Talking with a Pool Stalker Part 2

If you haven't already, you probably want to read Part 1 of this story first.

After receiving the 3 hilarious/creepy emails, I decided to reply. I definitely did not want to meet Todd, so part of my intent was to remind him I had no interest in his "massage" offer. I, however, didn't simply feel like writing "I said NO", because I was genuinely entertained by his ramblings. The part where he thought I was straight was some of the best of his writings.

Sadly, I do not have a copy of the email I sent him to show you all. I've made an effort to create a facsimile of my email below though, based on what I remember saying:

"I'm writing back to you to repeat that I am not interested in your offer.

What I do feel like I need to say is that the randomness, that makes up this world, has decided that you handed your note not to a straight person, like you imagined, but a gay person. This doesn't change the situation, since even if I wasn't currently seeing my long-term boyfriend, I still wouldn't be interested. I'm not the type of person who likes to meet up with random strangers for intimate contact.

I have no doubt that this will come off as weird, but I've decided to include a photo of myself, just for the hell of it. This definitely isn't normal, but what the hell. I like being weird.

Regardless if you send me any more messages, this is the last time I will respond."

I attached to the email a photo of myself. The below photo is one taken today of me, since the original picture is lost, due to my computer crashing since then. Again, yes, that's skinny-old me...somewhat nekkid! This photo was taken to look the same as the original.


Let me first just say that this is the first time I have ever told anyone that I wrote that above response. To ALL of my friends, they think I simply wrote back saying "No, I'm not interested. Leave me alone."

Why haven't I told me friends the reality? Obviously, like you all should be thinking, because it was incredibly stupid of me. Letting Todd know I was actually gay (although adding in that I was currently dating a guy, which I was not) would probably be taken as a glimmer of hope in his mind, even when I also reiterated the not-interested part. And sending a photo? I would expect people to smack me upside the head for that idiocy.

Why did I send the picture? Well, I was partially having fun with the situation since I was never going to see him again (and potentially if I did run into him at the pool, I'm still much bigger than him so I wouldn't be afraid) and I partially felt bad for the guy. I definitely don't think anyone should be secretly following their infatuations like that, but I felt bad for the guy since he clearly wasn't really right in the head about all that. Yes, that is the best answer I can give. And no, I didn't secretly want to take him up on his offer.

So, as I half expected, Todd did email back with a reaction to my response. Much of it included that standard motifs of his other emails, as I described in the Part 1 post.

The requisite creepy parts to the email:
"I didn't think of it that much, it was a pretty easy thought [to follow you]. I think seeing you with your shirt off did it. I don't know if you noticed but I also showered in the stall beside you, and I would have almost done anything to helped you shower. So, with all that buildup, I just wrote that note."

There was also the clearly delusional parts in his message, regarding how he thought his original emails could actually convince a straight guy into saying yes:
"So all my hopes and dreams with meeting up with you to give a massage seem hopeless? I have been waiting for over a day for a response. I thought, how can he refuse just a massage? I thought I seemed sincere and nice, so I gave it a 40% chance.. then of course I thought about the possibility of a positive outcome .. and about how enjoyable it could have been."

The main part of what Todd had to say though was pretty much a desperate plea for me to reconsider his offer. If anything, it was sad, pathetic and a little too telling about his personal life. I'm going to forgo reposting that up here. He spoke of how he's only ever been with a few guys during his life and he's desperate. I felt bad that he wrote this out and that I was reading it, but I also felt like an asshole for egging him on, with my picture and response saying I'm actually gay.

He also lets me know that he has convinced one straight guy into being massaged. It kind of makes me feel bad for the straight guy though:
"I talked a straight friend into letting me massage him, (he's 21), he said he'd never let a guy touch him; never let a guy suck him also. I bugged him for about 6 months and decided to try. So, that's why I am asking again, just have to ask you again."

Just as I said in my response-email, I didn't answer this one.

Since then, I have gotten three other emails from him. I've also never answered to any of those either. The first was about 1 month after the stalking event. Todd apparently decided to come back on another vacation in Montreal. I hope he didn't decided to come back, on the slight hope of running into me. His email was short and extra creepy:
"Hey, You never responded to my last e-mail. Guess you didn't want to say not interested again ... anyways, I thought about you the other day .. used our pool .. lol just thought I would say hi."

Yes, the "used our pool" part did send shivers up my spine.

Another 2 months later, he sent me a short email saying:
"thought I'd say hi."

