Boy, did I feel like a lucky girl… so many goddamn emails from God knows who. Thanks, Craig’s List. Ha! Well if you sonofabitches think that I’m gonna reply to every single one of you, then you can suck my pinky toe! I will read and delete as I see fit!
I am the Hitler of personal ad responses!!!
Keine Bilder im E-Mailmittel, das Sie das cyclon-B erhalten werden!
(Note to self: Nobody’s the Hitler of anything. He’s dead. Stop making distasteful jokes… Let’s move on).
Okay, so I got about fifty or so. The first letter I saw was the one I ended up actually falling for… and, man, the road to that fantastic moment (or the brief succession of moments thus far) wasn’t paved smoothly… as I shall explain.
Might I first commend Craig’s List for being oh so damn effective. You know, I could care less if I get positive or negative responses for ads I decide to post or vice versa. The point is that either way, Craigslist delivers. Everyone loves this fucking site. Everyone engages. And everyone gets what they want. Or not.
So, yes, while I did get a few who didn’t read through my ad AT ALL -
Time Out: Okay I didn’t say this before but in the ad I said I wanted Caucasian men only… then later I wrote that this candidate must have a sense of style and not wear his jeans below his ass. I meant this not only for black men, but ALL men of every skin tone who wears their pants in such a fashion. Has nothing to do with race and everything to do with my obviously important public image. It’s unflattering *I shake my white ‘kerchief in offense*
Also, I know plenty of sexy intelligent black men out there. Delicious. Beautiful. I enjoy the ebony body as much as anyone. Sexually? Doesn’t do a damn thing. I just get turned on by white boys. It is purely about skin color here, as shallow or racist as that may seem. I don’t care.
Time in: But there were a significant few who did read my ad and provided me with an impressive selection of awkward, attractive, and funny bios. So I wrote back to the ones I liked. I even set up some dates.
Then I got distracted by pictures of six pack abs. Then I became confused. I gave out my phone number to a couple of guys, one was my first responder, the other was a blonde-haired hipster with a sleeve of tattoos on his arm. The first response? Pretty much grew up in the same neighborhood and referenced Arrested Development in his email. And he was cute, sure, but there was something else… I was curious… Scissors beats paper.
So I told this Bob (first responder and not his real name) that I’m not the best person to talk to on the phone. If I’ve known someone for a while then yeah, we can talk for hours. But first timers… especially when I may potentially want to have sex with you? Uh-uh. I don’t know. I’d rather just meet and get it over with. That said, first time meets of this nature warrant some phone chat, which is why I told him that he should call me.
Unfortunately, he picked a moment of which I was in an unbelievably drunken stupor for the second time this week. Poor Bob called me as I stumbled into my apartment and tried to pick the best corner in my room where the walls didn’t seem to spin as much.
If or whenever he reads this, he’d probably laugh at this point because this entire section would have been a lengthy reflection about the phone call. But, I don’t remember too much of it, which I thought was the liquor. I mean it was a reason, but not the only one. My mind was numb with deadlines and new essays to write. My liver was also absorbing tequila.
Here are the highlights.
- I asked him many questions about himself that I don’t remember
- He told me many wonderful things about himself that I don’t remember
- I got him at half-mast
- I told I was naked
- I think I teased him a bit about coming over so he could get naked with me (which probably led to the half-mast)
- BEST MOMENT EVER: So, he looked up my info and instantly realized I was a sex worker and understandably addressed his concerns about how trustworthy I might be. Unfortunately, this is just how most guys think. Not to say there aren’t chicks out there incapable of being big dramatic babies, but just because I’m a sex worker doesn’t mean that I’m instantly that way. Sure, I’m slightly unstable, but I’m damn loyal and deserving of love and respect like everyone else! And I never want to let my own potential setbacks influence my lover. To me, he’s the most special because I chose him. And make no mistake, kids. I choose my clients too! Just because any old or rich fart contacts me Does Not mean I will see him, especially if I don’t have any verifiable info to cover my ass. I may be a professional slut, but I’m neither a pushover or the heartless town door knob, giving everyone a turn whenever!
