Sometimes you’ve gotta take a risk on a blank profile on Grindr, Trevor thought to himself around 2:00 a.m.
Trevor Knox had been home from his freshman year of college for barely a week, on summer vacation, and had already regressed back into the high school version of himself. Quiet, rule-following, and closeted to everyone in his hometown.
Trevor was his mother's golden boy, and after years of failed attempts at sports, a silent disappointment to his father.
He’d never said a swear word in front of his family, never brought home a date, and did everything he could to present as a clean cut, sexless, all-American boy to his God-fearing parents who didn’t ask many questions, and definitely didn’t want the answers if they did.
In Oceanside, California, the beach town where Trevor had been born and raised, the dress code and lifestyle, like the racism, was casual. He hadn't realized how backwards and boring everything was here until he left for college. Coming home now, he was frightened by how easily he might fall back into the shell he used to live in.
So, tonight, he wanted to take a risk. He wanted to tap back into the version of himself he’d found by the end of freshman year, when he’d finally met a group of queer friends who actually got him. Friends who understood he could be weird, shy and flamboyant all at once.
These same friends had convinced him to dye his hair teal green the last week of school. At the time, the consequences felt miles away. In the moment, it felt liberating, like an outward expression of something he’d spent his whole life keeping in the closet.
When he arrived at home last week, the first thing his father said upon seeing his hair was, “Well… that’s different.” In a way, that was worse than yelling. His father didn’t ask questions. He left his disappointment up to Trevor's imagination.
Around the house, Trevor wore a ball cap as often as possible, an attempt to make his family forget what his hair looked like now. He'd gone above and beyond with chores this past week to maintain the illusion that nothing about him had changed, even though, really, everything had.
Each night at home, a wave of relief rushed over him when the sun went down and, soon after, his parents went to bed. They were only in their fifties, but acted much older: dinner at 4:30 p.m., lights out by 7:45.
Trevor had always been more nocturnal anyway.
And he'd finally mustered up the courage to open Grindr at home.
Trevor had made his Grindr profile during his first semester of college. He hadn’t expected the sheer number of men, gay and otherwise, all within walking distance and all clearly looking to fuck. It had blown his mind.
Even at his Arizona university, which he’d expected to be more conservative than San Diego, there were seven active cruising spots listed on his campus according to cruisinggays.com.
Before Trevor ever had his first kiss with another guy, he'd already given handjobs to two strangers in the second floor bathroom of his school's BioChem building. It was so easy. He’d walked in, stood at a urinal, and within five minutes, two other men had taken their places beside him. None of them peed. The man in the middle tapped his foot, once, then twice, an unspoken signal that Trevor understood was consent for more. A moment later, they stepped back from the urinals, and all three men took each other's cocks in hand like it was nothing at all.
Trevor kept his Grindr profile mostly anonymous. Just torso pics. He only sent face pics as locked albums within private chats, and only after he felt he could really trust the guy.
It took him forever to come up with a biography for his Grindr profile. He was too nervous to say anything explicit, afraid a friend or classmate or professor might stumble upon his account and never see him the same way again.
Eventually, he landed on a bio that read: What if God was one of us?
The Joan Osborne lyric made him laugh, especially in the context of Grindr. The idea that somewhere, in this sea of piss pigs and cumsluts and other seedy profiles, God was lying-in-wait.
When a blank profile tapped him within the first ten minutes of opening the app at home, Trevor almost ignored it. It was probably a bot. Or an ad. Or, and Trevor hated himself for thinking this, someone ugly.
But something about the profile caught his eye.
There were no pictures. No bio. Just a name: discreet marine hosting @ base.
Almost all of his life, Trevor had lived just a few miles from Camp Pendleton, the massive West Coast hub of the U.S. Marine Corps. The marines had a reputation around town, and not exactly a wholesome one. Every Friday and Saturday night they spilled into downtown Oceanside looking for girls to fuck and guys to punch.