Then on January 1st of 2008, more than a year after the last email, he sent me another short one:
" have a good 2008."

He does seem to be quite smitten by me - of course that's because I'm a stupid fuck who sends stalkers my photo. I would hope he would delete my picture and get on with his own life, with hopes of meeting other people his age and getting over his college/university swimmer fantasy. But who knows...

And so this brings to an end the story of my stalker and our email interaction. I've retold, and read-out loud the email, to so many friends of mine that the tag line "I think you're cute - do you want a massage" has become a favorite of Liz's. Like I said, no one knows I sent him my photo or told him I was gay, but I think it's for the best that I keep that to myself... and the entire internet.

Let's see if I'm lucky/unlucky, depending on how you see it, since it'll be New Years soon. Maybe he'll wish me a good 2009.

Talking with a Pool Stalker Part 1

Brace yourselves for a long post!

The events of this post took place back in August of 2006. Earlier that winter, I got a serious lower-back injury while playing ice hockey. Although some physio did help the injury, my back still hurt. I wanted to stay active, so that summer I took up swimming at my university's pool. Swimming is a good low-impact exercise for the bones and joints, so it's a good bet for those who are out of shape or injured.

My afternoon routine went normally, that day. I take the train to downtown and walk to the athletics building. I change in the pool locker room, do a few prep-stretches for my back and then I head over to the main pool room.


I jump into a lane, do some warm-up laps, do a few more stretches and then do 30 minutes of swimming. After that, I head back to the locker room to use the showers, do some final stretches under the stream of warm water and then dry up, change and leave.

Instead of heading straight back for my train that day, I needed to pick-up a book to help me choose my courses for the fall and winter semesters. So I make the 10-15 minute walk to the building where I can get the listing. I walk into the particular building, find the course book right near the entrance door, pick it and turn around.

As I turn around, I'm surprised by this guy in his 50s standing right behind me. I hadn't heard or noticed him so I made a little jump. The man didn't seem to think anything of it, as he looks directly at me and says:
"You dropped this piece of paper."

I put out my hand to take the piece of paper, while thinking "I didn't have any paper on me."

Before I can look over the paper, the man turns around and literally runs out the door.

The paper turns out to be a corner, ripped from some university magazine. Some quickly-written words are on the note:

I think you're cute - do you want a massage?, with an email on the backside.

In an instant, I recall where I saw that guy before. When I walked into the pool room, he was standing at the end of one of the swimming lanes, looking at me. When I was back in the single stall showers, after my swim, I recognized seeing the top of his head as he switched from one shower to the another, which where both on either side of mine. I also recognize him when I was changing in the locker room.

So this guy had noticed me at the pool, was around me in the showers and had followed me for the 10-15 minutes walk to go get my course listing...

Having no idea how to react to this, I start laughing out loud.

------

Back home, I thought about how to respond to this situation.

Obviously, being followed by some stranger out of my university's pool is creepy. I wasn't scared or anything, since the guy seemed afraid of my potential reaction, and a part of me did find it pretty funny, since he ran away, but this isn't something I would want occurring again. Knowing what he looks like, it was a little shocking that I could suddenly recall him being around me without me consciously having noticed him at the time. Of course, we're surrounded by people, that we give no notice to, all the time so maybe this isn't odd at all.

The note did create a practical problem: if he's at my university's pool, then he probably has a membership and goes regularly. Therefore, there's a high probability of me running into him again. I don't want to have to see this guy and have him potential ask about this "massage offer". Also, I'm not about to change my schedule just to avoid him.

In all honesty, though, if he had been my age and hot I might just have ignored the message and maybe even spoken to him at the pool, if I ever saw him again. But this is just here-say.

In the end, it seemed like the best thing for me to do was to send a message to stalker-guy's email, provided on the note, saying I'm not interested. That way if he's ever back at the pool at the same time as me, he'll leave me alone.

So I use my normal email to send the following message:
"Thanks for the compliment, but I'm not interested. :) "

That same evening, the emails began.

Let me first preface the rest of this post by saying I now know I made 2 obvious mistakes when responding to his note: First, I was too kind. I should have said "Leave me the fuck alone", but I didn't want to be unnecessarily mean. Second, I should have never used the :) symbol. That was just pure stupidity on my part. The smiley face just leads to trouble.

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Over the next day, I would receive 3 emails from my pool-stalker, named Todd. He would confirm that he's actually just a guy on vacation in Montreal. So he's not a regular pool user, although I assume he goes there for the university eye-candy.

