Sex and the Second City

Mary Shelley's Gay Whore (Monsters' Ball pt 2)

Dating is a very difficult enterprise.  One of the reasons for its difficulty is the fact that there are so many monsters: treasure trolls and headless horsemen just to name a few.   But as I mentioned earlier.  Nothing prepared me for my close encounter of the supernatural kind. 

One night in the summer of 2001 I was horny as hell.  So I hopped on my handy dandy telephone and dialed up the gay chat line.  I ran into a guy whose voice was quite pleasing.  It was very late, and he was willing to come over.   I usually ask for specific detailed information when I am on the phone line.  But this time, for some reason I didn't.  I just knew that he was a versatile tall, slim guy.  He had an older smooth voice, almost southern.  Our brief conversation was pretty chilled and laid back.

He talked about the neighborhood that I live in--which, while predominately black, has some white and latino people living in it.  He even occasionally broke into using slang, like, So whassup brotha? You wanna do this?, which sounded kinda weird over the phone.  I thought it sound because he was an older kat trying to sound hip.

I went and got cleaned up and about 30 minutes later, my buzzer rang.  I buzzed him in, and 30 seconds later I heard a knock on my door.  I opened my door, and where there is usually a face, there was chest.  Standing before me was FRANKENPUTA.  Think Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, only gay.  My eyes went up two more feet, up his chest, up his neck, until I finally got to his face. 

I suppressed a scream.

The "so whassup brotha" standing before me was a big, tall, white guy.

Then everything clicked.  That's why his "whassup brothas" sounded so forced and awkward.  I usually pick up on white boys accents, but this guy caught me totally off guard.  Although I think he was a bit deceptive, he never lied and said he was black--and hell I never asked, so its not like I could be mad at him.

Good evening, he said in a regal manner.

I started laughing, Good evening.  I responded.

Can I come in? he asked.   I am not sure that would be a good idea, I said.  I decided to be upfront and add, I'm sorry to say that I had no idea that you were white. 

Is that a problem? he queried.  I have to say it was a bit of a problem.  Do I have a thing against having sex with white men?  A little.  Have I had sex with white guys.  Yes.  Are there some white guys that I find sexy?  Of course, but not FRANKENPUTA.   I generally find men of color more suited to my desires.

Yes, I answered, it is a bit of a problem.  But FRANKENPUTA wouldn't let it stop there.  He stepped into my apartment and said,Well maybe you wouldn't have so much of a problem with it if were turned down the lights? And with that he smiled, like he had suggested the wittiest solution ever.

No, I smiled, I don't think that would make things any better.  I stepped forward and FRANKENPUTA moved back out the door.  I said goodnight and sent him on his way.  I vowed in the future to always ask for a detailed description before hooking up with someone.

Hypochondriatic Revelations

Despite the fact that I suffer from it, I've always thought that Hypochondria would make a great name for a drag queen--dramatic and sickening all in one word.  To quell my latest bought with my HIV hypochondria (a distant night of chills, a sore neck, and recent breath shortness) I decided to go in and get an HIV test.

But Sex, you just had an HIV test a few months ago you ask?  Yes, and that is why I am a hypochondriac.  For those of you who read about my last HIV test, you know that I now swear by the new rapid HIV tests.  No more waiting a week to two weeks--hell you don't even have to wait a day.  The new tests give you results in 20 minutes.  You can't beat that.

And now, they don't really have to stick a needle in your arm to take blood.  The new tests only require a drop of blood from a finger prick.  AND if you are still squimish, another quick test (ORA-QUICK) merely swabs your gums.  So brothers and sisters--YOU HAVE NO REASON NOT TO GET TESTED if these tests are offered in your area.  You don't have to wait for results or even see your own blood.

I chose to go to BEHIV (6925 N. Ashland Ave, #773-381-6300) which stands for Better Existence with HIV.  The organization is located in a cute little house next to a church.  After I rang the doorbell a black guy wearing a long flowing African print robe came to open the door.  BEHIV smelled wonderful, clean sweet freshly burned incense.  There was literature about sex, HIV, and STDs everywhere.

I told him I was there for the anonymous rapid HIV test, and he took me to a small room for pre-counseling and testing.  He was a nice fellow.  He wore ivory bracelets that banged on the table when he wrote.  Of course he asked all the details regarding my recent sexual history. I always protect my self with partners whose status I don't know--even when it comes to oral sex.  I told him that I had a FRIEND and then I have a few (ok, understatement) guys that I am sexually generous with.

