Back to my old ways (had I ever left them?) I recently “met” a guy on Manhunt. He had a hot profile - cute face, great body, and his “about me” basically described him as a bottom who liked sex. I had actually noticed his profile about a year ago. I wrote him then, he wrote back, then he disappeared. He popped up a few months later - we exchanged quick emails, then again he disappeared. The third time we emailed, we actually traded phone numbers, I assumed with the intention to text each other. But we never did.

Until yesterday, when once again I saw him online, and typed a Manhunt-mail asking when we were finally hanging out. I pressed send, and was totally unprepared for what happened 2 minutes later. My phone started to ring. Sure enough, up popped his name, in my phone from 3 months ago.


What? He’s calling?! I panicked. “DECLINE”.

The ringing stopped, and a minute later I had a voicemail. “Hey, it’s ManhuntBoy, just seeing what you’re up to this afternoon. Give me a call.”

I pondered. He sounded normal, if a bit stoned. But nice enough. Maybe I should call him back. It went against my better instincts, but what was so bad? Sure, I’ve never been much for phone chatting, but I thought: maybe he just wants to hear that I sound normal, and maybe we’ll make a date.

I decided to go for it. I pressed the Call Back button. Little did I know I was about to embark on the Sexterview.

As soon as I identified myself, he started asking questions. Where do you live? Where do you work?

I played along, trying to keep the conversation light with my own questions, like Whats up? Hows it going?

He gave one word answers, and immediately went back to questions of his own. Do you workout? How tall are you? Are you an exhibitionist?

I answered, and then again tried to bring it to the conversational: What are you up to? Lazy Sunday?

He avoided my questions, and dove into his serious list.

Do you like to cuddle? You’re more a top? Do you like to suck cock?

I sighed, wishing I had stuck with my impulse. DECLINE. But it was too late now. I answered: Sometimes. Yes. Of course.

He continued, and I imagined him holding a clipboard and checking off boxes.

What gym do you go to? Do you live alone? Are you safe?

I gave up. I decided there was nothing to do but wait until the sexterview was over and the questions finally ceased. I answered, and the barrage continued.

Do you do groups? Where do you like to cum?

And then he got to the truly perverse.

“How old are you?”

“How old are you?!” I shot back, outraged.

“23.”

I sighed, and I swear I heard him flip a page. “So,” he continued, “You definitely like to cuddle, right?”

From now on, I’m sticking to texts.

I broke my own rule, and went directly to the apartment of a trick I met on Manhunt without meeting him for drinks first.

He was cute when he opened the door, and looked just like he did in his pictures. I breathed a sigh of relief. Then I entered the apartment.

Dresses. Bright, glittery, gaudy dresses, strewn everywhere. A make up table, overflowing with cosmetics. A huge mirror. High heel shoes. Wigs.

“Oh, sorry,” he said, catching my stare, “I live with a drag queen.”

My immediate thought was: That’s like saying ‘I’m just holding this porn for a friend.’

My next thought was: Am I about to hook up with a drag queen?

“This is a lot of stuff,” I said.

“Yeah, she’s at a show tonight,” he said. “I design her costumes.”

Skeptically, I began to investigate further, trying to be subtle. There were indeed two bedrooms. QueenysLittleHelper was leading me, presumably, to his. Entering, there was a similar mess, but it was slightly different. Less dresses, more... fabric. The same marabou, silks and satins, but they were parts rather than dresses. Fortunately my good friend MartiniFun is a costume designer, and I recognized the typical tools of the trade. Fabric scissors, measuring tapes, little boxes of pins. And standing in the corner were two dress forms.

As he began to put his hands on me, I once again sighed in relief. I wasn’t about to sleep with a drag queen.

I may as well have.

As soon as I laid on the bad I felt little bits and pieces sticking to my back and arms.

“What the...?” Sequins. Beads. “Are these rhinestones?”

Instead of apologizing, he just kissed me. We had sex, but it seemed that every time things got hotter and heavier, so did the costume nightmare. With every thrust, there was an explosion of sequins, tinsel, and false eyelashes. Bedazzled fabric was flying through the air. Boa feathers drifted about. Glitter rained down.

When it was over we showered, but I was still flicking mirrored bits of sequin and tinsel off my clothes as I walked home. And those tiny persistent flecks of glitter stuck around for days. What a drag.