I was restless that evening.  After dinner I didn't feel like television, or reading novels, or doing any work around my house.  I had a list of items I wanted to tackle, including cleaning out the garage, but nothing interested me much.  I decided to make an unannounced visit to one of my theaters to check on the staff and the condition of the premises.  I stayed around long enough to catch half of a superhero adventure film that was all the rage with the teenagers, but to me it just seemed to be one cliche after another, an endless stream of mediocrity with fancy special effects.

I left the theater and texted Greg to see if I could stop by his place.  He replied back that he was in New York City on a business trip, though he wanted to get together again as soon as he returned.  On my drive home I stopped at a bakery known for exceptionally good bagels and purchased a variety that would get me through several days.  I thought about what other shopping or errands I could do.  I didn't want to just head home.  But I detest shopping, unless I know exactly what I want and can zoom inside a store and get it.  So I knew something was eating at me.  I just couldn't put my finger on it.  

I schlepped home and soaked in a piping hot bath.  That calmed me.  I also realized I was horny and needed to get off.  For a split second I considered heading out to a bar or lounge for a drink, to see what happened, but the idea of meeting women and having to tell them about my deceased wife was unbearable.  No way.  The whole exchange of details and posturing with a stranger was such a turnoff.  I didn't know if it would really ever interest me again.  I didn't necessarily expect to remain single forever.  But my mindset was off.  I didn't want to play any games.  I just wanted to bust a nut and get a good night's sleep.

I got out of the bath and only dried my hands.  I always preferred to drip dry rather than toweling off and unnecessarily harming my skin.  I poured myself a whiskey and soda in the kitchen, pulled my computer tablet from the hall closet, and sat upright on my bed propped against a couple of pillows.  Easily enough, I pulled up the description for the gay dating app Steven had told me about.  It had mixed reviews and a ton of users.  The sample interface seemed simple enough.  The next thing I knew I had pushed the download button and the app's icon was loading onto my tablet screen.  

My heart was racing and I was thinking about what I could do to make sure nobody traced my real identity.  I read the profile instructions and opted to keep the picture category completely blank.  Under name, I typed in the letter "B" so that it was in no way connected to Mike, my real name.  For every profile category, I altered the truth—adding a few years, taking away a few pounds, shortening my height, changing the color of my hair, and so on.  In the field where the app asked for my sexual likes and dislikes, I was brief and honest.  I wrote, "I just want a hand job."

Once I saved the entries, a grid of pictures filled the screen.  Just like I had seen on Steven's phone, there were four pictures horizontally across and numerous vertical rows.  At the top left square was the blank space representing me.  Under my chosen name—"B"—was my distance away—"0 feet."  The rest of the squares were based on how many feet away from me the user was, ranked from left to right.  More than half of the squares pictured a man's face, while the majority of the rest were shirtless body pictures with the heads cut off.  In addition to my blank space, several others had entered no identifiable pictures, too.

"Whoa!" 

I jolted from the shock of seeing so many of my neighbors staring back at me with smiling or devious faces.  Every guy on the first page was within two thousand feet of me!  Most used their real names or real initials.  Some replaced their names with "Top" or "Bottom" or "Deep Throat" or whatever.  I had no idea that the majority of them were gay or bisexual.  Some were married, some divorced, some single.  I couldn't believe so many of them were on the app at that very moment.  Were they just curious like me?  Needing someone to talk to?  Looking for a steady partner or a one night stand?  

The one thing I knew for sure was that they were braver than me.  They were willing to identify themselves on the app.  To me, that was unthinkable, as likely as me jumping off a cliff without a parachute.

After my initial astonishment wore off, I noticed I was searching for Colton's profile.  There was no "Colton" or "C" marked on any of the pictures.  I scrolled down repeated pages and couldn't find his face.  A couple of the headless body shots displayed remarkably toned bodies that could have been Colton's, but I couldn't tell for sure from the description.