He then asked me a question that took me some time to answer.  Why don't you marry FRIEND?

I can't say I hadn't thought about it.  I know that a closeted bisexual guy on the DL is not the marrying type.  FRIEND would never go for it.  And then I heard a little voice in my head say Thank God. 

What was that?  My sub-conscious telling me that I didn't want to marry FRIEND Was it because I had no interest in marrying? There was a time when I used to imagine finding a dude who would settle The Sex down and make a monogamous man of me. But over the years, my marrying gene is going to way of the dodo. But the other reason could be that I don't see FRIEND as being The One.

My hypochodria turned to diarrhea of the mouth.   The HIV counselor with the ivory bangles turned into my half-hour therapist.  Luckily, he seemed interested.  It was time for the test.  He gave me the test stick, I swabbed my gums, and handed it back to him. 

I sat and waited twenty minutes.

I picked up a local gay magazine and started turning the pages.  And started thinking. I think I do want to get married one day.  Have I grown too jaded and cynical about relationships?  Would it be possible to ever find someone who could give me butterflies in my stomach?

Just then I came across an advertisement for a retreat designed to give support to black men living with HIV/AIDS.  The retreat was presenting two HIV professionals, both of whose pictures were featured in the ad.  It was the second brother whose picture caught my eye. 

The picture was of David Malebranche, an HIV professional at Emory University in Atlanta.  I gave myself a mental note to learn whatever I could about the guy--and later found out that he was a doctor with a masters in public health, interested in HIV/AIDS studies, and that he works to dispel the myths and rumors perpetuated about black men in such books as J.L. King's, Down Low Brother book.

The more I learned the more turned on I got.   An educated kat (like myself--yeah, believe it or not, The Sex has a degree), who is good looking, and has an interest in societal well-being.  Now if he's single, has a good attitude and could move to Chicago--then we could go on a date.  Sigh.  The good ones are all in Atlanta.

I decided that my dear Doctor David is going to be elevated to a new position on my blog. He is now Sex and the Second City's URBAN CRUSH.  Being a SATSC URBAN CRUSH has its benefits.  You get a nice (day or night) date where we tour some of the highlights of the city of Big Shoulders.

In the middle of my dreams of love, marriage, and babies in a carriage--the counselor called me into the testing room.  He shook my hand and congratulated me on a negative result.   Of course I was relieved.  My hypochodria will subside until the pain arises in my chest, or the next weird bump pops up on my back.

But now another thing was bothering me.  I couldn't stop thinking about the HIV counselor's earlier questions about me and marriage.

Will I ever settle down with someone?

P.S. Another Chicago location that offers FREE ANONYMOUS rapid (results in 20 minutes) HIV testing is Test Positive Aware Network, at 5537 N. Broadway, #773-989-9400.  Please get tested.

Common Acts

Its been a while since I talked about my boy COMMON.  Two weeks ago, I decided to start being extra nice to him.   To start opening up more.  To start exploring the possibiliies. 

I went over COMMON's place to bring him a small gift.  I just wanted to give him a hug and a kiss and be gone.  That hug and a kiss turned into a full make out session and me in his bed giving him some good loving. I don't know what it is about COMMON.  Maybe it's his cute face and big eyes, but I love being inside of him. 

We had sex, and I gave him a kiss goodnight and did the walk of shame back to my apartment.  When I left we had agreed to get together the next night and I would spend the night. 

Spending the night would be a milestone.  I hadn't done that with him--and usually, I don't like spending the night over people's houses--because The Sex is a  straight up night owl.

Next day's sleepover never came.  COMMON didn't call me.  I called him and he told me he would call me back.  We were supposed to have dinner--and it was getting late.  I called him one more time, and he didn't answer.

He was trying to play a game.  So I waited another half hour and then I cooked myself some food.  When he finally called he got pissed when I told him that I had ate.  He rushed off of the phone and we didn't talk for a week.

I had made up my mind that maybe pursuing something with COMMON wasn't a good idea.  I called him a few times--no answer.  He called me on Sunday and missed me.  I returned his call 20 minutes later--no answer.  He was definitely playing.

Yesterday morning I was logged into Men4Now, and I got the following message:

COMMON: Now I know where to find you!

Had he lost his damn mind?  Its not like I hadn't called him or tried to get in touch with him.  I had even left him voice mail messages--something I despise doing.  He was trying to play me.  So of course I responded:

Well it makes sense, this is where I found you.

Was I supposed to feel bad that I was on the men4now sex site?  Was that his goal?  I guess his "calling me out" was supposed to make me feel bad or like a dirty whore.

