by Beihl Whiting
Dating is hell. But so is the mere act of trying to find casual sex. I’ve pretty much given up on the idea of love, but that doesn’t mean I don’t still get horny. I remember my old psychotherapist once telling me:
“The minute anyone gets horizontal with another person, it’s already complicated.”
Today however, finding sex is an online game not dissimilar to ‘Angry Birds’ so the complications begin long before anyone has even assumed the position. People put together online profiles with a special screen name and a paragraph or two with a couple photographs of themselves (or a selected “part” of themselves) to entice prospective partners to connect with them either through the computer or on their mobile device. I call myself “CyberSpaceTraveler.”
While perusing the available specimens online—who, like myself, are still circling the meat rack in hopes of being chosen by someone who is also of our own choosing—a light went on indicating that I had a message. The message was from someone named “JungleMan9.” Upon opening the message I saw a very enticing photo of a nicely built fellow washing his car in the driveway. The photo was cropped so his face wasn’t showing in the picture. There were several other torso shots but none of them revealed his face.
We began a little online banter, and I asked him to email me a face photo because it’s nice to have some kind of an idea who in the world I’m talking to. The photo arrived a short time later, and his face wasn’t bad—he didn’t look particularly bright, but I wasn’t interested in his intellect. He was kind of a typical Irish-Italian looking guy in his late thirties or early forties. Seeing the face, the torso shots became more believable. Before long he’d sent me his cell phone number and asked for mine in return, telling me he was going to be in Philadelphia later that evening.
Frequently nothing comes of these exchanges, so I often tend to forget about them and move on to other things that don’t involve scorching the earth for a willing sex partner–but later that same day my phone made a dinging noise to alert me that a text message had just arrived.
The following dialog is a verbatim transcript of an epic text message exchange that began around 6pm on the same night as the president’s State of the Union Address, which initially I had been anxious to watch.
JungleMan9: “Hey Bill, it’s Mike from ManHunt. I’m JungleMan9.
Me: “Hey Mike—what’s up?”
JungleMan9: “I’m at work now. Near Broad and Locust.”
Me: “I live near 10th and Locust.”
JungleMan9: “Wow. That’s close by. I’d love to see how you like to tease and tickle a man. My feet, legs and nipples are very sensitive.”
Me: “I need to brush-up on my tickling techniques. You might make a perfect test subject.”
…I stopped to digest that comment before sending a reply. It was somewhat unexpected to say the least…
Me: “Don’t tell me that’s what you wear to work? It’s been awfully brisk outside lately.” (It was late January, and the entire east coast of the United States was blanketed with snow and a heavy Arctic freeze.)
JungleMan9 texted back again: “Ha. No, but I do have my loincloth in my backpack. Maybe you are the naked tribesman that wants to slowly drain Tarzan’s powers?”
Me: “What’s with the ‘maybe’ Jungle boy? What time do you get off work?”
Me: “I suppose I could miss the State of the Union Address for now. And yes, I have chairs and furniture, indoor plumbing and all sorts of things.”
JungleMan9: “Let me get back to you in a little bit. It just got busy here at work.”
Me: “Let me know if you gotta cancel.”
Me: “Tarzan no have control of when mighty native warrior priest will strip him of all that hides his manhood.” (I figured I might as well get into this a little bit and have some fun.)
“Grrrrrrr….” Said JungleMan9. “Will the native warrior priest start at Tarzan’s sensitive nipples or his mighty man feet?”
Me: “Warrior will lick every square inch of the powerful man of the jungle. White man not just for breakfast any more. He’s what’s for dinner.”
Me: “Warrior priest will be fascinated with exploring the apeman’s beautiful body, taking time to drink-in all of his magnificent maleness while Lord Greystoke is naked, helpless and restrained.”
JungleMan9: “Wow…!!! I like the way the warrior priest thinks. Will Tarzan be in a chair for this?”
Me: “Always with the chair again. Tarzan will be lashed with restraints to an ancient throne deep in the jungle inside a lost Egyptian city known only to the god, Osiris.”
Bear in mind that this JungleMan9 (whoever he was) had absolutely no idea that I’d decorated my bedroom in the Egyptian “taste” as it’s not the sort of thing most people do. But then again, I’m not most people.
