I'm legal

I'm not sure if this story really qualifies as freaky because the male role is played by a teenager.  Aren't all teenage boys a little bit freaky?  I'm thinking this boy might qualify as a freak-in-training, so I'm going with it.

About a decade ago I was teaching high school.  I was 22 and teaching girls and boys just a few years younger than me.  I always lied about how old I was, and many of the kids believed me.  Some of them, though, were much savvier and knew that I'd just barely graduated from college and wasn't really too much their elder.

One of them was a boy we'll call Jimmy.  I'm going to be perfectly honest with you because I think that's only fair, but I'll only do that if you promise not to hold it against me.  If I had seen Jimmy outside of my classroom - like, say, in a club or something - I would never have known he was still a high school student.  He looked at least 22.  And if I'd seen him from across the club and thought he was 22 or older, I would have thought he was hot.

Jimmy was a good looking guy, definitely the kind of guy I would have been attracted to if I'd met him in a different context.  Well.  The kind of guy I would have been attracted to until he opened his mouth and I realized he was a teenager and in a completely different life stage than me.

Go ahead.  Make your Mary Kay Letourneau jokes.  Get them out of your system.  And then go back and read the last sentence of that previous paragraph.  Go on.  Let me help you interpret: Jimmy was a good looking kid who would have been attractive to me if he hadn't been in my class or a teenage boy.

Now that you've got the idea, picture this:
It's December, so we're about halfway through the year.  It's Jimmy's birthday.  He's 18.  

Jimmy walks into my classroom at lunch and hands me a slice of birthday cake.  My classroom was usually full of kids at lunch, so this is an unusual day, in the sense that Jimmy's the only student hanging out there. 

He starts talking to me.  He reminds me it's his birthday (as if that piece of cake hadn't been a good enough clue).  He tells me that he broke up with his girlfriend a couple days before.  They were both in my fifth period class, so I'd already suspected that - they'd been acting awfully strange around each other all week.  He talks and talks about nothing in particular.  Then,

Ms. Flypaper, it's my birthday today.

I know, Jimmy.  Happy Birthday!

Ms. Flypaper, I'm legal today.

Uh-oh.  Legal?  Does he mean what I think he means?  Nah.  He couldn't possibly.

Oh?  Yeah, Jimmy, you can vote now.  Be sure to do that - it's your civic duty.

No, Ms. Flypaper.  I'm legal.

Right.  I know.  You have to register for selective service.  It's the law, so do it soon.

Ms. Flypaper.  I'm LEGAL.

Oh crap!  He definitely means what I think he means.  I'm wracking my brain to figure out what else is legal when you turn 18.  And I can only think of one.

Jimmy, you know that smoking is bad for your health.  I hope you don't take up that nasty habit.

I've got nothing else.  If he says it one more time, I'm in BIG trouble.  I have no idea what I'm going to say.  I'm nervous and anxious.  I don't want to have this conversation.  I don't want to have to tell Jimmy that he's being inappropriate.  I want him to just figure it out for himself.  Call me passive-aggressive if you want.  I don't care.  I just don't want Jimmy to tell me he's legal again.  Please please don't tell me that, Jimmy.  Please?

(Clearly exasperated and with a deep sigh) Fine.  I'm going to celebrate my birthday with my friends.

Dodged a bullet.  SO dodged a bullet.
But Jimmy started skipping class a lot in the second semester.
I still feel like I failed him because of that.

Prince of pleats

Two years ago on New Years Eve, I had planned to fly out to visit a friend but was thwarted just a few days before my flight was supposed to leave.  By the time I knew I was going to be home for the holiday, my local friends were all busy.  Good thing I have family in town!  I coerced my brother into feeling badly enough that he'd be willing to spend the evening with me.

We tried a concert but to no avail.  The pub was full, and there was no way we were cool enough to con our way in.  Instead, we headed out to our neighborhood bar.  (Yes, our neighborhood bar; my brother and I live just a couple of doors away from each other.)  The bar is a little seedy and is largely patronized for its karaoke and pool tables.  They also sell some of the nastiest Chinese food around.  It's a dive.  But, it was New Years Eve; we didn't have other plans; and going there meant not having to worry about driving home.

Disclaimer: I don't drink often, and when I do, I don't drink much.  It doesn't take much for me to feel the effects of alcohol, and I had more than a few cocktails that night.  That said, I know that I remember this story accurately.  Truly.

As my brother and I were sitting at the bar, enjoying each others' company, he noticed a few women who'd gone to his high school walk through the door.  He took the opportunity to chat them up, leaving me alone to my wallow in my sadness at our circumstances.

But not for long.

I was soon joined at the bar by a man who introduced himself as Ahmad.  In fact, he told me that he's a prince.  He's from Saudi Arabia, and he's here in the States for school.  He's working on his PhD in mathematics.  He's rich.  Really, really rich.  And smart.  Very smart.

