a disappearance.

Seattle teacher and part-time blogger Hayden McCall wakes sporting one hell of a shiner, with the police knocking at his door. It seems that his new crush, dancer Camilo Rodriguez, has gone missing and they suspect foul play. What happened the night before? And where is Camilo?

Determined to find answers, pint-sized, good-hearted Hayden seeks out two of Camilo’s friends—Hollister and Burley—both lesbians and both fiercely devoted to their friend. From them, Hayden learns that Camilo is a “Dreamer” whose parents had been deported years earlier, and whose sister, Daniela, is presumed to have returned to Venezuela with them. Convinced that the cops won’t take a brown boy’s disappearance seriously, the girls join Hayden’s hunt for Camilo.

The first clues turn up at Barkingham Palace, a pet store where Camilo had taken a part-time job. The store’s owner, Della Rupert, claims ignorance, but Hayden knows something is up. And then there’s Camilo’s ex-boyfriend, Ryan, who’s suddenly grown inexplicably wealthy. When Hayden and Hollister follow Ryan to a secure airport warehouse, they make a shocking connection between him and Della—and uncover the twisted scheme that’s made both of them rich.

The trail of clues leads them to the grounds of a magnificent estate on an island in Puget Sound, where they’ll finally learn the truth about Camilo’s disappearance—and the fate of his family.

Meet the author
Rob’s debut quozy mystery, Devil’s Chew Toy, published by Crooked Lane Books and edited by Sara J. Henry, hit the shelves (support your local bookshop!) February 8, 2022. His short story, Analogue, which appeared in the Jan/Feb 2021 edition of Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine won MWA’s 2022 Robert L Fish Award. He is a member of MWA and Sisters in Crime. Rob is a halfway decent tennis player, proficient at making chicken piccata and crab cakes, and threatens to restart playing bridge and the banjo—though not at the same time. He attended college in Washington, where he also earned a master’s degree in business. After many years of living in Seattle and San Francisco, he resides in southern California with his longtime partner and a tall, gray cat. For events and other info, visit robosler.com.

All comments are welcomed.