On days like this, when I’m sitting at work bored and sad, missing you, wanting you to gchat me like you used to, I wish my stalker would come back.
“Stalker” is probably a bit harsh. He only ever left me two notes. First, a voice mail (bold, I know) spoken in a gravelly voice, definitely put on for the phone. “You are a sexy man.” That’s all it said. I feel dumb now because I didn’t save it, and even dumber because I didn’t copy down the number it had come from.
And second, about a month later, a handwritten note lying folded on my desk. All in caps. To disguise the handwriting? Perhaps. Or maybe that’s just how he writes. He used the same verbage “YOU ARE THE SEXIEST MAN ALIVE” so I know it was him.
Amazingly, I wasn’t creeped out by it. Flattered, actually. If you worked in my office you’d know there aren’t any crazies here. We don’t harbor any imposing, shadowy figures like the hulking, disheveled men, balding and in their mid-fifties, desperate mouth-breathers (perverts, really) that I imagine when I think of a true stalker.
My stalker is most likely an upstanding (at least as polite as a stalker can be) gentleman. A professional. Maybe a manager or director. A sales rep who only comes into the office every so often. Definitely someone older, though. People our age don’t act like that. Not anymore. We’re a forward generation, especially us gays.
Or maybe it was one of my work friends.
That’s what I thought at first. My teammates playing a prank on me. It’s definitely something theywould do. And that’d be fine, too. I actually thought it was them at first. One of them taken a book from my desk the night before the note appeared. But she and everyone else swore up and down it wasn’t them. And I believe them. (It’s easier to accept when your ego wants you to.)
I still have the note hanging in my cubicle, a friendly reminder that someone once was so taken by me that they felt the need to leave me anonymous proclamations of their affection.
It’s been almost a year since the note appeared, and at the time a couple of my work friends and I decided we’d sleuth out my stalker’s identity. We printed out the company directory (there are only about five hundred of us who work in our office) and took a highlighter to it, sifting through the men of my company, eliminating them based on sexual orientation, age and accents. Even where they lived. Because though I couldn’t remember the telephone number of the original call, I did vaguely remember a 917 area code. New York City. Not really a narrowing clue, but at least something to work with.
When we finished with the directory, we still had about a hundred potential stalkers. Too many to really figure out the mystery.
I never got another note. And the mystery kind of die. I have my suspicions of who it might have been. But they’re just suspicions. And I was dating you at the time, so I really didn’t care about some secret admirer.
I still have the marked-up directory, though. Maybe one of these days when I’m bored I’ll go through it again, taking the second note with me and trying to compare handwriting, narrowing down the list of one hundred until I figure out who my stalker really is.
Maybe he’ll turn out to be hot. I’m single now. Anything could happen.