Side note: I have a theory - if you have to tell me you're rich, you aren't.  If you have to tell me you're smart, you aren't.  

In any case, Ahmad is trying to snuggle up close to me.  He's been drinking but not heavily.  He talks and talks, telling me all about his friends and relatives.  He tells me that even though he's Muslim, he thinks that drinking and sex are amazing.  He's thrilled to be in the United States because he can partake in these activities without repercussion.  He tells me I'm beautiful.  I shouldn't really be flattered, but I'd just been told to stay home by a guy I used to love and I'd had a bit too much to drink at that point.  Plus, my brother is still chatting up these women from high school, leaving me to fend for myself.  So I let him continue talking to me.  He goes on and on about being a Saudi prince.  On and on and on.

He tells me he'd really like to come home with me.

I excuse myself to go to the bathroom.

When I return, I sigh with relief because he's moved on to the next woman.  He's snuggling up close to her.  He's got his arm wrapped around her shoulders, with his hand grazing her breasts.  He's moved quickly.  I am grateful to have gotten away easily.

Until she leaves to use the restroom.

Ahmad is back.  Telling me all over again about being a Saudi prince.  I tell him I already know.  And he leans in and says,

I want to play with your body.  I want to lick the folds.  I want to be touch your rolls.  I want to suck on your pleated skin.  Take me home so I can play in your folds.

There is so much wrong there.

I know I'm not thin.  I know you know I'm not.  But, really?  I wasn't going to take him home anyway, but pointing out my totally flawed body?  Really?  Is that supposed to seduce me?

It doesn't.

It was a test, and I failed.

Almost 10 years ago (I can't believe I'm old enough to have crazy boy stories that I can start with, "Almost 10 years ago"), I was flying from New York back to California, where I was living. I was flying on Southwest, which I remember only because the man we'll be calling Chester (rhymes with tester) made a conscious and deliberate choice to sit next to me.

He told me so.


And as far as I know, you can only choose your seat on the one airline that's a whole lot like taking a bus in the sky.

So, Chester follows me on to the airbus. (Yes, I know that's an actual type of airplane, and yes, I know Southwest doesn't fly them. But this is my story. And I'm going to tell it the way I want.) He sits down across from me and opens his magazine to a specific page; he shifts so that he's holding the magazine like one might hold a picture book when reading to kids. He points to a photo on the page and asks if I recognize anyone. The picture is tiny, so I can't tell that one of the guys (presumably the backup singers) standing behind the band is Chester himself. I don't read Vibe regularly, and I'm not at all knowledgeable about the local hip-hop scene in Oakland, so Chester's not the only thing I don't recognize in the photo. Oops.

Okay, so the guy is proud of himself for getting his little corner of fame. Real proud. That's cool. I can kind of understand that. He tells me he sat next to me because he thinks I'm cute. I say thanks and turn back to the Algebra II tests I'm grading. It's the start of spring break, but I'm trying to get the tests graded so I have time to enjoy the break without the feeling of something looming over me.

Chester keeps talking. He tells me he'd like to get to know me better. I talk back. And it turns out that he doesn't seem so bad. I tell myself that some women are probably really excited about the music thing. I tell myself that some women are probably really interested in meeting someone they perceive as famous. He doesn't seem to mind that I'm not one of those women. I'm cute - and that's what seems to matter most to Chester.

We end up talking for a couple of hours. He tells me that when we get back to the Bay Area, he'd really like to see me again. He suggests that we meet up in a public place because his "mom always told [him] it's best to have first dates in public places so that the women are more comfortable." I'm young. And I think this must mean he's a pretty good guy. I mean, really! He wouldn't talk about having to show me that he's a good guy if he's not a good guy, right? Mmmhmm. Right.

The next day, we meet halfway between our homes (mine in San Jose, his in Oakland), and we have ice cream. He tells me again that I'm cute. I swoon a little. Hey - it had been a while since someone told me I was cute, so I was prone to swooning when it happened. We can't all be used to being complimented incessantly. We agree that we're enjoying each others' company, so we make plans to hang out again. And hanging out with Chester turns out to be kind of fun. In fact, it's fun enough that I am nonplussed when he tells me he used to be married and that he has a two year old daughter. When spring break ends, I ask my students if they've ever heard of the band he sings for. They have, and they're very impressed that I've met someone in the group. So even though fame doesn't impress me, I remain nonplussed when Chester tells me that he recently moved back home. From jail. For setting his ex-wife's house on fire.

Yes, okay? I said it. I decided I didn't care that this man was a convicted arsonist. I know what you're thinking. I think it, too. But I was young. And I was dumb. And I guess I was a little lonely. And, truth be told, I had a phone number that my dad gave me when I first moved to the Bay Area. It was a number I was supposed to use if I ever felt threatened or in trouble. All I had to do was call the number and say that I was my father's daughter. And if I called it, all my troubles would disappear. So you see, I wasn't scared.

