The Manti Te’o Affair and Us

Either way you look at it, this superjock Manti Te’o is a jerk: a jerk if he lied about his virtual girlfriend to garner sympathy and admiration from his fans as the ultimate inside joke; or a jerk if he got hoodwinked into believing she existed and cried his eyes out over her without, as a supposedly virile str8 man, ever meeting or frankly bopping the bitch.

Ah, but for those of you, like me, who play the web which, sadly, is becoming the only place to meet friends with benefits,  this tale doesn’t sound all that strange. How many times have you communicated with a guy whose profile, even pics are pure fiction? Guys who, ravaged by old age or disease, are still selling what they looked like in better days? Guys who sound in their IM’s like they want you to tie them to the bed and fuck the shit out of ‘em but whom, in reality, pop oxycodone when they get a paper cut. These are often the guys who come on to you big time but are either, safely for their sake, on the other side of the country or the globe or, if around the corner, always have  an excuse why they can’t meet when you pose the inevitable question: “Wanna fuck?” I know for a fact as a graduate of the Gay School of Hard Knocks that those who perpetrate these faux personas are growing exponentially as more and more of us are using the web as an end in itself (getting off) than as a means to an end (meeting to connect in the flesh).

So if we are content to live in a fantasy (even my gay publishers demand only happy endings), what’s the harm.


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