JungleMan9 texted back: “Woof, but can we not use the restraints? Tarzan will be on his throne with his hands clasped behind his back pretending to be tied-up. The room will be dim, and then the naked warrior enters slowly approaching the apeman from behind.”
Me: “Hmmm, so now you don’t want the restraints. Then restraints will not be necessary because Tarzan will cooperate with his captor to insure the safety of the rest of his compatriots on the safari. Tarzan will sacrifice himself sexuality to the base desires of the warrior priest purely to insure the safety of the others.” I rolled my eyes thinking to myself that I do the damnedest things just to gain genital access to other men.
Me: “It will be at the pleasure of the high priest to milk Lord Greystoke’s loins. As it was foretold in prophecy it shall be done.”
JungleMan9: “Yes, with the priest’s evil fingers the loincloth is stripped from Tarzan, and the priest grazes Tarzan’s manhood, like caterpillars along the shaft.”
Me: “Caterpillars(?) Really(?) OK… It is Tarzan’s seed and Tarzan’s seed alone that will become the elixir that breathes life into the God Anubis. Tarzan must produce the sacred semen to fulfill the prophecy of Osiris. So when is his lordship going to get off work, its quarter past nine already?”
JungleMan9: “How late can you do this? How about 10ish? I still have a few things to finish up here at work. I definitely want to do this tonight. You have a great imagination. It will be very hot when it builds to the point that the warrior’s fingers toy with where Tarzan’s loincloth is tied at the hip. The apeman pleads ’Nooooo!!!’”
Me: “Harrumph. I would not have yet lighted the sacred eternal Duraflame log had I known his Lordship was to be detained.”
JungleMan9: “Nice. So Tarzan’s muscles will be glowing in the light of a real fire? Will Tarzan still be in a chair?”
Me: “There you go with the chair again. Yes Tarzan, PLEASE be seated.”
Me: “Yes, Tarzan’s uninvited pleasure will be savored and prolonged.” In spite of the ongoing absurdity, I’m embarrassed to admit I was starting to look forward to this odd encounter when I received yet another text…
JungleMan9: “Final spilling of the apeman’s seed will be done with the evil fingers of the warrior priest won’t it?”
Me: “What ev’s. The warrior priest will prepare his hands, cleansing them for the ceremony where he tastes the apeman’s mighty rod.” I was losing patience with this endless banter, but sarcasm was completely lost on the King of the Jungle.
JungleMan9: “Woof!!! I just have to check-in the last guest at the hotel, and then I’ll head over. Will the naked warrior approach the apeman in the chair from behind and slowly reach around to play with Tarzan’s hairy chest?”
Me: “The sacred chamber isn’t all that big, jungle boy. Tarzan will be sitting with his back against the wall facing his captor.”
JungleMan9: “I mean, when Tarzan arrives and changes into his loincloth and sits in the chair, then the naked warrior enters the fire-lit room and approaches the apeman from behind?”
Me: “As previously mentioned, the room isn’t all that large. His Lordship will have to make due with facing his false master directly during his agonizing moments of sexual pleasure and humiliation.”
JungleMan9: “Grrrrr…. But it will be a slow, tantalizing path ‘til the warrior finally strips the sacred cloth from the mighty apeman to access his manhood. I’m finished here at work, I’ll meet you at 12th and Locust. Will the warrior be verbal much?”
Me: “The warrior priest is a wordsmith when his mouth isn’t full.”
JungleMan9: “What does that mean?” (Good lord, I thought to myself.)
Me: “You shall see when the hour is ripe, and your member is nursed, stroked and caressed to distraction.”
Me: “So it is written, so it shall be done.”
JungleMan9: “Leaving now.”
Me: “The warrior priest will see you at 12th and Locust in five minutes. He will be walking the God Anubis in the form of a Jack Russell Terrier.”
Me: “As you wish. Now get your kinky ass to 12th and Locust Streets before the warrior’s kinky dick freezes and falls the hell off.”
As I approached the corner of 12th and Locust Streets walking Winnie, my little “Anubian” Jack Russell terrier, I immediately recognized JungleMan9 from his face picture. He was leaning up against the brick wall outside of a local gay bar.
“Mike?” I asked tentatively.
“At your service.” I said slyly, trying to get into character. It was difficult to get a read on “Tarzan’s” physique given that we were both bundled up in winter coats and hats, but we walked the two blocks back to my house in comparative silence making small talk about Jack Russell terriers.
