"
He called himself Leo. Not his real name, of course — but on Fabswingers, everyone wore a mask. His was simple, clean. Just like his approach.
Leo was a man of quiet decency. Polite. Honest. Respectful. The kind who would never send a message without reading someone’s profile first. The kind who didn’t copy and paste a template, but tried — sincerely — to connect. He never pushed, never begged. He sent one message, maybe two. And then, he waited.
And waited.
He logged in each evening after work, hopeful. Hopeful that maybe this time, someone might see past his lack of a gym-honed body or the fact that he was a single man. Maybe someone would notice the warmth in his eyes in that one decent photo he had the courage to post.
But his inbox remained a graveyard.
No winks.
No replies.
Just silence.
Meanwhile, he watched. He watched the same women’s profiles he admired say “200+ messages a day, don’t expect a reply.” He read their journals about being overwhelmed, about men being pushy or disrespectful. And he ached, not out of bitterness, but from the weight of being invisible — while knowing he wasn’t *that guy*. He *wasn’t* the problem. And yet, he was lumped in with them all the same.
At clubs, the disparity cut even deeper. Couples entered free, women were welcomed like royalty. Leo paid — sometimes triple — for the same entry. He stood alone at the edge of dance floors and hot tubs, holding a drink like a shield. Watching, smiling politely, respecting boundaries no one ever offered him. Security always eyed him closely. Staff whispered, “single guy” with the same tone reserved for gatecrashers.
He wasn’t bitter. Not really. He understood the imbalance. But that didn’t dull the sting of it.
Leo just wanted to be wanted.
Not by everyone. Not even by many. Just someone. A message. A wink. A moment where he felt seen — not as “just another single guy,” but as himself.
He kept logging in.
Kept reading profiles.
Kept writing kind, thoughtful messages.
And still… nothing.
He used to believe the site was a gateway to freedom, to connection. But over time, it began to feel like a hall of mirrors — all promise and no reflection.
Leo still waits. Somewhere behind his screen, on a profile with a picture no one clicks and a message history no one reads. He waits, not for fantasy anymore, but for fairness. For a sliver of what others receive so easily.
And each night, he logs off with the same thought echoing in his mind:
"If only they knew who I really was."
"
But life isn't fair Leo. |
