I Got A Name

I've met people online so committed to the anonymity of screen names that even after months of chatting back and forth, a comfort level seemingly in place, they still refused to divulge basic facts like a first name, or location.

This of course, drives me bonkers. I'm always offering up my proper name, or a variation of, because calling someone  "Hog-eye" , can seem foolish when discussing politics or the weather.

Or, some sort of bizarro adult 'Little Rascals' comedy, with characters called 'Spank-me', 'Buckweed' and 'Super Butch'. Having a name like "Topman" apparently implies I'm ready to fuck at a moment's notice. While that is often the case, it's not the rule. I like a little foreplay. Some people I meet act as if sex was akin to the stops on the subway: the Local 'N'.

Here's an example of the types of greetings I get: in this case I don't even rank as 'Topman' but 'Buddy':

"hi buddy hows it hanging love to suck and feel you seed my ass over and over"

"hey hotman, you hard and horny today?"

"hey stud you naked?'

"hey buddy, fuck me man, fuck me fuck me"

What's the old line: 'When they STOP calling I'll be worried?'

I guess it's hard for me to separate flirting from genuine interest and to no get so uptight when encountering the less polished, 'caveman' types.

Plotting My Own Plot Against Me

A glitch in my Blogger program has been hindering some posts. This is caused by:
 
A) I'm so fried, I'm only thinking I'm writing.
B) I'm not fried enough to mind meld with my desktop and solve the problem
B)The not-so-secret government plot against me. (don't worry, they'll get to you in due course)
C) Global Warming/Misc Ecological quirks as foretold by the Mayan Mutual of Omaha Desk Calendar
D)Gremlins from the Kremlin


I'd forgotten how hilarious those old cartoons were. Watch that while I go under the hood for a bit.

An Early Christmas

I had shook my head in amazement when I got an email from Mr. Big Woods of Wisconsin. I should have known the minute I began to reenter the world of the living something like this would happen.


The letter was friendly, with no 'old business' from the past being dragged out. I had last spoken to him July 4th Weekend, when he called and I lay on my big couch and cried after we hung up.
I was feeling so very lonesome, the roommate hunt was not going anywhere, a job negotiation had just fallen through. I went on a three day binge: not leaving the apartment, not eating, just staring at the walls.

This email found him in good spirits and mentioned a possible West Coast trip before Christmas.

We marked out calendars and things promptly unraveled. It started as an inability to coordinate face time via Skype. Then he announced he was running late to pick up his date for a monthly dinner club event, but oddly, and this was a good sign, I didn't wall up in tears when he said he had to go .

And that surprise trip to the Coast didn't happen--- which was no surprise to me.

December came, and with it,his birthday. He called me on mine, but could I stand the thought of having to talk to him, but neither did I want to blow him off. I sent an email, and in my own way began quietly closing the books on Woodman "Woodsy" McCarthy of Milwaukee, and this silly drain of energy known as party and play.
I could have gone to Madrid last year. He would gracefully fade into my past.

I received a rather ardent plea that we 'must' talk, and was told when and where to receive this call. (No 'Taming of the Shrew' jokes either, folks)

What could I do? I thanked Woodsy for making my day, as I was feeling mighty low, and for an hour plus enjoyed the most civilized conversation, with questions
"On the last night of my visit to Milwaukee, why DID you take me to the Supper Club where your father proposed to your mother?"
His reply: " It was?"
Laughter (I still call his old boyfriend 'Winston' which is the name of my cat. It's not deliberate. I'm still referred to as "That Man", which is.) Woodsy has a non-steady steady, and his description prompted me to quip: "He sounds like my twin'.
The reply: "He's a plumber; you're a writer." Ouch.

For once, I looked no further than the moment, turned off the sophisticated comedy repartee(might as well speak in Urdu), and just looked at him...he had fallen asleep on cam.

When I told Woodman  with my extended troubles I feared becoming Ava Gardner at the end of Show Boat, he asked 'Why not Howard Keel?'
I admit, I wasn't prepared for that one.

It's make believe in reality perhaps, but that call was the most marvelous Christmas present I've ever received.

The Boy Who Came Back: Part 2

I blogged previously about the cute younger guy who, when I first met him, was convinced I was none other than Satan's right hand (or would that be left hand?) man.  After I cleared up THAT confusion, he contacted me. Even commented on a post I had in a previous incarnation of this blog. Roll credits: all's well that end's well. Or so I thought.

When I saw he'd dropped me as a Skype contact, then didn't respond to my sincere birthday wishes, I became concerned. Why in blazes would I be concerned? He's a grown up, has family, friends, seemed to have dealt with whatever paranoia or pronoia or pro-choice issues that dogged him.

Boy, was I fucking WRONG.

No good deed goes unpunished, and yes, because I thought he was cute, and sane, I emailed him. Well, that last sentence should have ended with cute. When I saw on he'd put something about 'being possessed' I knew it was time to stick my nose, foot and hand into trouble. So, I emailed my Little Lost Luke Cloudwalker to inquire. I should have just asked what size he wore in a strait-jacket and ordered one.

This resulted in a response to my email and subsequent two to three hour text-fest that basically consisted of:

-was I using meth?
-why was I sticking my nose into his business?
-was I using meth?
-what a rude, self-centered, egotistical, nosy son-of-a-bitch bastard I was
-and was I using meth? Because if I was, he couldn't talk to me.

The best way to not get an answer out of me, is to demonstrate that you have, have, have, have, to know.

To say when I finally had enough, and with a heavy heart told him I was ending communication, was one of the hardest goodbyes I have ever uh...typed. His comments to me were so cruel, misdirected nd downright mean, I can only wonder what issues he had been 'told' were the cause of his drug use, but I had to question what drugs he was taking that would create such a different person than the cheerful guy I thought I knew.

And then, I had a theory what the problem was. And, being the SOB I am (he wasn't totally off the mark on some of his observations) I asked him straight out-and just like you see in the movies where the main character has this terrifying revelation: I knew the answer:

He was IN rehab (again) and that was why he was so fucked up. And why most likely he couldn't talk.

He denied it, but was I using meth?

This game...or whatever the fuck caring for someone genuinely and getting your head handed back to you in that style,  lost its charm right then and there.