Not safe for my eyes - or yours, probably

Really?!?

Do they really have to send me naked photos?  I just want to have an opportunity to meet a nice guy.

Okay, okay - a little honesty is in order, I know.  So let me try again, I just want to have an opportunity to get some good stories out of this whole project.  But that does not (let me repeat, that DOES NOT) mean I want to see your nakedness splashed all over my inbox.  I can't wash my eyes of the image.  If you want me to see your nakedness, you've got two options (only one of which might actually be legitimate) -

1) Get to know me.  Date me.  Seduce me.  You know ... all the normal ways that people might "get" to see your nakedness.
2) Pull a BPB.  It's bold, a little bit "eeewwww!"-inducing, but also semi-creative.  If nothing else, it requires you to have some gumption and to put yourself out there, ready for rejection in a face-to-face kind of way.

WARNING: Don't click on the link if you don't want to see it!

But please, please whatever you do, don't send me photos.  Even if you also send me a message asking if I want to start a friendship with NSA.  I don't care.  I don't want your NSA friendship, and I sure don't want to see your penis.  Not in my inbox.  Ick.

I apologize to anyone whose eyes are burning as badly as mine did.  But I did warn you about the link.  I almost didn't put it there.  I did only because I feel the need to offer proof.  You can thank me later for not simply posting it for all the world to see.

**Note: I doctored up the photo to protect the innocents' eyes.  Please know that I was absolutely, totally, 100% visually assaulted with a view of the real thing.  No sketchy peach-colored box covering the goods.**

Back in the Saddle Again!

Happy Saturday! Today's the day it's safe to tell all your friends we're back in business here at Flypaper for Freaks.

This past week my colleagues and I have been spending a lot of time together. And I do mean A LOT. As in nearly all day every day. And while the work we were doing required that we be diligent, it also allowed for plenty of time to talk. By Thursday, our newest colleague said,

Flypaper, tell us a funny story.

Well, you know me - I have a bunch of them. So can you believe I drew a blank? And had to ask for some guidance?


Why, Newest Colleague, whatever would you like that story to be about?

(I just pictured myself saying that with a southern accent while batting my eyelids, even though that's NOT AT ALL how it happened.)

I've got to say, Newest Colleague wasn't particularly helpful in offering a general topic, but my boss (yes, my boss) suggested that I tell her the story of the "naked guy." That would be Big Penis Boy, for those of you who've forgotten. And, well, it turns out that BPB was just the beginning. Boss-lady then suggested that I regale them all with the story of Dante. And then I was on a roll. In fact, my dear friendly readers,

I remembered stories that had been buried deep within my subconscious.
Stories I didn't even remember when I was starting this blog last summer.
Stories that serve only two purposes in life:

1) confirmation that I really, truly am Flypaper for Freaks, and
2) gut-busting hilarity to share with the world.

Apparently, that's all I needed to get myself back on track. I posted my third w4m Craigslist ad* last night. I still believe that I have to see one ad through to completion before I post on here, just in case one of the men has cyber-stalking skills equal to mine (which, by the way, aren't that great, but I would totally take part of any ad I was responding to and run it through google before hitting "send." I would hate for one of them to do that ... it would blow my cover!), but I can tell you that I've already received several responses. I can tell you're excited!

* No, you won't find my ad by clicking on this link. I don't live in Minneapolis. That whole not-blowing-my-cover thing, you know. But check out the ads! They're funny, I promise.

BPB, Revisited

I should have known it would happen. I've heard from several of you (by private message), asking about BPB. The most popular question, by far?

Was it awkward living next door to him after he exposed himself to you?

So I figure BPB warrants just a little more of our time. Plus, perhaps I haven't been totally fair to him. No - I've been perfectly fair to him. But I had my own moment of freakdom with him, and it's the right thing to be upfront about that.

Remember how I met him about 6 months before he asked me out? Remember how, whenever we ran into each other outside our doors, we made small talk? Well, I could not for the life of me remember his name. The day he asked me out, I drew a complete and total blank on his name. SIX MONTHS of talking to the guy, and when he requests a bit more of my time in a one-on-one situation, I let him down. I didn't remember his name.


Oh, I remembered his roommate's name well enough (let's call him "PornMaster" - more on that later). Somehow, that was an easy one. Despite the fact that I'd never talked to PornMaster, I knew his name - first and last. Yet, this guy who I'd been talking to at least twice a week for SIX MONTHS? Nope. Don't know his name. And, really, is it really okay to go on a date with someone whose name you don't know? That seems kind of lame. And it's especially lame when you've been told his name.

