Hosts

When did I become the kind of person who walks a mile along the highway at midnight to meet a stranger at a motel? This is the question I keep asking myself when cars approach on Route 8, the main road connecting Moscow, Idaho, where I live, and Pullman, Washington. Some drivers slow down as they pass, and I wonder if they’re staring at my bright red jacket, which I chose because it makes me feel like James Dean in Rebel Without a Cause. I wonder if they can tell what I’m up to.

It’s a midsummer Monday, and less than an hour ago, I received a Grindr message from a man I’d never seen before. He sent me several photos of his puckish face, enviable abs, and exceptionally beautiful ass; I assumed that my own, less Instagram-worthy photos would bore him, but to my surprise, he responded enthusiastically to the ones I sent in return. He said he’s from out of town but staying the night at the Super 8 by the mall and asked if I’d be down to meet there. I hesitated.

I texted my friend Cameron, a more sexually adventurous person than I’ll ever be. “Am I going to get murdered?”

“No,” Cameron said. “Prepare to be disappointed.” Citing my uncle Bruce’s favorite motto, he added, “But live the fantasy!”

So I said yes to the stranger with the beautiful ass, gave him my number, showered, spent a needlessly long time picking an outfit that would say hot but not desperately eager to please, and tried not to get run over as I crossed Route 95.

At this hour, the traffic lights only flash red instead of changing colors. The stranger sends parking directions; I admit that I don’t own a car, and he falls silent for several minutes. Approaching the Super 8, I wonder if he’s lost patience with me, but then he texts to apologize: he’s actually at the Motel 6, another third of a mile away. Wary of getting catfished, or worse, I ask him to send a photo from inside the room, though I stay at motels so rarely that I can imagine making the same mistake. His reply: a shot of the bedside table’s landline, its panel displaying the Motel 6 logo and the front desk number. I forward the image to Cameron: “If I die tonight, this is how you’ll find my body.”

I’m prepared for disappointment but not disaster; I don’t have pepper spray or a knife or any of the self-defense tools that many women I know carry. (How many Grindr users take such precautions in 2019?) I’m relieved to see that the Motel 6 is near a McDonald’s, and I pause by the windows, comforted by the warm glow inside. I could run here for sanctuary if something goes wrong — a ridiculous exit plan, yes, but one that soothes me all the same.

The stranger instructs me to wait by the pool, hidden beneath a sagging tarp. Ducking under a fire escape to avoid the lampposts’ glare, I see a curtain quiver in one of the ground-level windows and check my phone. “Red jacket?” he asks. I find the room number he gives and knock tentatively, in case he’s messed up that detail too. He cracks the door and invites me into a room lit by only a TV. Shirtless and gaunt, he appears to be around my age. He’s wearing gray sweatpants, slung low enough that I can see the banana