Try again.

One thing I used to tell him was that I was a sexually active guy, and that I didn't feel bad about being active because I was a man, and to quote a popular pop star, "Poor is the man whose pleasure depends on the permission of another."  He would just tell me, I don't want to know about your past, because I don't want to see you in that light.

What light?  It's not like he's a virgin.  What is up with gay guys?  When did we become so Victorian and prim?

Have gays become the new moral heterosexual?

I think what frustrates me is that everyone has their "thing".  I could have easily told COMMON, You don't want to know about my sex life?  Then don't tell me when you use drugs, or that you are going to score marijuana for your friends.  I don't want to see you as a hype in that light.

Monsters' Ball (pt. 1 Sleepy Hollow)

I have always secretly loved horror movies.  When I was little boy they used to scare the hell out of me.  The first nightmare that I can remember occurred after I fell asleep watching the (then) horrifying Stephen King movie, Salem's Lot.  I was young as hell, and the nightmare consisted of me, a four year old,  walking in an alley next to parking lot with a plaque named Salem (I was a kid, what other "lot" was I going to dream about?).  A corny cartoonish caped Dracula and costumey wolfman jumped at me from out of no where and I woke up screaming in the arms of my mother.

Of course if you were between the ages of 9-13 in the 1980s, you couldn't have escaped arguing over who would win, Freddy or Jason.  I was too scared to watch those movies, but I wanted so desperately to participate in my friends' discussions.  So I went to the person I knew loved horror movies (and would let me watch them)--my next door neighbor, MAUDIE. 

MAUDIE was a 4' 11" close to three hundred pound black woman in her late fifties.  She wore loose fitting moo-moos and false teeth that she often took out of her mouth, and she was missing two fingers on her right hand--the result of a sewing accident from her youth.  Her appearance would have been as scary as any horror movie if she weren't so sweet and warm. 

My working mother often encouraged me to go over her house after school, probably to keep me out of trouble as a young kid. So I started going over MAUDIE's.  And movie after movie, I was scared to death.  The Howling. Friday the13th Part 3. Silver Bullet (another Stephen King book/movie).  And let's not forget the mama horror movie of them all--A Nightmare on Elm Street.

I was so afraid to go to sleep after visiting MAUDIE that I slept with the light on. But I kept going back.  And I kept watching more horror and gore.  Over and over and over.

While my fear of horror movies has largely subsided, my love has grown.  Particularly for uniquely American horror.  A classic American scary story is Washington Irving's The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. The story, which takes place in New York state, tells of Ichabod Crane's encounter with the Headless Horseman--a demon who has returned from the dead to take the heads of the living.

Well it seems like this demon has gone high tech and taken up residence on Chicago's Internet web pages.  Lately, I have been attracting all sorts of headless horsemen on adam4adam, AOL, gay.com, and men4now--men without pictures on the Internet, but hit you up and insist that you send them a picture.  I don't get it.  These annoying little demons are simply a waste of time.

After I told one headless horseman that I wanted a picture if I were to continue chatting with him, he said, Why are you being so shallow?  I replied, Don't jump on your high horse, Headless.  The only reason that you approached me is because I have a picture and you liked it.  I just want reciprocity.  When I didn't want to continue chatting, he had the nerve to get upset.  He wrote, You weren't all that anyway!

Sure.

Recently a headless horseman hit me up asking a thousand questions, but not giving any information.  I simply refused to respond (I state clearly in my profile that you need a picture if you want to chat with me).  Here's his monologue:

HEADLESS: Do you like men younger than you?

HEADLESS: Just because a guy doesn't have a pic doesn't mean he has something to hide.  I just don't want a pic online. 

HEADLESS: I don't want anything from you other than conversation. I just thought a brother would want to talk for a minute.  Just a minute of your time.  Is that too much to ask?

HEADLESS: Hello are you there?

HEADLESS: Guess not. I guess you only have time for white dudes.

Like silver bullets with werewolves, I find that silence is the best way to kill headless horsemen.

Looking back, I see that monsters and fantastic creatures have punctuated my adult life.  I've already written and theorized about my encounters with treasure trolls.  But nothing prepared me for the most amazing monster that I ever met...

Buckingham Fountain

One of my favorite places to visit in Chicago is Clarence Buckingham Memorial Fountain, located in the city's beautiful Grant Park (Columbus Drive and Congress Parkway).  Kate Buckingham dedicated the fountain to the city in 1927 in memory of her brother, and is modeled after the Latona Basin in Louis XIV's gardens in Versaille.

