denver

from an email to a friend:

so tonight i ran my usual "here i am, come and get me" ad that i always run on craigslist whenever i hit a new city, to (i'm happy to say) gratifying response.

but i had specific needs tonight which had nothing to do with being a performing donkey, and i finally settled on this wholesome, cute, buffed-out 30-year-old white guy as my best bet to fulfill them.  because his ad was interesting--he was looking for an overweight daddy, and i knew there had to be a story there.

i opened my reply with "look, i may be too thin for you (words i don't get to utter very often these days, so that was nice), but...", and he came back very quickly, invited me over.

i found his place, and it was clean and bright and nice, and so was he.  he led me down to a basement bedroom, away from the sleeping roommates, and when he turned to me i took him in my arms, kissed him and gently/roughly felt him up and down for a long while, loosened his pants, while he melted.  when i felt the time was right, i breathed into his open mouth, "so tell me about your first time", as my hands and mouth continued their work.  between kisses, he breathed the story back to me.

he was 15, on vacation with his family at a resort, had left the pool and wandered into the locker room, and then into the sauna, where he came across this--you guessed it--fat daddy in a towel, whom, i have no doubt, took one look at this little vision and knew his every dark dream had just come true.

"so you were wearing a swimsuit"

yeah

"baggies, i'm guessing."

yeah

"what color?"

lime green

"with your adolescent boner standing up just like it is now (i lightly feathered my fingers up and down his rock-hard dick, making him shiver), except in a little green tent, right?"

oh yeah

they eventually retreated to a shower stall, but he didn't get fucked that first time--that would happen during the following year's family vacation, with the following year's fat daddy.  we eventually worked up to that--we're in bed by this point--and i recreated the experience for him, while we breathed words back and forth into each other's mouths until we came simultaneously.

i left him dazed, surprised and happy in a puddle of sweat and cum, came back to my room, showered, flipped open the notebook and started this letter to you.

i don't fuck around with kids, victor.  there are a number of reasons for this, but the main one--the guttermorality--behind this Rule is simple:  i refuse to imprint my baggage on a brain and psyche that are not yet fully formed, leaving 'em with fat-daddy fantasies for the rest of their lives.  hell, i have enough work picking up the pieces all those fat daddies who lacked this particular scruple left behind.

but i love the roleplay, when it's right--taking these kids in men's bodies back to the moment of their lifelong fixation, making perfect--for them and for me--what probably wasn't the first time around.

i haven't decided whether this is wrong or not.  i'd love to know what you think.

the craigslist rule strikes again...and again

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don't get me wrong--nobody loves craigslist more than me; it's been a reliable source of entertainment (not to mention other things) over the years.  that being said, however, it has one significant downside that pops up with such night-follows-day regularity that i've posited a theorem, which goes as follows:

the more perfect the item you find on craigslist, the further
away it will be.

and i don't care what you're looking for--be it used cars, used DVDs or used men--this rule seems to hold true.

case in point:  i've decided i'm ready to have a dog in my life once more.  after much consideration, i settled on the breed and started looking.  it's turned out to be harder than i thought, so i was happy when earlier this week an ad popped up for a very photogenic 7-month-old male whose family reluctantly had to give him up.  the fact that this ideal specimen happened to reside in

caused neither surprise nor dismay--hell, an experienced craigslister such as i wasn't gonna let something as minor as a four-hour round trip get between me and the perfect dog.

marcy, his owner, rhapsodized about how great blackie was--quiet, well-behaved, good with children--so we made an appointment for 2:00 this afternoon, and i made the trek out to see him.

i was greeted at the door by marcy herself, who thrust a wide-eyed, trembling little creature into my arms--legs splayed, stiff as a board and refusing even to look at me. when i knelt down, sat him on the floor and tried to pet him, he slunk away under the couch, and there he stayed despite attempts to coax him out with any number of treats.  marcy explained, "he's always been a little nervous; i'm not sure why", as her twin four-year-olds came shrieking into the room, knocking over furniture and hurling toys at each other.  i said my goodbyes and wished her luck in finding blackie, if not a good home, then at least a good PTSD therapist.

back home--tired, whole day shot--i opened craigslist to see if anything new had popped up, and lo and behold, there he was:  eight weeks old and freshly weaned.  the owner told me that three other people had called, but none had been willing to make the drive that night to--where, you ask? oh, c'mon, you're not keeping up.

and how does this story end?  let's just cut to the chase:

meet sebastian.

would you drop your pants for this guy?

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no? then obviously you're not straight.

while i thank whatever god there might be that my personal interest in unavailable straight guys lasted only for about as long as it took me to figure out there were all kinds of perfectly-acceptable homogays out there who were more than happy to get naked with me, that fact in no way discounts--as has been mentioned previously--my fascination with the intricate machinations employed by shlubs like jeffrey graybill in order to get into the pants of clueless straight guys.

this guy's shtick? he'd post ads on craigslist posing as a fertility doctor looking for sperm donors and offering the lucky recipients $4,000 for their goods if they met his rigorous standards. needless to say, he found lots of willing idiots--as many as 40, they think--before he got caught.

my favorite quote from the various news sources i've perused concerning this story would be the following:

He would collect semen, urine and blood samples from victims before touching the men inappropriately during hernia and testicular examinations, according to police.

i mean, jesus god--how many stupid straight guys are out there, anyway?

