BANG THY NEIGHBOR

.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.

My friend Kris was lonely and frustrated—he worked too many hours, days and—quite often—weeks sorely on end, to scarcely even meet a girl, much less meat that girl. And when he did meet (or meat) someone, it was some St. Charles or St. Louis casualty—no different than when I prowled those stomping grounds. In fact, I do believe it rates a separate rambling tangent all its own:

With a handful of exceptions—all of whom can be named without repeating vowels, or numbered without a deficit of digits, I am sure—St. Charles is the Goodwill of the Playing Field, a dime-store Dating Scene: a sad-sack Salvation Army for sorry Midwest singles, it’s bargain-table odor reeking of day-old tackle, mildewed suits and baby-slobber, and the musty pheromone of death that the elderly emit…all of it covered like those couches—watermarked with urine—that the Goodwill sells to ne’er-do-wells, a drape over the cigarette burns and spring-snags, cushion crumbs and musky crusts, soda stains and booger smears.

Yes, a retail drape covers every stink and stain, and every story that unfolds in the cushion folds—a beercap, spit and semen Rorschach patches, evidence of menstrual spots or marital spats, another glob of preconception Man, another stale malt liquor odor, then sweat, then globs of soured baby formula…and then more blood, and wait—what could that last smear be?—could those be tears? Every couch in Goodwill tells a story through its stains and stink. And every couch, at least when I went in, was covered with a drape. And like the sour milk smell of that Thrift Store carpet, know that the carpet of the St. Charles Playing Field matches the drapes.

So Kris was often out of town, and sorely out of luck when he was not; and I refused to set my best friend up with someone I can’t stand, or who can barely stand up, or would stand either of us up for Motorcross.

I’d had decent luck finding willing harlots via dating sites like AFF and Alt.com. I promised I would scour them once more on his behalf. What I’d forgotten, however, is how dreadfully expensive these things are, not to mention shady—many of these sites secretly sell ladies’ profiles back and forth, and trade your information like so many “good time” numbers on a bathroom wall. There are also the Baiters. Baiters are girls who work for the site, who occasionally pretend to show interest in unpopular men’s profiles to keep them paying for the service. Nice, eh?

I went to one such site called Bangmatch. I surfed around, and thought, this one looks good—if they have any members in our area. But the site refused to let me search this. It wanted my monthly dollar on blind faith—I would have to pay a full month’s membership just to see if there was anyone within throwing a rock of, or even in our state.

I sighed, and began clicking away the maze of pop-up ads to leave. That’s when I saw it…it was the Evil Neon Dream: in brightest lighted font, it said, “Ladies Enter Free!”

These sites always need women…and what better way to secure them, right? It was then I got a truly wicked notion. I signed up with the service as a girl. I figured I would then log in, use their search function, see what they had to offer in our area, and if any of it was worth spending a dollar on. At least that was the plan. I’d make my profile super-unattractive, so as not to draw attention. That’s where things get interesting.

You see…for some men, nothing is too unattractive, vile, or grotesque to give a shot—be it a shot in the dark, or across her fatted back. Their life is a Lonely Now in search of Anything Soon. These men are hollow shells, as fired from the rusty muskets of Midlife crises, personality defects, flaws, and shame. And yet they have no shame. This I’d come to learn.

Here I was—hardly anyone’s knight in shining armor. I’m a scoundrel; I admit it. But in the two weeks that my profile ran, I suddenly understood why pepper spray flies off the racks. These men made even me feel dirty—and truly, that’s a feat. I had men send letter after sordid letter—lying, using lines I might have used in school. I had guys quoting porno films, and bragging of how they’re cheating on their wives. Letter after letter I received…I began to get a message… That message? Men are scum. Dear God, it’s true…we really are. But it’s better if I show you.

I called myself “Angelmeat.” I claimed to be 300lb., and hirsuite. I bragged about my bristly “gorilla salad,” and the roll of greasy meat that I called “chunder” beneath the backstrap of my bra. I described my breasts as “pendulous.” My thighs were walls of moistened margarine, with hair. “No one will want to tap this,” I chuckled as I typed it out. “No one with a life, or self-esteem or any self-respect.” Oh…but that was where my calculations failed.

Here are some sample letters I received, in the FIRST THREE HOURS after putting up my profile. Now keep in mind that I claimed I was a Baptist—I was looking for a lover, but I wouldn’t live in sin. Yet most of these men, when they wrote me, sent pictures of their penis.
The vast majority of messages simply said "call me" or "contact me now"—men of few words, obviously. I don’t know about you, but when I meet a girl at a club, I try to say more than “Hey bitch, give me your number!” Apparently, I am the last of a dying breed.

Here’s some of my favorites--Keep in mind that these are the ENTIRE MESSAGES. No wooing or small talk here...these guys were ready to bang away. I've included my replies, as Angelmeat.


BlackCockDown: _do you like black dick ? I am well hung. holla back_ Sex acts I enjoy: Receiving oral sex, Giving rim jobs, Nude photography, Home videos, Voyeurism, Role playing, Threesomes, Orgies, Fun with food, Sex in public, Bondage & Domination

Angelmeat: How delightful! Maybe you could combine some of those…you know—like the role playing and the food fun. I’ll tell you what, you pretend to be a large meatloaf, and I’ll stick a fork in you. Remember not to scream. Meat never screams. That is, except in dreams—dear God, the dreams! Angel. PS. If “holla” is the same as “flail like a wounded bird while screaming,” I can certainly accomodate you. AAAAAAAhhh!!!!!!!!!!

Captain_Dreamy_Sack: _hi sexy if you would like to meet and have some fun send me a message_

Angelmeat: Can that message be “Go fuck yourself?”

HardAsIron: _this is hard for me to do .im 6feet 250 i have alittle belly as so people call it a spare tire or a tool sheid hi. _ Sex toys I enjoy using on myself or my partner: Anal beads, Cock rings, Clit stimulators, Dildos, Vibrators, Butt plugs, Ben Wa balls, Strap-ons

Angelmeat: I have a “tool sheid” also, as so you call it. And I keep many toys in there. You seem to like toys. My “sheid” is getting full, though, lover—would you mind if I kept some of them in yours?

Julio_Ben_Julio: _Hi I saw your profile and wanted to see if you wanted to do anything that may come to mind. Just let me know._

Angelmeat: Ok. Anything at all? Because a lot of things come to mind throughout the night. Like what do penguins taste like? I’d also like to go to the circus, and kidnap a dwarf. Then I want to dress him like an archbishop, while we drown him in a bathtub filled with soy sauce. God, that’s hot. And wear flippers. Always wear the flippers. Is Friday good?

***

Not bad enough, dear readers? Wait—oh just you wait! Come Monday, I will show you the dire depths of man’s corroded soul. Because this was just Day One. And I have many more letters to show you, as I’d have many yet a suitor to fend off…

TO BE CONTINUED…


)+(