Once inside, he seemed surprised to see that my living room was decorated to resemble the Pompeian Hall of Mysteries. I’m a muralist, and I’ve decorated my entire home to reflect the ancient world. I’m not into costumes and role-playing but I do like living with an interesting backdrop.
Upstairs in my Egyptian decorated bedroom, I poked at the ebbing “eternal” Duraflame as “Tarzan” asked for some privacy while he changed into his loincloth and arranged himself to resemble the captive King of the Jungle.
I decided to keep my clothes on thinking my being dressed would heighten his sense of nude vulnerability. After a reasonable waiting period I entered the bedroom to see a slightly out of shape middle aged man with skinny legs and the budding beginnings of a beer belly, seated in one of my Egyptian style chairs having arranged himself to appear as if he were tied-up. “This is absurd, I thought to myself.” I go to the gym regularly, and while I’m a gentleman of a certain age, I look a hell of a lot more like Tarzan than this dude. I do, however think his torso photos were of him, but they taken during a much earlier decade—perhaps even during the preceding 20th century.
I commenced with tickling his feet, which I didn’t find to be particularly interesting, so I traced my fingers along the places where his six-pack abs had once been. I’d never done a “role-playing” scene with someone before, but I can muster-up dirty talk if I have to, and throw in a few Tarzanian references. I prolonged this tiresome activity up until I decided I might as well get naked and attempt to get into the spirit of the moment. Once enough weird obligatory foreplay had transpired, I lifted Tarzan’s loincloth to touch his “mighty man-rod” which was quite a few inches short of the promised number “nine’ he suggestively added to his screen name. Best as I could tell, he also appeared to only have one ball. I’d never given it much conscious thought before, but aside from broad, muscular shoulders and narrow hips, I assumed Tarzan would also have impressive junk. This was anything but impressive. So while I had the loincloth lifted, I ever so gently tickled the ruffle of flesh below the head of his penis, when without warning he came all over the place. Just my luck, another poorly hung premature ejaculator.
I couldn’t hide my disappointment, and blurted out, “you’re done already? That was it…?!!!”
“Yeah,” he said. “I gotta run. I have to get up early tomorrow morning.”
“Whoa there jungle boy,” I said, “I haven’t gotten off yet.”
“You mean you didn’t cum?” he replied as if this were surprising.
I was annoyed and let loose, “There was nothing happening in this ridiculous scene that I found even remotely erotic.”
“I’m sorry you were disappointed.” He said.
“You should be sorry.” I said. “In fact you ARE sorry. You’re one sorry-assed excuse for a Tarzan. There’s only one person in this room who can bench his own body weight, dude, and it isn’t you. You’re nobody’s Tarzan. In fact you need to change your role-playing shtick to be a pizza delivery boy—but not like the pizza delivery boys in a porn movie—you need to actually bring along a pizza.” Looking him over, it was abundantly clear that he was one dumb sad-sack frozen in time–stuck in a weird adolescent fantasy. He stared back at me and said, “What am I supposed to do? I need to get back home to mother.”
“I can’t do that.” He replied. “I don’t touch other people, I just let them touch me.”
“Listen asshole, you are too fuckin’ mediocre to pass yourself off as a ‘do-me’ queen. I can’t believe I rearranged furniture for this travesty. Just get the hell out!” I said as he scrambled to pull on his trousers. I couldn’t help but wonder why it is I always meet the married men, the guys with infantile genital syndrome and the dudes who I’m not entirely sure are actually male. I’m beginning to think there are no good ones left out there to be had… And where does that leave me on the spectrum of the unclaimed?
On his way out the door, I tossed his brown felt “loincloth” at him and said, “You could at least get some convincing faux leopard in the wholesale fabric district.” I closed the door behind him and triple locked it. The whole non-event had left me completely put-off to the idea of sex altogether, so I watched a rebroadcast of the president’s State of the Union Address, and laid down in bed for the night.
Reflecting later on the evening’s peculiar goings-on, I felt kind of sorry for the King of the Jungle. He was an idiotic middle-aged man still living out a teenaged sex fantasy that a normal person would have outgrown in puberty. But I suppose we all want to be gently raped on our own terms.
– Disassociated Press, 2/1/2014