My memories are somewhat bittersweet of this place.  When I was but a wee pup, my parents were separated and in the process of reconciling. My dad would pick me, my mom and my siblings up and we would go to Buckingham Fountain at night.  It is so much fun in the summer.   I would freak out as a kid at the 20 minute water, light, and music show that take place every hour.  I used to wonder what made the lights change, where were the people who were changing the music records,  who pressed the button that made the water in the center shoot so high up in the air.

I guess I ever since I was little, I always had a fascination with things that shoot high in the air.  A fascination that has carried right into my adult life--yes including my sex life. 

A few days ago I ran into a really square nerdy older gentleman, BUCKINGHAM.  Salt and pepper hair.  Well mannered, respectful.  Not handsome, but not bad looking. His hygiene was together, and his conversation was pleasant.  I met him on the computer.  He had been trying to meet me for a few weeks, so I finally invited him over.

He seemed like a bit of a prude.  But he was very easily exicted.  You really need to get a new picture on the Internet.  Your current one doesn't do you justice, he told me.  Of course that made me feel good (or else I wouldn't be posting it). He told me that he loved to fuck, and that he wanted to get in my ass.  But lately, I haven't really been feeling like getting fucked. 

I asked him whether he enjoyed getting fucked.  He told me no. That he didn't understand why bottoms really enjoyed dick.  I told him that he seemed a little sad telling me this.  He responded,  No I am not sad he said, but I do feel like I am missing out on something.  I mean, when I fuck a guy, he looks so happy and content.  I'd like to feel like that.

I asked him had he ever had a finger in his ass.  He told me that when he comes guys do play around his ass, but never really in it.  I could tell he was open to getting some digital stimulation.

We talked more about likes and dislikes and somehow my love of fountain dicks came up. He told me, That's cool, because I come like a fountain.

Really? I asked, interest piqued.

Sure, wanna see? he said.

I rushed him to the bedroom.  I made up my mind not to give him my ass.  I just took control of the situation.  Got him on his back, strapped a condom on my fingers and started lubing his ass. 

He was already hard.  He started spreading his legs apart.  And I started pushing my fingers deeper into his ass.  His dick went from hard to ROCK.

I found his prostate and started slowly circling around on it.  Adding more and more pressure until I worked my fingers to a steady pulse beat.   You like that shit don't you? I asked.

He didn't say anything. He didn't take his eyes off of me. 

I am going to beat on that prostate until you shoot all that nut, you hear me?  You like it like that? and when I said "that" I went deep and jammed my fingers on his prostate.

That was it.

BUCKINGHAM's fountain shot.

and shot.  and shot.  and shot.  and shot.

and skeeted. 

He shook.  He convulsed.  Then he sprayed some more nut.  Then he shot again, and again and again. One more quake, and he skeeted one more jet of cum.

It was a total fucking mess.  There was come everywhere.

See, I told you I didn't come that much, he said.  Just think what it would have looked like if I hadn't masturbated this morning!

I flashed a "bitch are you serious" look at him before I went and got him a towel to clean up.

I must have done something right.  He really wants to do a repeat.

Done and Done

I got a comment on my blog today that I felt the need to respond to.  I usually don't feel the need to respond to comments because opinions are like assholes, and I like the readers of The Sex to feel unencumbered, and feel free to write whatever they want, and not worry about me responding to each and every little point in defense.

But I feel that I need to express an opinion or two.  This is in response to "Luis Rivera" who commented on my recent post on "I Need A Vacation".  He said that it read as phony and self-promoting and that he was done with my blog and never reading again.  My response follows:

Dear Luis Rivera,

I too am DONE and DONE.  Done with the criticism of a reader who obviously has no idea how difficult it is to write a "personal" blog and keep it updated and interesting on a daily basis.

I am sure you know, I don't get paid to do this.  I don't have ads on Sex and the Second City to line my pockets.  I write for the enjoyment of bringing a little joy into the lives of people--and to provide a sort of catharsis (for myself) in this otherwise brutal world.  If you haven't figured it out, there are days when I don't want to blog.  But I do it, because I know that people like you look forward to logging in to read something that might be funny--entertaining--or even enlightening.

Now I admit, some days I do this better than others. Some posts are funny, some not so.  But the thing is: I BRING IT EVERYDAY.  And not a lot of personal story bloggers out there can say that.  Unlike some other types of blogs, like my boy Rod over at brotha2brotha, I don't write about the hot sexy entertainment goings on around the world.  I don't have flashy sexy pics and new content that I can pull from other people's lives (please note this isn't to say that Rod and others like him don't work hard to make their blogs interesting). 