But Trevor had always been attracted to them. Their masculinity and aggression, and especially their muscular bodies, was something he always wished he had. They made him horny as fuck. In fact, his earliest memories of masturbating had been to fantasies about the local marines.
So it wasn’t totally crazy to think the guy messaging him from the base might actually be hot.
Trevor, still hidden in the safety of his hometown closet, decided that maybe, just this once, he’d take a risk.
And maybe a marine who was discreet, in the most masculine, don't-ask-don't-tell kind of way, was exactly what he needed.
When the faceless marine messaged Trevor and told him that his roommate was out for the night and that he could host on the base, Trevor decided to sneak out of his parent's house.
Maybe this blank profile was the divine intervention he needed.
Trevor's phone buzzed.
Message from discreet marine hosting @ base: I'll pick you up in 5 mins.
A few minutes later, a dusty green truck rolled up beside Trevor's car. It idled for a second before the passenger window creaked down.
The guy behind the wheel was even better looking than Trevor had imagined. He had buzzed dark hair, a sharp jaw, and blue eyes so beautiful they nearly distracted from the dark circles under them. He wore a faded Marines hoodie with the sleeves pushed up. He was baby-faced, maybe twenty years old, but built like he could throw a grown man over his shoulder without breaking a sweat.
Trevor got out of his car and climbed into the truck.
The guy gave him a quick once-over, and his eyes landed on Trevor’s green hair.
“Wasn’t expecting... the hair,” he said, flatly.
“Oh.” Trevor instinctively reached up and touched the stiff teal strands. “Yeah. I should’ve mentioned it. It’s new.”
The marine didn’t respond right away. There was a moment of silence, like he had to consider if he still wanted to hook up with Trevor.
Then he said, “It’s fine,” in a tone that made Trevor feel like it hadn’t been.
They pulled out of the lot and drove in silence.
The road toward the base was dark and nearly empty, lined with chain-link fencing and rows of low buildings. Trevor didn’t know what he was supposed to say, if anything. He kept his hands in his lap and stared out the window.
When they got to the gate, the marine handed over his ID to the security gate. Trevor had to do the same.
The guard scanned it, then flicked his eyes toward Trevor and lingered for a second too long on his dyed hair. The guard's expression didn’t change, but there was something behind his eyes. Trevor looked away, suddenly self-conscious. He wondered if his faggoty hairstyle had just outed the marine to the security guard. Was that all it took -- driving in together and looking like this -- to start a rumor around the base about the marine's sexuality?
After a moment, the guard waved them in and they drove deeper in.
The buildings here were square and gray, and arranged in a grid. They pulled into a small lot next to one of the dorm blocks. No one else seemed to be around.
“My roommate’s out training overnight,” the marine said, shutting off the engine.
Trevor nodded, and they both got out of the truck and entered the dormitory.
The two men headed up to the third floor. Trevor’s stomach turned the higher they climbed.
The dorm hallway was long and echoey. The lighting overhead, unflattering.
At the end of the hall, they stopped in front of a door with two name tags taped to it in blocky black Sharpie: Bryce and Alan.
Trevor looked at the names. Then at the marine.
“Which one are you? Bryce or Alan?” he asked.
The marine hesitated, as his keys hovered just above the lock.
“Alan,” he said finally.
Trevor nodded. He didn’t press, though something in the pause had unsettled him.
Was he really Alan?
The door opened to a small and dim room. One desk lamp was on. There were unwashed socks in a corner, a pair of boots kicked halfway under a bed. One side of the room was a mess, the other side was made up tight, military-style. Twin beds and matching beige dressers flanked the room. The walls were bare except for a calendar and a couple of pictures pinned to a corkboard.
The air smelled like laundry detergent and axe body spray.
“Make yourself comfortable,” the marine said. But it came out like he didn’t care if Trevor did or not.
Trevor stepped in slowly. His heart hadn’t stopped pounding yet.
