Trashley: Thirty-Seven
Out of the Closet
Headlights illuminated the snow as Ashley pulled into the driveway. My body shifted into survival mode as the crunch of footsteps got louder and closer to the front door. What was supposed to be our last hurrah, our quiet, peaceful trip to the woods, had turned into a gay horror movie, the one where I was trapped in a cabin with an angry, lying lesbian. I was exhausted. I’d barely slept the last few nights because I had to keep an eye on Ashley in case she tried to stab me in the heart with an iron poke in my sleep.
My head pounded in places I didn’t even know existed after learning about the horrible things Ashley had done to Michelle. I felt terrible for her. She lost over a year of her life dating someone who didn’t exist, except for in Ashley’s fantasy world. I also couldn’t help but feel sad for Ashley because, for some reason, she thought she had to lie and manipulate women into dating her.
I wish Ashley had come with a warning label, “Beware: Catfish inside. Dangerous when pressed. Because I never would have dated her if I had known she had a history as a catfish. If I had found out she was a bank robber, maybe it’d be a different story because that’s a victimless crime. But catfishing is one of the lowest things you can do to another person. I couldn’t understand the allure.
