Sam The Leatherman
Now there’s this head-to-toe leather guy named Sam from Nashville who’s been hitting me up for years on bear411, telling me all the evil, decadent things he’d like to do to me, or have me do to him, to which I’d politely reply, “Sounds good to me,” or “Next time you’re here…”
Finally, after about at least three years of this bullshit, he hits me up the middle of last month with the usual, and I reply with the abrupt but honest response, “Enough with the fantasy. You ever gonna come my way?” meaning Fort Lauderdale. To which he responds two minutes later, ”Yea, I’ll be there next week.” Okay,” says I, frankly more than a bit surprised, “give me a shout out when you’re here.”
Now, I do have a few things going on in my shitty little life besides keeping track when hedonistic out-of-towners who claim they want me, really want me, are going to be in town. I always leave it, “let me know…” or if they look especially interesting, I’ll give them my smartphone number to text. I’ve learned from the Gay School of Hard Knocks that, at best, two out of ten actually follow through. The others sit bare-assed on their lounge chair at the clothing-optional pool of their clothing optional gay guesthouse and take the easy way out by making it with the bare-assed guy two lounge chairs away.
Anyway, it’s last Saturday night, I’m getting ready to go out to the Ramrod (I had had fun the night before), checking my mail one last time when Sam, the Leatherman shows up on bear411 with a “hi.”
Suddenly my memory bank reminds me he’s supposed to be in town around now, so I reply,
“To which he responds, “I’m at the Leather Inn,” a seedy motel/male whorehouse with slings in every room near the airport. Now I’m really not up to screwing around that night so I say:
“How’s tomorrow evening?”
And this is what he says. Keep in mind this is a guy who’s been practically stalking me for the last three years:
“Oh, I had a really busy week (meaning he’d been here all week and this is the first time I’ve heard from him) and this was my first chance to check messages (bullshit, when I’m on vacation I’m checking the hook-up sites five times a day) and I’m leaving TOMORROW.”
I didn’t even bother responding.
Want my cynical assessment of all this?
He was never in town. My smartass “Enough with the fantasy” triggered his reply about coming to town just a week later. That’s because Sam the Leatherman probably only exists in cyberspace and is a virtual persona living off pics that are at least ten years old. God only knows how many other Sam the Leatherman’s are out there.
After all, if he wanted me as bad as he claims, wouldn’t I have been the first on his hit parade, not the last?
Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a fuck.