Although creepy, the emails are actually really amazing and funny to read. The previous teaser post is the exact copy of the first email. The email gives the feel of looking into an unfiltered stream of consciousness. I do honestly find it really funny that he's addressing me as a straight guy and trying to get me interested in an "innocent" massage, which according to him at least one other straight guy has really enjoyed and it will not turn into anything gay. What are the chances that he would end up handing the note to a gay guy? Haha, oh random world we live in.

The detail of him noticing my stretching is, again, creepy.

The second email he sent was a general rehashing of the first email. Todd says he was afraid the first didn't get through, so he decided to send the second one just in case. Yup, that's a bit too obsessed, but anyway...

I'm not going to paste the whole copy of the third email here, but you should all know that this is when it gets hilarious. My friends, by far, love this email the most. Anything that begins with "I have been thinking for the last two hours or so about this. If you don't mind, I'd like to just write down my thoughts?" has to be good. The third email comes out to about 2 pages, single-spaced, standard text size, in Microsoft Word. He indeed put a lot of thought into it.

Todd describes a series of situations where it would be OK for a straight guy to receive a massage from another guy. Situation 1 includes me, the straight guy, going to see my girlfriend, named Sara. It turns out she's not home, but her older brother, coincidentally named Todd, is there so we hang out. Todd ends up wanting to practice his massage skills on me so I let him. Based on this, I should let him massage me in real life - because it's just simple heterosexual male bonding. The second situation is a variant of the first one, but with a close friend. The third situation is suggestion that he would then owe me a favor, for letting him massage me. His example of the favor would be that he would then have to get me ice cream. I don't know why he thinks it would be a good idea to bribe me with ice cream, but anyway...

Todd's fantasy

Included in this email are some hilarious, not-so-subtle lines regarding what he would love to actually do to me. I think he's now assuming I'm straight, but ever so slightly bi-curious, so maybe being honest would convince me to say yes:
"...or how can I convince you into trying?...You have always wanted to have your feet licked and this might be the opportunity to try it? ok, that might be gross to you .. umm .. "

"I think it's a good offer .. not like you would do anything, just receive .. might be a better idea and relaxing late at night."

This is by far the best quote though. After 1 page of him downplaying the homoerotic nature of the potential massage, he throws out this doozy:
"You might have the idea that .. well he offered me a massage, and maybe I am slightly interested now, on second thought .. he does seem nice enough .. but does he really want to massage my private parts or give me head in addition? Well, honestly, yes, but, again, if you do take me up on the offer, I would just go with your rules. I am happy to just massage your back and neck for say an hour, and have you leave your shorts on."

Now, maybe a sane person would have kept ignoring the emails. You should realize I'm not too normal in the head, so I obviously didn't. I emailed him back. You readers will, however, have to wait for my next post to find out what I said and what happened.

The Call - Part 3

This is the final post, in a series of three parts that began 2 days ago. You should read Part 1 and Part 2 before looking at this post.

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It was surprisingly difficult to recount the story of Talya's call. The whole time I was writing part 1, I was shaking a little. This obviously isn't a story that I tell many people. I don't want to go advertise that Talya is a prostitute to my friends or the fact that my friend and I put someone into the hospital (we assume). The fucker deserved what he got and if I was put in the same situation, I would have been the one of use my keys as a stabbing brass knuckles. The whole event shook me up because I'm just not used to any of my friends actually been hurt. Broken bones from snowboarding is one thing, but a friend getting the shit beat out of her and her having to fight for her life is another thing. This'll make me sound like a baby, especially since Talya's situation was so much more serious than my experience, but even me kicking the shit out of the guy freaked me out. I'm really not one to get into fights - people generally like me so I've never had someone want to take me on. I'm also 6'4 - I'm definitely no body builder but my height clearly intimidates people who would be looking for trouble.

After that night, we did think about the possibility of the police on the lookout for 2 young adults who beat the shit out of a middle-aged man. We doubted that the fucker would have notified police. He had solicited a prostitute, beat her up, and potentially wanted to kill her. If he wanted the police to know about 2 guys assaulting him, he had to risk us sharing our stories. There's nothing for him to gain. If anything, he might have called for an ambulance to pick him up, but he probably wouldn't have recounted what actually happened. We did check the newspapers and listened to newscasts for a few days, but nothing came up.