*Ahem*
As you can see, I was pretty passionate (and I wrote this SOBER). Anyway, I was being irrational. Sure, I’m right to some degree. But, ugh, people get hurt. They always do. This poor guy has gotten hurt before… as have I, particularly when it comes to the whole debacle mentioned above. And I should have just said that, or would have said it if I was sober. But, then, suddenly during my tirade, I just cried. I tried to hide it but my voice broke. He knew it too. I must have apologized a million times, citing the most apparent excuse (Tequila) that caused me to act that way. Don’t really remember how it ended; but I do think that despite my drunken cries for love he actually enjoyed the conversation.
I mean… I did get him at half-mast, that has to count for something.
I seriously passed out and woke up believing that I fucked up any chances with this guy. Ugh… GOD! I mean, if we didn’t get along, sure I could care less. But despite my inebriated state, we actually ended up talking for a couple of hours! I don’t even like talking to my Mom for that long (<3 you, Mommy) .
And yet, for some strange reason, Bob still wanted to see me.
Maybe it was my naked enticement, but I’d like to believe…
So, we did meet up the next night. I was very excited because he could finally meet me (slightly) sober and (slightly) charming.
Well I was certainly 100% sober… as for charming? It was after 1am and I spent the entire day shlepping between Harlem and Hell’s Kitchen in the sizzling heat! We planned to meet at midnight, which would have suited me fine since it was so damn hot out. I was in no mood to go to bed early. And who knew what would have happened next…
Me, at least I thought I did. Exhausted and starving, I finally reached home and jumped in the shower. Bob was in my neighborhood. I didn’t want to turn him away so quickly, so I told him to come up.
You know, honestly, as we sat there wondering why someone in her nearly sleepy, disoriented state could want to entertain anyone in the middle of the night, I thought I kind of fucked it up. And normally I simply wouldn’t care. Most times I don’t. I’ve turned men down at the last minute before; some I’ve stood up. But, I wanted him to stick around. And, coming from a sarcastic, slightly iron-hearted cynic, that means worlds. As each minute ticked by, I perused the menus desperate for something to eat. He and Mickey bonded, as the cat flaunted his asshole affectionately in Bob’s face. At least someone’s pussy is giving him some attention, I thought. *Sigh* I told him that whatever I might have said on the phone (i.e. naked party) was probably just a slip of the tequila-tainted tongue. He understood. Man, I felt like an asshole. Why is he even still here? Do I want him to leave? Oh… pancakes would be yummy. Why can’t I look him in the eye?
Well, he didn’t leave. Together we walked to Veselka and ordered some buckwheat banana pancakes, eggs and all of the fixings. While we waited we talked. When the food came, we talked some more. When we stuffed our faces, we stuffed our faces. Obviously. Oh, and we didn’t talk that much. We’re not that desperate (me!) to hear our own voices. However, at one point, when he made me laugh, that was when I realized it… I like him. No wonder I can’t look him in the eye yet. I genuinely like him. He’s the type of guy that I imagine when I think every other guy is doing it wrong. By the time we got the check, I tried looking at him again but I fucking couldn’t. I giggled and blushed. My stomach hurt.
When Bob left in the morning, I got straight into exercise. Still naked, I placed the mirror against the bed and positioned my computer right next to it. Today it was Extreme boot camp training. Lots of sweat. Rep after rep, I danced through it, thinking about the night before. I could still smell his sweat on me; it fell from my body with the other droplets. By the end of the workout, I collapsed onto my couch, its white surface several layers darker with hours old sweat and other bodily fluid. My thigh muscles ached. So did my ass cheeks. 
Ugh. He makes my insides feel like mush. And he’s my age! I’ve never dated anyone my age before. I hope this works out…
Seriously,a white couch? That detail just broke the tale apart for me.
What about the remainder of the CL paramours? Did you find mine yet?
Good luck, it’s always around the third date in my experience that nubile relationships hit the second flopping point.
My couch is actually a daybed. It normally has a red cover on it but its in the laundry so I messed up the second white cover, which will now have to go in the laundry too. Of course if that bothers you then I just might be too dirty for you anyway
I said some other stuff about possibly talking to one other person; but I’m omitting because I don’t think it’s appropriate for comments. Besides, it’s only been a few days so whatev. I’m feeling satisfied, regardless of what will or might happen.
Too dirty for me? Not if we might possibly share a Bai Ling fantasy.