Mindfuckers: Edging Masters

Mindfuckers: Edging Masters

mind’fuck’er/ noun: a gay man who comes on to another, leads him into believing he’s interested in copulating, then, at the last moment, drops out of sight like he was abducted by aliens. Most prevalent on sex websites where cyberspace provides the perfect cover.

Naïve, shitty little me.  After years of chance encounters in the bars and the baths, and being a logical, pragmatic sort of a guy, I turned to the sex sites figuring that’s where people were meeting. You post who you are and like, they post who they are and like, and there’s a match-up. Right?

Not exactly. Even though I’ll do a periodic sweep of local listings, and put out feelers to guys I think could have a mutual interest, I rarely get any responses. So in the end, you’re left waiting for hits from the universe of guys who happen to be on when you’re on. No better than the bars. That’s why after coming home from a night out, or even in between on my smartphone, I’ll check who loves me, then go to bed, and, guaranteed, the following morning I’ll have half a dozen hits, 1:45 am, 2: 10 am, 2:30 a.m., from the “I want it now boys” – “wanna fuck?” Or better:

“My back door will be open. The lights will be off. I’ll be butt naked on my sofa. I want you to come over to me, and without saying a word, fuck me til you breed me, then I want you to leave.”

Romantic, ain’t it?

I can go on with diarrhea of the fingertips about my trials and tribulations as a cyber sex addict, but what I want to talk about now are the above defined “mindfuckers.” They come in several varieties. The low end boys are those who keep sending you those cryptic e-mails, winks or gropes every so often, and when you ask when they’re interested in connecting, you get the evasive “cool,” or even better, “kewl.” Those I block.

But these minor leaguers are just a bore. The group that should have their balls cut off in public at some mall or, better yet, a leather bar while they’re running a drink special, are the guys I classify as the Super Mindfuckers. They come on to you big time, (“You sure you don’t model for Titan?”), you negotiate a date, they even say they’re on their way and, then, they never show. No call. No text.  Nothin’. You planned your day, you re-arranged your schedule, you took a shower, you even popped your $2 tab of Viagra. And they don’t show.

More on Mindfuckers Friday …

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