But it presents a different sort of challenge when content that you write about comes solely from YOUR OWN PERSONAL LIFE.  And like I say in the welcome greeting, I am not rich, I don't eat at fancy restaurants, and I am not a trust fund socialite like my girl Holiday (I love you girl).  I have to take the life of an ordinary person and show the wonderful and fucked up things that happen in everyday life.  I challenge you to look in the blogosphere and find another blogger who blogs about personal life, relationships, and erotic goings as consistently (every day) as I do.

So occasionally I fuck up.  I admit it. I might miss the mark with a post or two.  I am human. Yes, even The Sex needs help and asks its readers for a date, or for vacation advice.  Is that too much too ask?  I give a lot to the readers of Sex and the Second City--and I ask for very little in return.  Only that :

• you read me regularly
• come with an open mind
• help me out when I ask for advice (occasionally)
• and don't judge me

So Mr. Rivera, I appreciate your criticism, and I add--that maybe, as a reader, I asked too much of you.  And if you are ready to ditch The Sex after what you think of were a few bad posts--then I say (to paraphrase Toni Braxton) you weren't man fan enough for me.

ciao-cito papi!

with affection and utmost love,

Bernard Bradshaw

I Need a Vacation

I am going on a vacation in the next two months.  The only problem is, I don't know where to go.

No nothing exotic like Alaska or Hawaii--and nothing international.  But a nice 3-7 day vacation somewhere in these United States.

But the question is, WHERE?

I've been thinking about going to San Diego.  I love the food there, Coronado Island is nice, Mexico is nearby--and lets not forget that This Man Heath is there.  He might show me a good time.

Then I keep hearing about the hotness that is Atlanta and I partially want to go there to finally experience all the brothers who supposedly throw themselves at you as you walk down the street, go grocery shopping, or stop to fill up your gas tank.

And what about lovely San Francisco?  Great architecture--the gay capital of the United States--and nice temperate weather.  Also my BROWN GUY from my Las Vegas trip lives nearby.  Maybe I could find out what his sex is like.

There are a host of places I could go--but I have no clue.

In an effort to once again make this blog more interactive, I am going to leave it up to the fans (are there any?) of Sex and the Second City.  Send me your suggestions!  But when you send me your location, also send me a REASON why you think I should go.  Either via e-mail (sexandthe2ndcity@aol.com) or leave them in the comments.  Ill narrow it down to three choices and then let you guys vote on it.

I'll go wherever you vote me off to.  No shit.

So are you ready for The Sex to hit the road?

Shitty Karma

Yesterday I was horny as hell.

So I got on the phone line and ran into a guy in the neighborhood who said he was versatile with an 11inch dick.

Of course I was excited.  But I was looking for the lie. 

I got cleaned up and went over to his place.  I had fucked around with this guy before.  And while his dick wasn't 11 inches (no dick is), it was a real 9 inches and thick as hell.  He told the truth about that.

The lie came in when he said he was versatile.  He was the quintessential big dick bottom.  A man with all that dick with no idea how (or gumption) to use it. 

I sucked his nipples and didn't even tease myself.  I knew I wasn't going to get any of that dick in my ass.  So I just got him on his back, slipped that condom on, and commenced to give him the fuck of his life.

Oh shit, don't go so deep, he pleaded.  I wasn't having that runaway shit today.  He was going to stay there and take it.  I grabbed his big thick ass legs and pinned them to his chest and started digging up in his guts.

He just started cooing.  Frowning.  Enjoying it.

He looked down at my stomach and up at my chest and said, DAMN, you look so good fucking me.

Look me in my face, I told him.  When he did, he started to melt. Raise your legs some more.  Now, put your hands on my chest, I told him.  When he touched my chest, I jabbed him with my dick.  He jumped and then I just started slam fucking him.

All you could hear coming from his apartment were his screams.  I tried to rip him a new asshole.

Although he was ugly as hell, his ass felt good and holding on to his big dick was a lot of fun.  I wouldn't let him touch his dick.

I was really close to cumming.  I wanted to end with a bang, so I went to pull my dick out of his ass to put some more lube on, and I got hit with the smell.

Yes, the smell.

And where there's smell there's brown sauce to follow.  More like, a BROWN BETTY.  There was shit all over the condom.  I shoved my dick back in his ass really quickly and got two good pumps and came.  Then I pulled out without saying anything to him and went to the bathroom.