There needs to be a bit of clarification on Tayla's job as an escort/prostitute. She not a hooker on a street corners of Sainte-Catherine, at 2am. As she has explained to me, she uses a service where people get in touch with her contact, and she takes jobs from that contact when she wants to. She typically meets the clients at pre-specified places, knowing what they want in advance. She has encountered fucked up people before and bailed on them, but nothing ever close to what happened that night. If you were to run into her during the day, she looks like a normal, cute young adult. No hideous face scares, skanky/(hilarious!) clothes or creepiness. In her words: I'm higher-class fare.

Now, let's get to the part where she called the police - oh wait, she didn't actually call the police for help! In her call to me, she told me police were already on the way. I was bolting across streets and between people in hopes that I might get there faster than the cops, so that I could save her life. I believed that the guys in blue, who actually know how to handle something like this, would be coming so hearing her tell me she lied made me almost want to beat the shit out of her myself. I held it all in that first night, because I knew that she needed support right then. But later that week, I let her have it.

HOW THE FUCK COULD SHE JUSTIFY NOT CALLING THE POLICE. What if I couldn't get there before the fucker bashed the door in!? What if he had a gun, and my friend and I just barged in to have our heads fucking blown off!? I spent an hour screaming at her, 1 week after the incident, putting that into her head. Sure, risking her own life is one fucking stupid thing, but putting my friend's life and my own in the same fucking basket was brilliance surpassed only by a kindergarten retard class, shoving crayons up their noses. Her justification was that she didn't want the police arresting her as well as a prostitute, but of course that doesn't fly. What's better: a charge for prostitution or no charges at all, because your body's been dumped into the St-Lawrence river? Exactly.

After my scream-a-thon over her idiocy, I walked out on her. We didn't speak for a month but I eventually answered one of her calls. I know that you all probably think I'm dumb, but I did start talking to her again and eventually we started hanging out again. For a few months she was still really shook up from that night and I was the only one she really felt understood her, let alone one of the very few people with whom she could talk about it.

Do I value myself, if I could open my friendship again with someone who thought nothing for my safety? I hope so. I genuinely believe she understands her mistake. I told her that I never want to get a call from her like that again, but if it has to happen then I'll be there. Maybe I'm an emotional sap, who crumbles before teary eyes, but at least I'm loyal and want to help those in need.

She still does escorting. I still believe that it's her life to have and use as she sees fit. The reality of a sex worker's life is much too clear for her and myself now. Someone could be tempted to say she deserves what she got. A small, angry part of myself would be inclined to agree, but it's not that easy. Just because a woman might wear a short skirt, doesn't mean she wants some club-douchebag putting their hands up her thigh and playing with the beaver. Same justification for a hooker. A prostitute doesn't deserve a black eye, or worse.

And to the fucker, left naked on the floor covered in a bit of his own blood: yes, I feel bad for him. Well, pity is a better word for it. What could have happened to him during his life that led him down that road. The few who know about this story think I'm fucked for thinking like that - giving that guy some sort of "forgiveness". That's not it at all. Nothing he did was Ok, but, as with all things, I just wish I could understand how a person could get to that point. Why would someone think that beating the shit out of a hooker is Ok? Probably some sort of way that they feel powerful or that they can feel better than another person, I can't be sure. But how did he get to feel that need?
Like I said, nothing is black or white.

The Call - Part 2

You should read this part 1, before continuing to part 2 below. There will also be a part 3 featured tomorrow.

------

She's in there? my friend asks in the same tone I used before.

Ya, we need to get her out. A guy's attacking her. She's in the bathroom.

Let's go then.

He reaches for the doorknob with his left hand and raises his right hand, in front of his chest. He's holding his keys in his right hand, each key arranged between his fingers in order to, I imagine, to give a painful stabbing punch. Brass knuckled have nothing on these. I don't copy him, but prepare myself to rush in the room. God, I hope the door is unlocked, I think to myself.


He counts up to three, to signal when he'll try and throw the door open. His head bobs with each number.

1

2

3

At this point, I'm stop thinking. Everything that follows is just automatic. Looking back on it, I remember the actions but I feel like my mind was just riding auto-pilot to my body.

My friend's hand turns the doorknob. It's not locked. He swings the door open and rushes in. I'm right behind him.

A medium-height, middle aged, heavy-set, naked man is standing with his back to us, facing a closed door. My friend is running directly at the guy, head low and right-hand up. The man's upper body and head slowly turn around to realize that the motel's door is open and we're inside the room. He didn't expect us to walk in and he certainly didn't expect my friend to be on him so quickly.

