Jonathan Anthony Williamston Dunwith-Cable III was probably the most hetero guy you could ever hope to meet. Biddies? He’s bagged ’em all. Cash? He’s never strapped. Jonathan A.W. Dunwith-Cable III knows he’s disarmingly attractive and often spends a good fifteen minutes each evening shooting finger guns in the mirror and repeating words of affirmation like, “Hey, congrats. You did a really good job looking amazing today.”

So it’s really no surprise that Jonathan Dunwith-Cable III, at seven o’clock on the dot in his drop top, cruisin the streets, considered it his right; no, his honor; nay, his duty to give a low whistle or a call of encouragement to every passing skirt, set of heels, thick thighs, and crop top, that he saw waiting on the corner for a bus, walking with a friend, eating from a bag of potato chips, or generally just minding their own business.

Some of Jonathan Dunwith-Cable’s favorite words of affirmation to pass on were:

“Damn ,baby, where are you headed? Want a ride?”

“Those legs are good enough to eat.”

“Nice bedroom eyes, sweetheart!”

“As long as I have a face, you’ve got a place to sit!”

And so on, and so forth. It didn’t matter how few women he actually picked up with these tactics. At the end of the day he knew they liked it. He knew, behind the quick, silent glance away, the frowning smile and the eyes hidden by sunglasses, the headphones and the blank stare (“the bitch face,” he liked to call it), he knew that they felt properly affirmed, for he was Jonathon D-C, the most hetero guy in the world, and biddies loved to be loved.

One day, Jonathan C’s drop top was in the shop for its annual checkup, so he took the Orange Line subway to work, where he spent his days rewarding his coworkers with a fist bump for successfully managing other people’s assets in monetary denominations so high that the average plebe couldn’t even conceive of it. But Jonathan could. He was super hetero. He had stacks on stacks on stacks.

Usually he didn’t like being surrounded by weirdos and strangers and the general malcontents (unless those malcontents were chicks with voluptuous bottoms), and subways were full of old dudes, kids in strollers, and bag ladies, but not tonight.

He slid into an open seat next to a brown-skinned honey with billions of tiny braids framing her face. She had a silver necklace that fell across her bosom.

Jonny drooled with appreciation (internally, of course).

“Excuse me,” he said once.

“Excuse me,” he said again.

“Excuse me, miss,” he continued, “that’s a beautiful shirt.”

The young woman, who’d been staring out the window at the subway tunnel’s graffitied walls so hard she nearly strained her eyes, hummed a simple thanks.

“Pleasure’s all mine. Really, for it is a pleasure to sit next to such a–” Jon looked her body up and down, elevator style, while he searched for the right word, “beautiful piece of chocolate in the morning.”

The young woman didn’t respond. Or perhaps the silence was her response.

He continued. “I mean, it really warms me up. You’re so…mmph. I hope your boyfriend keeps you on a tight leash.” Jon laughed at his joke.

The young woman pulled a pair of earbuds from her messenger bag and plugged them into her phone. She put the other ends in her ears. Jonathan knew this move, this was a classic bitch face precursor.

Jonathan took out his custom-made gold-backed iPhone 7, so new that it had hardly been invented yet.

“Hey,” came a voice from over his shoulder.

“Hey, excuse me, man,” it continued

Jonathan turned to face a clean-shaven, strong-jawed, young man.

Objectively, the man was quite nice to look at, but Jonathan was so strikingly hetero that the thought never crossed his mind.

“Sup, dude?” asked Jonathan, just a bit annoyed. He didn’t like to be pestered on the subway.

“Hey,” the man smiled wide. “I noticed you as soon as you got on,” he said.

Jonathan frowned, unamused. The subway made a stop at 45th and the brown-skinned honey hurried off. Jonathan turned his attention to the tunnel walls.

“I mean, damn. The way you wear those pants, boy, how do you have space for your junk in there?” The man laughed, “Haha, I guess you don’t really.” He wiggled his eyebrows, sexually.

Jonathan glared at his reflection in the subway car’s window.

“Hey, baby,” the man tapped Jonathan insistently on the shoulder.

“Hey!” Jonathan whipped around, “Look man, don’t touch me! I’m not…I’m not like that. Okay?”

The man frowned, confused.

“Look, dude, I’m not like, a hater or anything, but I’m not gay. I don’t like dudes. I like chicks, okay?” Jonathan had let his voice rise without meaning and now half the subway car was studiously pretending they hadn’t heard anything.

“Jonathan,” the man said, leaning in and dropping his voice, “don’t you know what this is?”

“What?” said Jonathan. How did this man know his name? What did he mean?

The man laughed. “Just take a look around.”

Jonathan looked. He looked far down the car behind him. He looked to the front, where he could see through the glass door to the cars ahead. All around him there were men holding hands with other men. Women with their arms around the shoulders of other women. One old bag lady wearing a rainbow flag t-shirt kissed another old bag lady with a David Bowie button affixed to the front of her largest bag. Next to them, two dudes cooed at a baby in a stroller.

“This is your worst nightmare, Jonathan,” the man said behind him, his voice still low,  “Everyone is gay.”

Jonathan, eyes wide in horror, jaw dropped in an O of surprise, turned back to the man who knew his name.

“You shouldn’t leave your mouth like that,” the man warned, “there’s nothing more desirable to a man like myself than a heterosexual male.”

Jon bolted for the closed car doors, banging his fists against them, screaming for help. How did they know!?How could the gods of fame, wealth, and heterosexual good fortune abandon him like this!

“You can’t run, Jon!” shouted the man, “We’ll be at every corner checking out your butt! Every time you wear a suit, we’ll ask about the size of your penis! We’ll pretend to be interested in your hair just to cop a feel of your shoulders! You can’t escape us! This is your destiny!”

The subway sped past stop after stop as a mass of homosexuality ran after Jonathan Anthony Williamston Dunwith-Cable III, the most hetero guy you could ever hope to meet.

At least, he was.