I noticed Steven's picture, panicked, and blocked him.  I hoped the app didn't tell Steven somehow that I had blocked him.  I didn't want to hurt his feelings, but I sure couldn't risk him suspecting me of being on the app.

All in all, I couldn't understand how this was an effective way to meet someone.  But everyone seemed to be doing it and must have disagreed with me.  Sure, I could see that someone was attractive, physically fit, or possibly even amiable.  Yet, was that enough?  I was in a poor position to judge that.  

Live and let live, I thought, as I'm sure in no role to cast opinions on other people finding and making connections with one another.  

A deep beep sounded on the tablet.  A red light hovered over the "Messages" tab at the top of the page.  I clicked it.  The sender identified himself as "New Guy" and, like mine, his picture was completely blank.  His profile said he was twenty six, single, six feet tall, trim, and "bisexual and gay-friendly."  

His message was brief enough.  Just one word.  "Hello."  I considered ignoring him, but after a minute or so wonderment got the best of me.

"Hey, buddy," I wrote in my reply.

"Having a nice night?" he asked.

"Sure."

"And a hand job would make it even nicer?"

"It might."

"Do you have any pictures?"

"No."

"LOL.  You need to be able to send at least one picture."

"Sorry," I wrote.

"You must be new also."

"Yep."

"Hmm.  By any chance, is this Mike?"

My heart pounded.  I could feel the blood surging to my brain and straining my neck.  I nearly turned off the app, with plans to delete it.  But that action, that panic, would be a certain answer to his question.  I gulped a big sip of whiskey and soda and tried to come up with a reply.

"Naw.  You have someone in mind?"

"Mike is the only guy living within fifty feet of my house," he answered.

Shit!  The distance under New Guy read exactly "50 feet."  

"My other neighbor is away on vacation and I highly doubt she would ever be on this app anyway," he continued.

I realized right then that New Guy was none other than Phil, my immediate neighbor.  A block wall is all that separated our backyards, but he was barely an acquaintance.  I knew he had been studying for a master's degree at the university and working odd jobs to pay his way through school.  For a while I had seen him with a tall and leggy blond, getting in and out of the car in the driveway together, but that had been a few months ago when I'd noticed her around last.

I took a cocky attitude to raise some doubt in his mind.  "The distance meters on these apps are fucking laughable," I wrote.  "Almost always wrong by a few hundred feet.  So I have no idea who you are."

"Too bad."

"Why's that?"

"Well, if you were Mike, I'd give you that hand job."

"Oh really?  You dig him?"

"I just might.  And it's only lending a hand."

"Helping a buddy out."

"You bet.  So, are you going to admit you're Mike?"

"Nope."

"Too bad," he repeated, a second and third time.  "Too bad."

The typing continued like this for a few minutes.  Phil tried to ascertain my identity, while I was intrigued enough to keep the banter going.  My dick was saying yes.  My brain was saying no.  I kept the app going and replied to all of Phil's questions.  Noticeably, he must have realized that I wasn't questioning who he was.  In other words, he was pretty sure I knew.

"Fifty feet is fifty feet," Phil wrote.  "If not Mike, then you're his houseguest."

"Maybe."

"Okay, bring Mike to my backyard.  The gate is open.  If you bring him, I'll give you both hand jobs."

"I don't think Mike wants that."

"Of course he does.  Every guy on the planet needs a good one from time to time."

"Are you saying I would have to reciprocate?" I asked.

"No, not if you don't want to."

"I don't.  Not tonight, anyway."

"I'm cool with that."

I sent him a thumbs up emoji.  

"So we're doing this?" Phil wrote.

"Thinking about it."

"I'll keep the lights off in the backyard.  Nobody will ever know."

I sent another thumbs up emoji.

"You're bringing Mike?"

"He won't come."

"But you're ready?"

"I think so.  If I can wear a mask."

"Are you freaking joking?  LOL!"

"No joke."

"Screw it.  Fine.  Wear a mask and I'll see you in my backyard in five minutes."

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