It's come to my attention that our very own ruby has a story out in the latest issue of Instant City. Turns out she's been writing her very own postcards from Guyville -- more specifically, from the Casual Encounters section of Craigslist.
I'm not someone who's found the stomach to do Craigslist's Casual Encounters, but I'm sure glad she is. These stories are pretty fab (even if some of the men she Encounters are jaw-dropping assholes). Check out a tiny selection:
Dreamy Mama's Boy, 27.
I could not believe my luck when I met this one, he was so totally my type—skinny, curly hair, glasses, seemed kinda queer. Oh, and way messed in the head. But I didn’t know that yet when he walked into Mission Bar with his knitting project (“I wanted to have something to do if you were late,” he explained) and bowled me over with his sweet, smarty-pants, self-deprecating manner. When he asked me if I wanted to see his sublet, I was touched by the earnest euphemism, and further charmed by his breathy admission, after the kissing started, that “I’m so glad you like me.”
We went to second base and I slept over; by morning I was so crushed out I was almost too nervous to ask if I could see him again. I was even undeterred when he said he would have to consult with his therapist. Lucky for me she gave the go-ahead, and I entered full-on compulsive-e-mail-checking, holding-evenings-open-for-unconfirmed-non-plans, thinking- about-touching-his-hair-when-I-should-have-been-working mode. Even though we were getting progressively more naked each time we hung out, and trading flirtatious e-mails in between, I sensed ambivalence, and it made me nervous. When I brought it up, he wrote, "I'm trying to tease out how I feel about physical appearances versus personalities. But, that said, what went down the other day was pretty fantastic in a way that I'd never experienced before.... We can be friends. Or ambiguous friends." Translation: I’m not attracted to you but I really loved it when you stuck your finger in my ass, so I’d like to reserve the right to mess around when I feel like it. When I ran my interpretation by him, he corrected me: “Actually, you physically resemble (a young version of) my mom. And it turns me on. And scares me.” Yeah. Okay. Bye.
Perfect Technique Man, 34.
Man made me realize that I might be even more messed in the head than the Mama’s Boy. He was interested in hanging out once or twice a week; could hold up his end of a conversation very well; made it clear just how very attracted to me he was; and was honest, straightforward, and self-aware. The cherry on top of his cake was that he loved giving head more than anything else, and he was damn good at it. So why didn't I think he was dreamy? I don’t know, but perfect technique only gets you so far. There were lots of orgasms, but no sparks. I had to end it before it made me feel totally dead inside.
The One Who Licked My Face When He Came, 33.
Needless to say, I did not see him again.
You can buy the ish with the story in it right here.