Afterwatds he wanted to continue, but I told him that he needed to clean his ass.  I didn't even want to lay next to him.

What the fuck?  Why do I have such bad luck when it comes to guys and dookie booty?

Maybe I have bad karma.

You would think that when I bottom I give guys brown betties.  But I don't.  Maybe its because I have a shitty attitude with tricks, and my karmic retribution is to be shitted on--literally.

But the fucked up thing is when I got home and I went to take my clothes off so I could shower and disinfect my body, and I looked down at my sock on my right foot.  I was horrified.  Somehow his shit landed on my sock.  I was disgusted.

A little bit of shit is expected when you fuck someone.  But enough so that it can get on your socks.  That's fucked up.

Looking To Conversate

I realize that I have been on telephone chat lines and the Internet way too long.  The same dumb conversations raise my blood pressure again and again and again.  There are certain things that people do when conversing on chat lines that, to me, is the equivalent of running your nails down a chalkboard. 

The first, I have already mentioned in the past is the infamous, what's your zodiac sign?  Is asking this question a requirement in the black male to male sex manual?  Why do you need to know my zodiac sign?  I am often told, It's not that I am into that, it's just that I want to know. If you're not that into it, then you don't really need to know.  Grow up and start asking some REAL questions that are going to reveal more about who I am as a person.  Stop being lazy expecting the stars to do all of the work.

Thinking about my annoying pre-sex and pre-nonsex-meet electronic chat and telephone conversations led me to wonder:

Do we think before we talk to new people?

From my experience the answer is a loud NO.

The conversation that takes the cake is when I ask, What are you looking for in a guy?  And the brotha responds, I am looking for someone to conversate with.  If there is nothing that you take from my blog, please know that "to conversate" is not a verb.  The word is "to converse".  I swear, no matter how hot a guy sounds on the phone, when I hear him say that it ruins everything and I have to move on.  Yeah, call me a verb nazi.

Finally, I really can't stand it when guys just don't pay attention.  One question that I love to ask a guy, especially on the phone when I can't see his picture is, Tell me about some of your best physical characteristics. And they respond, They like my personality, that I am honest, fair minded, and straight foward.

<Sigh.  The Sex shakes his head in exasperation.>

If they can't tell their dick from their personality, how can the sex possibly be good?

Stalker Wars Episode 3: Revenge of The Sex

When I last left off, two years of occassional taunting and jeering had passed, and I still didn't know the identity of NORTHSIDE.  But it seemed like my patience paid off when one day I was surfing adam4adam and I saw NORTHSIDE's screenname.  The profile had the same stats as that of his AOL profile.  It was the same person.

The a4a profile didn't have a face picture.  Only a faceless clothed torso pic of a guy standing.  I studied that picture for days. I looked at the t-shirt he was wearing.  I looked at the carpet on the floor where he was standing.  Nothing jogged my memory.  I still had no clue.

So I called my best friend DEE and told him that it looked like I might actually reveal the scoundrel stalker.  He was excited, Good, and when you find out who he is, we are going to get together and whoop his ass!  Isn't it nice to have friends?

I made a plan.  I created a profile on a4a called DICKUDOWN and put a picture of TANK on the profile.  I put the most ridiculous stats I could think of: 32 years old, 6'4" 190 lbs, 50" chest, 32"waist, total gut fucking top with a 13"x8" dick.  I then hit NORTHSIDE up with a message. 

He responded quickly, What are you looking to get into?  I told him that I was looking to fuck ASAP, and asked whether he had a face picture.  He wrote, I do have more pic, let me know where to send it. are you looking for something now? where you at?  I was begining to notice from the writing that maybe English wasn't this guy's first language.  I gave him my e-mail address.  He wrote back, Send my pic. He meant, "sent" my pic.  English definitely wasn't his first language.

Finally, I got the face picture.  Finally it was coming.  I was as giddy as a school boy. And to my surprise, when I opened the e-mail and saw his picture--I had no clue who this guy was.  It was a white guy standing in front of the Chicago skyline.  I looked at the grainy pic, but to no avail.  I felt defeated.  Then my mailbox notified me that I had two more letters.  He had sent more pics.

The next one was much clearer.  After two years of putting up with the bullshit, I finally knew the identity behind the taunts.  All the anger left my system for second.  Confusion set in.

I hurried and called my best friend DEE.  Not just because DEE promised to help me kick NORTHSIDE's ass--but because the stalker was DEE's polish ex-boyfriend, THE POLE.

What do you think The Sex should have done?