I should have known something was off when I couldn’t get him to remove his clothes.
Now, before I proceed, I should fully admit that sometimes I like to play in a t-shirt or an unbuttoned Oxford, simply because I get so damned cold, so easily, particularly in frigid weather or in air conditioning. However, I at least give everyone free access to everything. And with this guy, I couldn’t even get into his pants. In his gray shirt and a pair of blue jeans faded past the point at which they should’ve been discarded, he looked less like one of my sex partners and more like a stray missionary who’d wandered in and fallen upon my bed in his funny Mormon underwear.
“I’m glad you came over,” I said, leaning in for a kiss. My fingers danced up his groin to his belt buckle, which I attempted to undo.
He turned his body and his head to avoid having my lips land on his. I felt a flash of anger at the rebuff. “I’ll do it,” he muttered. His own hands undid his zipper and hauled out his dick through the fly. He didn’t bother to pull out his nuts, so the only part of him on display was part of a stubby four-inch dick—which he’d described as nine inches on his Manhunt profile. It was mostly hard. He began to play with himself.
The guy hadn’t been unattractive on Manhunt. On the contrary, he had one of those appearances so plentiful in this state—vaguely round, vaguely middle-thirtyish, sporting a goatee that had probably been a fixture on his face since the mid-nineties. When he’d written me, it had been to say that he wanted to meet me so I could FUCK him and FUCK him GOOD and FUCK him full of my MANSEED. The capital letters were his.
And now, in my bed, he rebuffed every advance I’d make. If he wasn’t attracted to me, I wished he’d simply say so and leave. It might have been a sting, but in the end it would have been less frustrating and more honest. “So, do you want to get fucked?” I asked.
“You look Nordic,” he said. The expression on his face was frankly suspicious. “How tall are you?”
“I’m six-three,” I replied. “And I’m Scottish.”
“You’re very pale.” I simply stared at his comment. I am pale. “Are you an alien?”
For a moment I thought he was asking to see my birth certificate, or my passport, or something. Then I realized what he’d said. I also realized I’d lost my erection. “What?”
“You wouldn’t tell me if you were, would you?”
I sat up on my bed. “Why in the world are you asking if I’m an alien?”
“Because there’s a race of Nordic aliens living among us,” he said, looking quite hostile. “They pass for human, but they’re from distant stars. You have a strange accent.”
And this is the point where I thought to myself, Oh, fuck, I have to get this nutjob out of here. I reached for my shirt and casually slipped it on. “I don’t have an accent at all, really,” I said, as I slid off the bed and grabbed my shorts. “If I do, it’s just the remnants of a southern accent. The southern U.S.,” I added, in case he interpreted it as Southern Betelgeuse.
He wasn’t taking the hint. His head still rested on my pillow, and his hand cupped his little dick. “Are you sure you’re not an alien?”
I didn’t deign to answer the question. “Well listen,” I said. “I’ve got stuff to do, so. . . .”
“Jack me off.” I raised my eyebrows at his command. “Come on. Jack me off.”
“If we did anything,” I said, “I was going to fuck you.”
“I don’t get fucked, man.”
“In your email,” I said, losing my patience, “You said that you wanted me to FUCK you and FUCK you GOOD and fill you with MANSEED.” I made the capitalized words stand out.
“Jack me off this time and maybe I’ll let you fuck me next time.”
Oh, there was going to be no next time. I already knew that for sure. “I’ve got stuff to do,” I said.
He was hurt and angry as he stuffed his feet into his shoes. Luckily, since he’d refused to take off anything more, it didn’t take him long to dress. I remained stonily silent as I marched him down the stairs to the front door and unlocked it for him to exit.
It was right after I pulled the door open to admit the sounds of the neighborhood’s hot sunny afternoon activity that he turned and spoke again. His mouth opened to disgorge a lot of harsh syllables. It sounded as if Superman’s foe, Mister Mxyzptlk, was speaking in his native tongue. I merely raised my eyebrows when he was done. “You would’ve understood that if you’d been a Nordic alien,” he said, with a look of relief on his face.
“Yet if I were a Nordic alien,” I said slowly, with an unchanging expression, “would I betray to a mere human monkey that I had?”
He blinked rapidly as I shooed him out, pulled shut the screen, and locked it behind him. “Wait,” he said at last. “Does that mean. . . ?”
And that was the point at which I finally closed the front door and raced to open Manhunt so I could put the guy on my ignore list.