The fucker never had a chance. My friend swings his key-hand into the back of the man's turning head. He then punches with his left hand and then interchanges a few hits with each hand. I come around for a punch and hit the man in the back. By that time, he's already falling away from what I assume is the bathroom door. He's on his knees and then onto his stomach. We start kicking him in the sides. He's screaming in pain. I can understand some of what he's saying, but it's muffled by his arms wrapped around his head for protection.

He's telling us to stop, or at least words close to that. We keep kicking.

I back away from the man, and turn to the bathroom door.

TAYLA! IT'S THOMAS! WE'RE HERE. OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR. WE'RE GETTING YOU OUT.

My friend keeps kicking the guy, although his pace is slow now. He knows the guy isn't going to move, let alone try anything. There are blood marks from the key-punches. I think the man's nose is also broken from the kicks.

IS THAT YOU THOMAS!?
It's Tayla's screaming voice, covered over my sobbing and crying.

YES! WE'RE HERE! OPEN THE DOOR! HURRY UP!

I head the door handle rattling and then turning. The door open to a crack. I can see Tayla's crying face. Her nose is bleeding. The door swings completely open. I grab Tayla's naked body into a hug and then quickly pick her up. My friend looks at me and Tayla and then at the man's motionless body on the ground.

LET'S GO!, I yell.

TAKE ME AWAY FROM HERE!, Tayla yells.

I run out the room, with Tayla in my arms and my friend behind me. We run to the turning point of motel, where the front meets the back. I stop, not sure what to do.

Still crying, Tayla's screams
LETS GET OUT OF HERE! JUST GO!
It takes me a few moments to understand her words, since she's screaming in my chest.

Again, I freeze. I don't know where to go. What about the Police? Who do I tell? What about the guy back there?

My friend, right next to me, has his shirt off and drapes it over Tayla's body.

His voice is calm and precise. It's the type of voice you believe instantly.
We're heading to my place, he says.

He runs in front of us and I follow him without pausing anymore.

We run for a few blocks. I can't remember how many but it's not far at all. We pass one or two people, but I only notice them enough not to run into them. I could care fucking less about anyone other than Tayla, my friend and myself right now.

My friend turns up some steps to his apartment and swings the door open. I run in. He points us to his bedroom, I walk in and I put Tayla onto the bed. My friend walks in after us. I lie down next to Tayla and ask her if she's hurt. She tells me that the guy tried to pin her against the wall and then started punching her. She says her body hurts, but she things she's ok.

While lying next to Tayla, I'm still holding her and she's still holding me. I don't dare let go.

At this point, time feels like it's passing normally. I don't know how long actually passed from the phone call to when my friend and I ran into the room to when we arrived back at the apartment, but now everything is slowed down.

I don't know where I found the energy to do that, but I only feel the pain in my legs and arms now, from running and carrying Tayla. I don't want to move for as long is possible.

Tayla, my friend and myself spend the next 2 hours in his room. She explains to us exactly what happened, from the point where he stopped being a "trick" and started hurting her, to when she punched him in the balls, ran into the bathroom and locked the door. I tell her exactly what I did from her phone call to when I yelled for her, on the other side of the bathroom door. My friend tells us his reaction to my call. He pretends that he doesn't realize or care about Tayla being a prostitute.

We check her body for any serious wounds. Apart from purple bruising on her face, neck, arms and chest, she seems alright. A doctor would confirm this the next day.

My friend tells us he thinks we both probably broke a few of the guy's bones. My friend also washes the blood off his keys, right hand and shoe. Part of me doesn't care, but another part of me wants to go back to the motel to see the damage.

Tayla keeps sobbing and shaking for at least an hour. She looks at us both and tells us she didn't actually call the police. I hold in my words for another day, only barely though.

Eventually, my friend gives us a lift in his car back to my apartment. I owe him big. I let him know that. He lets me know that he knows that.

Tayla sleeps in my bed that night. I don't dare stop holding her all night long.

The Call - Part 1

Tayla is the only person to whom I have ever mentioned that I write a blog. She's very supportive of this reaching out to the internet gayborhood and has loved reading about my life and thoughts. Considering she's a Woman-of-the-Night, she's down with all of this sharing intimate parts of myself with strangers. She also likes how she's even gotten a mention up here. In fact, the name I use for her in the blog is the real name she uses when she's on call. Her idea, I swear.

