A commenter notes: "Not enough applause GIFs in the world for this post!"
Try. See if you can find enough applause GIFs. If you only know one thing about me, know that I love a GIF.
Sometimes, when the night air seems cold and the world is a mean, friendless place, Meg and I will ask each other random questions via text. I don't really need to know her cup size or when she thinks the race war will begin; I just need to know she's there. However, because we're both what is politely called "colorful" and coarsely called "batshit," sometimes these late-night questions lead to stories, like the other night when Meg asked me if I'd ever been on a motorcycle.
The answer is yes. Longtime fans will remember my post about a date that ended in a shed in the woods watching Entourage under a Confederate flag with the central star replaced with a whiskey ad. Well, this is... not nearly as bad. Several years ago, I made a date with an-older-enough-to-be-exciting-but-not-like-OLD-old man on some internet.com website. Looking back, it's hilarious that 31 used to be "fascinating and older" and not I'LL STILL BE COOL IN THREE YEARS, RIGHT?!?!?!, but time makes fools of us all. I drove over to his house, and before we left he wanted to introduce me to his roommates.
All thirteen of them.
The house was huge with several bedrooms, but then eight dudes just... lived in bunk beds in the finished basement.Most of them were gay, so I guess it functioned as a generic sleepaway camp/armed services/hostel/prison fantasy. Introvert that I am, the idea practically gave me hives. There was also a generalized scrotum-and-Cheeto odor that under normal circumstances I might have found comforting, even arousing, but the thought of the endlessly recirculated air down there alarmed me. Then I met Asher, who lived in a cage.
Can I tell you what's not sexy? People who are big into being obviously kinky. Be your own butterfly, go right ahead, but there's something about people who need casual acquaintances to know that seems desperate. Thus it was with Asher. He slept in a little cage - he was a small guy, and the cage was of a size that he could wiggle around more or less freely in it but not really stretch out. He had a blanket over the top against drafts (DRAUGHTS, in the UK) and to make a surface he could drop his glasses, billfold, and keys on. I was not going to bend down and look in on him like he was a terrier - I refused to play - so I carried on small talk with the area of his legs I could see and successfully contained my questions until my date and I got out to the driveway.
Me: Was he locked in?
Him: Oh, yeah. When he's ready for bed he finds someone to lock him in for the night.
Me: What if there's a fire?
Him: Oh, Tim's job is to make sure someone lets Asher out in an emergency. You know how you're supposed to have a plan for fires...
Me: What if he has to pee?
Him: He holds it, I guess.
Me: If he has an accident, is one of you supposed to rub his nose in it?
Him: I guess. I don't know. He's a nice guy.
A nice guy. The hell? He wants to be locked in a cage at night, which, ignoring the BDSM subtext, is wildly dangerous, but it's okay because he doesn't steal or carve "FOR THE REICH" into people's foreheads with a broken beer bottle?
By this point, we were on his motorcycle, so I had to shut up. I didn't get to ask any more questions about Cage Boy because my date spent the evening telling me about his coati (!) and his nine-year-old daughter (!!!!!!!!!!). Three days later he texted me to tell me he had a nice time but was moving to Denver - you know, 'cause. So, fair warning, if things go south with Giant Camel I'm just going to prostitutes. Fingers crossed, I can avoid ever going on another date.