Trevor Knox had been home from his freshman year of college for barely a week, on summer vacation, and had already regressed back into the high school version of himself. Quiet, rule-following, and closeted to everyone in his hometown.
Trevor was his mother's golden boy, and after years of failed attempts at sports, a silent disappointment to his father.
He’d never said a swear word in front of his family, never brought home a date, and did everything he could to present as a clean cut, sexless, all-American boy to his God-fearing parents who didn’t ask many questions, and definitely didn’t want the answers if they did.
In Oceanside, California, the beach town where Trevor had been born and raised, the dress code and lifestyle, like the racism, was casual. He hadn't realized how backwards and boring everything was here until he left for college. Coming home now, he was frightened by how easily he might fall back into the shell he used to live in.
So, tonight, he wanted to take a risk. He wanted to tap back into the version of himself he’d found by the end of freshman year, when he’d finally met a group of queer friends who actually got him. Friends who understood he could be weird, shy and flamboyant all at once.
These same friends had convinced him to dye his hair teal green the last week of school. At the time, the consequences felt miles away. In the moment, it felt liberating, like an outward expression of something he’d spent his whole life keeping in the closet.
When he arrived at home last week, the first thing his father said upon seeing his hair was, “Well… that’s different.” In a way, that was worse than yelling. His father didn’t ask questions. He left his disappointment up to Trevor's imagination.
Around the house, Trevor wore a ball cap as often as possible, an attempt to make his family forget what his hair looked like now. He'd gone above and beyond with chores this past week to maintain the illusion that nothing about him had changed, even though, really, everything had.
Each night at home, a wave of relief rushed over him when the sun went down and, soon after, his parents went to bed. They were only in their fifties, but acted much older: dinner at 4:30 p.m., lights out by 7:45.
Trevor had always been more nocturnal anyway.
And he'd finally mustered up the courage to open Grindr at home.
Trevor had made his Grindr profile during his first semester of college. He hadn’t expected the sheer number of men, gay and otherwise, all within walking distance and all clearly looking to fuck. It had blown his mind.
Even at his Arizona university, which he’d expected to be more conservative than San Diego, there were seven active cruising spots listed on his campus according to cruisinggays.com.
Before Trevor ever had his first kiss with another guy, he'd already given handjobs to two strangers in the second floor bathroom of his school's BioChem building. It was so easy. He’d walked in, stood at a urinal, and within five minutes, two other men had taken their places beside him. None of them peed. The man in the middle tapped his foot, once, then twice, an unspoken signal that Trevor understood was consent for more. A moment later, they stepped back from the urinals, and all three men took each other's cocks in hand like it was nothing at all.
Trevor kept his Grindr profile mostly anonymous. Just torso pics. He only sent face pics as locked albums within private chats, and only after he felt he could really trust the guy.
It took him forever to come up with a biography for his Grindr profile. He was too nervous to say anything explicit, afraid a friend or classmate or professor might stumble upon his account and never see him the same way again.
Eventually, he landed on a bio that read: What if God was one of us?
The Joan Osborne lyric made him laugh, especially in the context of Grindr. The idea that somewhere, in this sea of piss pigs and cumsluts and other seedy profiles, God was lying-in-wait.
When a blank profile tapped him within the first ten minutes of opening the app at home, Trevor almost ignored it. It was probably a bot. Or an ad. Or, and Trevor hated himself for thinking this, someone ugly.
But something about the profile caught his eye.
There were no pictures. No bio. Just a name: discreet marine hosting @ base.
Almost all of his life, Trevor had lived just a few miles from Camp Pendleton, the massive West Coast hub of the U.S. Marine Corps. The marines had a reputation around town, and not exactly a wholesome one. Every Friday and Saturday night they spilled into downtown Oceanside looking for girls to fuck and guys to punch.
But Trevor had always been attracted to them. Their masculinity and aggression, and especially their muscular bodies, was something he always wished he had. They made him horny as fuck. In fact, his earliest memories of masturbating had been to fantasies about the local marines.