[never mind--total rhetorical question]

he has crabs, don't trust him

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[god, i wish i'd saved more of these--there have been so many over the years]


trolling through craigslist a couple years back whilst enjoying a cocktail, i came across the following ad [edited for your protection]:

to which i replied

babe:

1. he probably didn't realize he had 'em when he had sex with you--it's not like anybody cultivates the little fuckers like they're prize orchids.

2. it's not like it's a difficult "disease" to get rid of--hit rite-aid tomorrow, find the "rid" display [hell, the one at santa monica & la brea prolly has a big spotlighted pyramid of the shit right inside the front door], drop your 7 bucks, do the treatment and wham! you're a virgin again.

3. keep in mind that if you had sex with anybody right after you had sex with this boy [and we all know you did], you most likely passed the gift onto them without realizing it and they'll be cursing you tomorrow just like you're cursing him tonight [and if you're lucky, you'll all run into each other at rite-aid].

4. in closing, may i--a seasoned veteran who, unlike you, understands and has long since accepted the pitfalls of casual sex--just say that a case of the crabs is a laughably small price to pay for the opportunity to get naked with the boy in those pictures.

count your blessings, comb your pubes and get over yourself, cupcake.

as is usual with my helpful advice to strangers, i didn't hear one grateful word of appreciation in return. sometimes i think i'm just a lonely voice in the goddam wilderness, goddammit.

this is why i don't write an advice column

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[this one just goes to show you never know what you'll find whilst digging around in your past for something else--or maybe that's just me.]

* * * * *

i came across the following on craigslist one night awhile back [sorry, you'll have to click-and-embiggen to read]:


in the wake of this rather extraordinary post i found a flood of responses, most expressing sympathy for the victim and asking for the rapist's email address so as to avoid said rapist in the future.

seeing nothing in any of the responses which came even close to addressing the real issue at hand (and being well into my second mkf cocktail of the evening), i set myself to the task of saying what needed to be said; which post--for the brief, shining moment of its existence before it was flagged to death--ended up looking like this:


i distinctly remember not only posting this to craigslist at large, but then taking the additional step of sending it directly to the victim [unsurprisingly, i never received an answer, but i sure as hell hope he at least took my advice about the emergency-room hiv-prevention-protocol part].

next day i came back all sobered-up, read what i had posted [only because i was smart enough to take the above screenshot before it was deleted], cringed in morning-after remorse, thought about how i might've more diplomatically phrased my response to this poor, sad fuck (phrases such as "violated, cum-filled asshole", " shame on you" and " grow a spine" might not have played so prominent a part had i done this sober, you know?), and then wrote it off as yet another lost opportunity.

[of course, the next time i looked at the whole thing shitfaced [i.e, just now], i totally and unapologetically saw my point in the first goddam place--i mean, don't you?]

whatever--at the moment i'm more concerned that i did more harm to the guy than good. because while my jaded, drunken ass might appreciate a cold slap-in-the-face reality check, experience has taught me that most people prefer getting their truth in small, sugar-coated, doable doses.

unfortunately, that's not the way we roll here.

i meant to post this last week, but there's only so much stupid i can keep in my head at any one time

[text]
[besides, photoshopping of this quality doesn't just happen overnight]


god knows by now i've seen so many m4m ads by "hiv-" and "std free" bareback bottoms demanding similar stats from the random strangers they invite over to ejaculate inside 'em that i barely even blink anymore; it was the exquisitely unintentional irony of this one that put it over the top and into a class of its own.

don't you remember you told me you love me baby?

far and away the best "missed connections" of the week so far (and yeah, i do have too much free time at work):

this one took me a few minutes

texttext
seems simple enough, right? au contrare; logistically speaking, it's quite complicated--i mean, put yourself in this guy's place for a minute:

1. first, you've committed yourself to showing up naked outdoors [on second thought, not a huge problem, especially in that neighborhood--on to no. 2];

2. "ddf" (drug/disease free)? yeah, because anyone willing to piss on and then jerk off all over you in his own driveway at three in the morning could not possibly be of the risk-taking, disease-susceptible, drug-imbibing temperament you obviously find so distasteful, so you're probably safe there.

3. after being showered with piss and cum (but more likely just piss) in some strange backyard or driveway by some guy who'll zip up and turn his back on you the instant said events have played themselves out, you find yourself on your own, naked and dripping--so, now what? because you gotta get home somehow, and it's not bloody likely your host is gonna invite you in for a quick rinse-off and towel-dry; best you might could hope for is a cold squirt with a garden hose (and trust me, it was damn cold in los angeles at three this morning, so i don't even wanna think about that)--and that's only if you're lucky and there actually is a hose and/or someone who's willing to turn it on you--the questions i ultimately ended up asking outta this situation are

4. how do you keep the piss outta the car you have to drive home and then drive every day, and

5. if this is what it takes to move your needle at 31, what are you saving for 50?

and after working on these questions for awhile, i couldn't come up with a definitive answer--lots of moist towelettes? raincoat? hose-off interior? hose-off psyche? i dunno.

so i asked him. haven't heard back yet, but soon as i do (and i'm sure i will) i'll let you know.