Gay men can't read. I have placed a shamedly high number of personal ads in my night. From intensely specific ads that can obviously never be fulfilled, to sweeping generalities that anyone could fit into. And while I sometimes do this because I'm a desperate, desperate man with a hormone imbalance, sometimes I do it just to see what kind of person responds.
I recently (a few hours after the frustrating encounter with Frenchy McFroggerton) placed an ad that said "Thirty year old, moderately hairy top guy seeks guy my age or younger with smooth ass for repeated fuckery. Must like Motorhead, and the color green."
I don't give a shit about Motorhead or what colors people like, I was just hoping for an interesting response. I didn't get any. Lots of bland responses from the same guys who reply to all my ads, no matter what I say I'm looking for. But one guy sent a promising picture, and was able to put a sentence together, so I called him on the phone. He had a sexyish voice, so I said he could come over. He was 1.) much older than me; 2.) had ass hair that needed, not a machete, but a wheat thresher to get through; 3.) a complete tool. The only thing that fit the ad was that he probably liked Motorhead. I'm guessing this based on his being bald, smelling funny, and overusing the word "sick".
I was way way way not into him. So he was bent over on my bed with his fanny forest in my direction. "I can't do this." I said.
He looked over his shoulder at me. "Why not?"
I'm a firm supporter in derrier deforestation? Your picture was from the late eighties when your ass was smooth, and your head was not? "I just...I can't."
And I sent him on his way. Depressed, I signed in to delete my ad, when I came across:
"I'm tired of offering my ass to beautiful men who fuck me just about right, but then either end up turning into complete dicks, or else stalking me when I say I'm not interested. So I've decided to be more specific with what I want: I want a man to come to my house, fuck me until we both come repeatedly, and then I want to hit him in the face with a shovel. No second date. No awkward goodbye kisses. My shovel to your face.You can tell all your straight friends that you didn't get hit in the face with a shovel by a guy you were fucking, but that you an a bunch of your straight buddies had a martial arts death fest where you were the winner, or that you fell off the bar while banging a really hot chick, or whatever it is you straight guys do after you fuck a gay guy. And you don't have to worry about me following you around for a repeated shoveling. This would be a one time deal.
How could I not reply?
Dating is a little complex for me. It's not that I don't like eating dinner with someone who's going to be face down on my bed later, it's that I don't want to be sitting in the darkened movie theatre, watching, say, The Dark Knight, and spend the whole time thinking, does this guy have enough stamina to justify all the money I've spent on buttered popcorn and flat soda?
But let's say we did go on a date, and things reached the level where you were bent over my couch, face down on the bed, leg up on the kitchen counter, headstanding in the shower, or in the crane position in a vat of pudding (butterscotch, naturally). Things go well, you don't come within ten seconds and announce that you HAVE to go, because you're afraid you'll miss the last train home (nevermind that it is three in the afternoon). Basically, things are good. There may or may not be cuddling involved, depending on how recently you've showered, and whether you mind being the small spork.
On your way out the door, I mention that I'm not really into stalking, and while I can certainly hold my own when it comes to smacktalking, I don't enjoy being a dick to someone who's just spent the last hour with my dick in their ass. You pull out your shovel.
And here's the problem, my face is completely allergic to shovels. It's not that I'm too pretty to be bludgeoned, or that I'm a wuss when it comes to pain. It's that shovels are just such a nineteenth century sort of tool. And I'm really not into antiques. And since I'm not one of those "bisexual" frat guys who like to act all masculine and tough around my friends, but turn into a catty fagtron once my clothes are off, I have no desire to lie to people why my nose is smashed in, and my right eye is bloodshot. So, what say, instead of the shovel to the face, you just swing a rake at my calves.
I've got good calves, they're fairly strong, and I think they could take a raking. Plus, depending on how many tines there are on the rake, I could tell people I was attacked by Wolverine, or Freddy Kreuger, or even Edward Scissorhands. There's just so many more believably crazy stories you can get from raked calves than you can from a smashed up face. I mean, I obviously wouldn't have fallen down the stairs, or gotten into a bar fight. Any story involving raked calves would HAVE to be amazing.
So, if you're up for getting together some time for some non-shovel debauchery, hit me up. I'm six feet tall, about 190 pounds, a redhead with strong calves, the correct amount and properly proportioned facial features (no thanks to your damned shovel), and two days off from work.
Send a pre-pummeled face pic and some stats (of you, and your rake).
So he sends me a pic, and some praise for my reply, and I notice...his picture was taken at a venue I work at. Recently. Turns out we do shows at the same spaces, but different nights (him being a musician, and me being a poet.writer guy). So I ask him what he's into, and he says I sing for a band. I'm a normal guy who likes working out, hanging out with friends, industrial theft, movies and long walks on beach after anal.
Well, I've got fast hands, a bulky shirt to hide the merchandise in, a number of movies illegally downloaded, lube, condoms, and a pile of sand I'm prepared to dump on my bedroom floor. So we're totally hooking up when I get back from Madison. Here's hoping I don't have to post about that hookup after I get back.