So it wasn’t totally crazy to think the guy messaging him from the base might actually be hot.
Trevor, still hidden in the safety of his hometown closet, decided that maybe, just this once, he’d take a risk.
And maybe a marine who was discreet, in the most masculine, don't-ask-don't-tell kind of way, was exactly what he needed.
When the faceless marine messaged Trevor and told him that his roommate was out for the night and that he could host on the base, Trevor decided to sneak out of his parent's house.
Maybe this blank profile was the divine intervention he needed.
* * *
Trevor drove to the Denny’s lot across from Camp Pendleton and parked under one of the flickering lights. The parking lot was mostly empty, though the diner was still open, running on low lights and night staff. A couple of truckers were visible through the windows, nursing mugs of hot coffee.
Trevor's phone buzzed.
Message from discreet marine hosting @ base: I'll pick you up in 5 mins.
A few minutes later, a dusty green truck rolled up beside Trevor's car. It idled for a second before the passenger window creaked down.
The guy behind the wheel was even better looking than Trevor had imagined. He had buzzed dark hair, a sharp jaw, and blue eyes so beautiful they nearly distracted from the dark circles under them. He wore a faded Marines hoodie with the sleeves pushed up. He was baby-faced, maybe twenty years old, but built like he could throw a grown man over his shoulder without breaking a sweat.
Trevor got out of his car and climbed into the truck.
The guy gave him a quick once-over, and his eyes landed on Trevor’s green hair.
“Wasn’t expecting... the hair,” he said, flatly.
“Oh.” Trevor instinctively reached up and touched the stiff teal strands. “Yeah. I should’ve mentioned it. It’s new.”
The marine didn’t respond right away. There was a moment of silence, like he had to consider if he still wanted to hook up with Trevor.
Then he said, “It’s fine,” in a tone that made Trevor feel like it hadn’t been.
They pulled out of the lot and drove in silence.
The road toward the base was dark and nearly empty, lined with chain-link fencing and rows of low buildings. Trevor didn’t know what he was supposed to say, if anything. He kept his hands in his lap and stared out the window.
When they got to the gate, the marine handed over his ID to the security gate. Trevor had to do the same.
The guard scanned it, then flicked his eyes toward Trevor and lingered for a second too long on his dyed hair. The guard's expression didn’t change, but there was something behind his eyes. Trevor looked away, suddenly self-conscious. He wondered if his faggoty hairstyle had just outed the marine to the security guard. Was that all it took -- driving in together and looking like this -- to start a rumor around the base about the marine's sexuality?
After a moment, the guard waved them in and they drove deeper in.
The buildings here were square and gray, and arranged in a grid. They pulled into a small lot next to one of the dorm blocks. No one else seemed to be around.
“My roommate’s out training overnight,” the marine said, shutting off the engine.
Trevor nodded, and they both got out of the truck and entered the dormitory.
The two men headed up to the third floor. Trevor’s stomach turned the higher they climbed.
The dorm hallway was long and echoey. The lighting overhead, unflattering.
At the end of the hall, they stopped in front of a door with two name tags taped to it in blocky black Sharpie: Bryce and Alan.
Trevor looked at the names. Then at the marine.
“Which one are you? Bryce or Alan?” he asked.
The marine hesitated, as his keys hovered just above the lock.
“Alan,” he said finally.
Trevor nodded. He didn’t press, though something in the pause had unsettled him.
Was he really Alan?
The door opened to a small and dim room. One desk lamp was on. There were unwashed socks in a corner, a pair of boots kicked halfway under a bed. One side of the room was a mess, the other side was made up tight, military-style. Twin beds and matching beige dressers flanked the room. The walls were bare except for a calendar and a couple of pictures pinned to a corkboard.
The air smelled like laundry detergent and axe body spray.
“Make yourself comfortable,” the marine said. But it came out like he didn’t care if Trevor did or not.
Trevor stepped in slowly. His heart hadn’t stopped pounding yet.
