Ever since I got sent home a few months back, I’ve been reinventing myself. It’s how I like referring to it, anyway, although I don’t know exactly what that’s supposed to look like definition-wise. It feels like reinvention when I’m writing more. Looking for ways to monetize this sumbitch site and hopefully and diametrically change careers. An old crush I run into shared with me some juicy tidbits involving AI just recently. Stay tuned.
Feels like reinventing sleeping more. I’m much sharper mentally. I remember shit. Old classmates. Former athletes. Words and their definitions I jotted down in journals years ago.
Feels like reinventing when I’m wrapping up home projects that are years in the works. They’re some pretty intense projects. If you consider knocking down walls and crawling around in a crawl space and an attic fuck-knows-how-many times and patio covers and a tiled walk-in shower “intense.”
Feels like reinvention helping with my kid’s college applications in a most vigorous way. I’m gonna be a changed man when he leaves.
Resume.
Cover letters.
Cutting weight.
All that feels like reinventing.
I can’t afford to date, though. But I’m still horny. Think think.
I know. I’ll join a sex site. That’s where you can go and meet like-minded individuals who are too busy or too unemployed to invest in anything serious, but have needs.
I think this particular site I check out ought to come with its own dictionary. It’s got brats and switches and dommes and genderfluid queers and–holy shit, I’ve not only stumbled on a sex site. Oh no. It’s a kink site too.
Here’s where there’s women tied in ropes so awkwardly their breasts look like deflated sports balls. A supreme voyeur, I really don’t know what’s sexy about that besides, well, absolutely nothing. And if one’s breasts aren’t running out of oxygen from all the half hitches, another’s is black and blue. I offer to call 911 for one distressed damsel. She doesn’t reply.
I’ve been on this site enough now to know that there’s maybe 5% I’m interested in. That 5% splits up between the Only Fans profiteers and the catfish and ones in Arizona and Florida. Too far in other words. Which leaves maybe 1% that’s legit.
Get in line,” this one percenter, tells me. Not in those words, exactly. She’s actually a little kinder than that.
“So you’re saying there is a chance, yess!”
“What if it identifies as ten inches, does that count?” I pose to another.
She swears she’s not a size queen, but in looking at some of her “friends,” I’m not so sure. That’s the other thing. I get to compete with “bulls.” Great.
“You make me laugh,” she says.
“Cool. It’s why I’m on this site ya know.”
She laughs again. Then she posts some photos of her latest gang bang.
“Is there an echo?” I ask.
“What do you mean?”
“Never mind.”
She blocks me.
I’m not sure how much longer I’m gonna stick around this site. On the one hand, it feels like good fodder for this site. I’ll get lucky eventually if I dedicate the time and energy to it. I’m pretty confident I will, anyway. And it won’t cost much, either. It’s perfect for a guy in my shoes.
It’s not my first go-around with this kind of sexual gratification, either. I’ve played with loose and noncommittal in the past. Coffee and a lay is really how it worked, and sometimes I didn’t even need to spring for a coffee.
But I don’t know. Something inside is changing, I feel. Age? I don’t think so. There’s plenty of wood still left in my sail, but.
Maybe it’s part of my reinvention, too.
-tmc
Things Men Carry 