Not Gonna Reach My Telephone

The guy had it all—on my computer screen, anyway. His Manhunt profile pics showed him to be a scruffy guy of about thirty. His arms curved and bulged in all the right places. His chest was muscular, defined, and shaved smooth. His stomach was flat, his waist narrow. All of his photos showed a side view off his round little butt, a perky mound of flesh as cute as a bunny’s. They’d all been taken from the same angle—left side presented to the camera lens, head tilted up, eyebrows raised and arched as he pulled the exact same smile time after time—as if someone had once told him he looked really hot from that particular stance and he’d decided never to vary from it.

He was hot, in short, and our online correspondence had been pretty much to the point. You're hot. I want you to fuck the bejesus out of me, he’d said. You free?

Free and ready, I wrote back.

I really need to be fucked. I can come over now if you’re hosting.

I was hosting, so I suggested he call so I could give him directions. My phone rang; I picked it up, and was pleasantly surprised to hear a deep, sexy voice at the other end. “I’m only like ten minutes from you, man,” he growled, sounding in my right ear like testosterone and pure sex. “Give me your address, fucker.”

I told him the cross-streets I was closest to, then launched into my MapQuest routine. “It’ll be easiest if you take the freeway until you reach my exit,” I started.

I continued in that vein for a moment. “Uh-huh,” he said, breathing heavily into the receiver. “Uh-huh.” Then, as I was telling him my street address, he let out this nasal, driven grunt. “Unhhhh!”

The noise was strange enough to arrest me in mid-sentence. “What was that?”

“You know what?” he said. I had to blink a few times at my end of the conversation. The guy’s voice had completely changed. Before it had been heavy, deep, sex-laden. Now it was light and casual, the voice of a guy making light chit-chat at a bar before he excused himself for a smoke. “Something just kind of came up, and I don’t think I’m going to be able to make it. So. . . .”

“Did you just come?” I asked, unable to believe what I was hearing. The fucker had just shot his wad while I’d been giving him my god-damned street number.

“Um.”

“You just came,” I said. “You blew your load while I was telling you my address.”

He at least had the decency to sound sheepish about it, slightly. “I didn’t mean to, dude.”

“You had your hand on it or something, dude,” I repeated, emphasizing the familiarity in an annoyed way. “You seriously couldn’t keep your hands off yourself for ten fucking minutes?”

“Hey, don’t be annoyed,” he said, sounding impatient with me—as if it were my fault the back of his hand was covered with spunk.

It was too late for that, though. I shook my head and hung up on the guy, then logged back on Manhunt. Guys are always curious why my ignore list there seems to be so much longer than my list of buddies. All I can say is that every guy on that page has a little story. Just like the guy who had it all—on my computer screen, anyway.