So I jumped into action. More accurately, I crept into action. I watched to see when his car was gone. I watched to see when the lights were out in their apartment. I waited for the mailman. And when I was certain no one could see me, I tiptoed over to their door, pulled out their mail, and looked at the addressees. On the first day, only PornMaster got any mail. Same thing on the second day. Third time's the charm, though, and the day before our date, I learned BPB's name. You can call me "Mail Stalker," if you want.

The thing you've been wondering about, though - what about that?

Well, no. It was not at all awkward to see him after. It could have been. It maybe should have been. But there was too much other drama happening in the BPB-PornMaster apartment for a little thing like that to get in the way. (I suspect this drama had been happening the whole time, but I'd remained oblivious to it until my interest was piqued by the "incident.")

Like the two different times the cops visited...

First, the men in blue came by to pay a friendly arresting visit to PornMaster. Turns out he'd been producing pornographic videos in their apartment, and something about that wasn't exactly on the up-and-up.

Then, they showed up in the middle of the night a few months later. BPB had called them to request that they escort a female visitor off the premises. I was thankful for that call, actually, as the woman had been pounding on their door (and my bedroom window, a few times), screaming at BPB about how he'd been cheating on her and she wasn't going to stand for that. She pounded and screamed, screamed and pounded. That woman was going nuts on him. But you know what's really funny about it? When he opened the door for the cops (it was him - I was watching through the bedroom window, so I know it was him), she looked at him and stopped screaming immediately. Turns out she'd been seeing someone else who told her his name was BPB and given him BPB/PornMaster's address. How funny is THAT? BPB actually stopped by my place the next day to apologize for the noise.

Anyway, the point is that there was drama enough going on after I saw all BPB had to offer that it just wasn't awkward. Plus, we just made an effort not to cross paths quite as often. Plus (and maybe this is the real reason), I moved shortly thereafter.

Freaks get cool nicknames

Every guy gets a nickname. This is partially in the name of confidentiality (or is it anonymity?), but it's also something that I've always done. Rather, it's something my friends have always done for me. And it's not just one or two friends - nope. I tell someone a story, and the next thing I know the guy in the story has a nickname. The men never know...

It started off pretty innocently, I think.

First there was "Q," so-named because he really had a penchant for dressing in a "GQ" fashion. But since his real name started with a "g," my friend Brad decided calling him Q was the way to go.

But then I met someone who's name actually started with a "q," and some of his friends already called him that. How would Brad and I differentiate between these two when talking about them? Yikes! Even though Q wasn't really part of my life anymore, I've never been very good at letting go totally. Thus, "Q2" was born. Q2 is still a very good friend of mine, and whenever I talk to Brad he refers to him by nickname.

The point of the nicknames, of course, is to be descriptive - either of the guy or the transgression that moved him into the "freak" category. My favorite freak story is that of Big Penis Boy, who even got a nickname for his nickname -- BPB!

I swear this is a true story. Let me say that again and more loudly -

I swear this is a true story

I was living in a triplex, next door to two men about my age. I'd met one of them about 6 months before he asked me out. We'd talked a bit in the interim but not really a whole lot. He seemed like a nice enough guy and fairly attractive. I didn't have anything else going on so agreed. The date was fine - nothing special, nothing crazy. It was normal! Huh. Imagine that.

Two days later he stopped by my apartment to ask if he could borrow a movie I'd mentioned owning. I handed it over and went back to whatever I'd been doing. Not much time passed before I heard another knock on the door. My neighbor was standing there, VHS tape in hand (umm... remember, this is an oldie-but-goody, and times have changed since then ... DVDs existed, but lots of people didn't have DVD players yet - including me), saying that it didn't work in his machine. Could we please watch it at my house?

Lights off, movie popped in, we're sitting on the couch - about 2 feet apart. We're watching the second Harry Potter movie, and just about the time Dobby shows up (you know - not very far into the movie and not at all sexy), I get up to use the bathroom.

Minutes later, I return to the living room and he's lying on my couch butt-naked! (Proud of myself) I don't even stutter when I ask what's up, he says it's hot. True enough - it was summer, about 90 degrees, and no air conditioning. He looks at me, looks at his crotch, looks at me, and says, "I bet you've never seen one this big before, have you?" I smirk and tell him that indeed, I have seen bigger. He says he's tired, where's the bedroom? I say I'm pretty sure it's out the door and across the walkway. He stands, pulls on his shorts, and slinks out my door.

REALLY?!?! Does that actually work for men ever? I'm not complaining, of course; the BPB story has gotten lots of mileage over the years. But, really? He must have thought it would work, right? Which makes me think that it has worked for someone before.