Besides, the fact that Chester was an arsonist isn't the story I'm telling. I'm only telling you that because it adds color (and because it's true).

No, the real story is this:

One day not too long after we'd met, Chester asks me if I want to go to Dave & Buster's with him, his brother, and his brother's wife. He gives me the address, and I drive out to meet him at his brother's house. We're going to meet and say hello there before we go into the crowded, noisy Chuck E. Cheese-for-grownups. Almost immediately after introducing me to his brother and sister-in-law, Chester and the wife head into the kitchen to grab drinks for everyone. They leave me with his brother. I think "brother" is used loosely here, at least insofar as biology is concerned. Chester is Puerto Rican; his brother is black. That matters because his brother asks me if I've ever dated a black man. I'm not sure why it matters, as he's married and I'm here with his brother, but I'm not particularly private. I tell him that I have.

He asks me for my number.

I tell him no. He is, after all, married. I am, after all, here with his brother. And they are both in the other room.

He asks if he can give me his number.

I tell him no. He is, after all, married. I am, after all, here with his brother. And they are both in the other room.

His brother keeps asking. Chester and the wife return from the kitchen. We all prepare to leave. Chester and I are going in my car; his brother and sister-in-law are going in their own. In the car, I ask Chester what the deal is with his brother. Chester asks if I got his number. I'm surprised he'd know to ask and think that maybe his brother hits on all the women Chester brings around. I tell him no. Chester asks if I got his brother's number. I tell him I'm not interested in his brother; I'm interested in Chester.

Chester tells me I failed the test.


He and his brother share everything.
Everything.
They share everything.

I drop Chester off at Dave & Busters, and I drive away.

For the first time in my life, I don't want to pass a test.

I don't share well.

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.

I hear it's possible to find true love on public transit

Want proof that I've been attracting freaks for ages? Let's travel back in time to college days -- more than a decade ago.

I was home for the summer, taking public transit to the mall for work. One day as the train neared my stop, a guy about my age approached. He was attractive and bold - I gave him my number as soon as he asked for it then jumped off the train, knowing he'd call that evening.

He did, and we made plans to meet up the next day. He suggested that we rendezvous outside a relatively popular downtown store. When I arrived at the appointed time, Dante was nowhere to be seen. Irritated (but certainly not devastated) that I'd been stood up, I caught the bus back home. Almost immediately after walking into the house, the phone rang. Dante wanted to know where I'd been - he'd been outside the store waiting for me; why would I stand him up? Umm... what?!? After a bit of confusion, we realized that I'd been at one location of the store and he'd been at the other.

Surely we could try again and get it right this time? Plan #2 was to meet on the top floor of the mall where I worked, in the food court and just outside the movie theater. We couldn't possibly miss each other this time, could we? We could. We did. He wasn't there. (Remember that this is pre-cell phones, so unlike today when I might text someone to say "where are you," we didn't have a mechanism for finding each other except to be at the appointed place at the appointed time.) So, I went home. And, again, the phone was ringing just moments after I walked into the house. Again, he couldn't find me - where had I been?

Now, I'm no fool. I realized that this was RIDICULOUS. And I told Dante as much. In fact, I told him that I just didn't care enough about someone I'd just met to continue to playing this stupid game. I wasn't having fun, and I was done. He begged for a third chance, arguing that "the third time's the charm." So non-fool that I am, I agreed to allow him to put in some effort to meet me, but I refused to put forth any of my own effort. It just so happened that there was a bench in the mall right outside my store. I told him what time I got off work the next day and told him that if he was sitting on that bench at that time, I'd be willing to see him. Otherwise, he could forget about it.

Guess who wasn't sitting on the bench the next day?

But guess what was ringing within minutes of me arriving at home? Bet you can't guess who was calling...

Mmmhmmm. Dante. But this time, he didn't pretend that he'd been there. Nope. This time he wanted to confess something...

The day I met him on the train, he'd been on his way to the police station. He was turning himself in to complete his sentence (something about "a couple of kilos - no big deal"). He'd been calling a friend collect and having that friend use 3-way calling to get me on the phone. THE WHOLE TIME. He wanted to see me, and he wanted to be able to meet up with me; he simply couldn't do it the traditional way. Could I maybe visit him at the jail instead?

Sigh.

I didn't go. But I confess that I did give him my address so we could correspond. He wrote me the craziest letters about how women were like popsicles. He'd tried a lot of flavors but finally found the one he liked best. I'd met him for 5 minutes. I never responded to his letters. He continued to write for at least a year. When he got out, he tried to call - over and over and over again. He finally stopped when a friend of mine made some kind of threatening "don't ever call my friend again" call to him.

Flypaper for Freaks. That's me, folks.