Gay Times November 09 - Issue 374
I Was Stalked
DJ and writer Stewart Who? shares his chilling story of how a one-night stand turned into a stalking nightmare.
More from Gay Times November 09 - Issue 374
He caused a ripple among the bar’s customers, who took it in turns to try it on with him. But the stranger slyly flirted with yours truly. Then he slid up to the DJ booth and asked what time I finished. We sneakily decided to go for a drink after. Our catwalk to the exit elicited gasps, curses and applause. To this day, I suspect the sheer smugness of that moment was karmically connected to the nightmare which ensued.
We scurried, laughing, to a late bar. I’d just been paid and was flash with the handbag. It did seem odd someone in their 30s had nowhere to stay. He was getting the first coach back to Bristol in the morning. Coach?! Hmm. Well, stay at mine. We drank ‘til the bar shut, fuelled by my smugness and vodka. Back home, the sex was dreadful. He asked for Viagra. He scoffed them like Smarties. The sex didn’t improve. I fell asleep, annoyed, exhausted and far less triumphant.
Next morning I wanted rid of him. He could feel the rejection and clung to me energetically, if not physically. I waved him off at Victoria Station, just to make sure he’d gone. Confronted by his neediness and my guilt, I gave him a business card. If you’re ever in London, gimme a call, I said.
He rang that lunchtime. He called that night. My reception is rubbish at home, so without thinking I gave him my landline number. We talked for hours. Not in a chatty, fun and flirty way. Oh, no. I soon became aware he had “issues” and tried to extricate myself with caution and sympathy. This may have worked on somebody without mental health problems.
He wanted to leave Bristol, but couldn’t. Why? He wouldn’t say. Go on, tell. No, he couldn’t. Nothing will shock me. Tell me. Turns out, he’s on probation for GBH towards an ex-boyfriend. Oh.
He also had OCD. So extreme, he confessed, that when he visited the probation officer, he was compelled to cover the chair with a bin liner. Germs, you see. Queens in the local gay bar taunted him with refuse sacks. They called him “Bin Bag” and “Psycho”. As you would, I thought.
He wouldn’t stop calling. After three days of persistent contact, I warned him if he called me again, I’d inform the police. I hung up. He called back, “I’ll tell the police you gave me drugs and raped me.”
Full article appears in the November issue of GT