Last Call

By Brian H , Atlanta

"So tell me about yourself."

It comes out sounding like a housewife going over her grocery list. "Five eleven one seventy five brown hair green eyes good body some piercings some tattoos average good looks hung seven inches cut mostly top." (some canned peas, elbow noodles and those maxi pads with wings…I think)." Sounds good. What do you get into?"

"Trouble, mostly"

"Excuse me?"

"Uh, nothing. I’m pretty open." This has always been the hard part of the sell for me.
It’s not like I can say, "DOES it fucking matter? Put a nickel in the slot and the horsie goes. I’ve been beyond caring enough that I don’t even remember what I’m ‘into’. So just bust out and tell me whatever sick little twist on the pickle you are into. What could it be? Hmmmm. Rimchairs? Yawn. Watersports? Tedious. Spanking? Oooh. That’s novel. Fantasizing about raping six-year-olds while I fist you? Sick, but ultimately boring. Listen, buddy, I have seen a lot in nineteen years and nothing you’ve got is gonna yank my chain. Dig? There’s nothing you’ve got that’s gonna touch me. Anywhere. You can rent the meat, not the mind. You can make me fuck. But you cannot make me care. NO ONE CAN."(sigh)

Instead, I say: "I’m pretty open."

He says, "Can you come over?"

"Sure," I say. "Sounds like fun."

NO BIO AVAILABLE.