Anyway, I got her approval to write about this next story. What you're going to read should raise a lot of questions and comments. Because there's so much for me to say, this story will be done over 3 posts. This first two will cover the retelling of the actual event, which took place last year. The third post will try to cover the thoughts and questions regarding the event. You, the readers, could potentially have a lot to say in response to these 3 posts. Of course I don't have many readers so I might get no comments at all. Either is good and fine. Just remember: nothing is simple; everything is shades of grey.

So let's get started.

-------

I don't remember what I was doing before the call. In the end, it really doesn't matter. Before the ring of my cell phone, I don't even remember anything that happened during day. It was probably a good, normal day. Or at least I assume.

My cell phone rings. It's about 9pm. I skip across the floor to answer it.

Hello?

A scream into the phone
FUCK, THOMAS, THIS IS TAYLA I NEED HELP NOW.

I'm confused, surprised and amused.
What? Huh?

She cuts me off over my words, screaming and half sobbing into the receiver:
IT'S TAYLA. THIS IS NOT A FUCKING JOKE. I'M AT [nearby motel name and room number] WITH A TRICK.

I'm not confused anymore. I'm serious. And scared. She keeps yelling into the phone, without pausing.

HE FUCKING ATTACKED ME! I'VE LOCKED MYSELF IN THE BATHROOM AND HE'S TRYING TO BREAK IN! HE'S GOING TO KILL ME! FUCK, COME NOW! HE'S BANGING ON THE DOOR AND FUCKING YELLING! I'M FUCKING SCARED! THE POLICE ARE ON THEIR WAY BUT GET HERE NOW! HE'S GOING TO KILL ME! HELP ME!

I don't think at all. I just answer. I'm not yelling, but I'm speaking fast and with a tone like I'm ordering someone with the utmost seriousness.
I'm coming right now Tayla! Get anything to use as a weapon! I'm running out the door! I'll be there! Block the door! Scream! Make noise! I'm coming!

I slide my shoes on and I run out the apartment. I don't lock my door, although I have my keys simply because they were in my pocket before.

She's crying and screaming. It's muffled and scratchy.
OK! GET HERE FUCKING QUICK! HE'S SCREAMING AT ME! HE'S GOING TO KILL ME! GET HERE NOW!

I'm fucking coming Tayla! I have to go now. You're going to be ok! I'm fucking coming!

OK! OK!

She hangs up.

I'm in a full sprint toward the motel. I know exactly where it is and how to get there. It's about a 20 minute walk from my house. I'm dodging people and running through intersections while barely checking for traffic. I'm still holding my cell phone, but dialing a friend's number. He doesn't know Tayla, but he lives close to the motel.

My mind is absolutely terrified and but so singularly focused at the same time. I'm counting everything because nothing is going fast enough. My legs aren't fast enough. The cars don't move out of my way fast enough. My friend isn't picking up fast enough.

Hello?

It's Thomas. where are you?

Hey Thomas, I'm at home. Not doing-

I cut him off. I'm speaking with the same serious, fast, ordering tone as before.
This is not a fucking joke. My friend's getting attacked by someone at [motel name]. Get there now.

Dude, what? What are-

I'm not fucking joking. Get to [motel name] now. I need you.

You're serious-

Yes. I'm running there now. I'm scared. Get there now. Just go!

I'm coming.

I hang up.

I'm still running. It's the fastest I've ever been in a long time. At the same time, I think I'm just too slow. I'm terrified for Talya. I don't know how I'm keeping up this pace. I'm not imagining anything. My attention is only on one thing. Running.

I rush around a corner and I see the motel at the next block. I see my friend too. I can tell he's confused and freaked out just as much as I am. He's twisting his head around in every direction looking for what I'm running toward. As I get up to him, I don't stop running. I yell out the number of the motel room and rush past him. He yells something to me, along the lines of "this better not be a joke" but I don't answer. He believes me and runs behind me.

We run to the back side of the motel. I see the number of the room. The window's curtains are pulled in front of the windows. I run up to the door and stop. My friend is right next to me. For a second, I don't know what to do.

I freeze. I look at my friend. He looks at me. I'm not a person who really fights. I don't know what to do. Do I just open the door? Do I knock to get the person's attention? Can I stop him? What if he's bigger than me? Maybe he has a knife? Maybe he has a gun? Now I can't stop thinking.

She's in there? my friend asks in the same tone I used before.

Ya, we need to get her out. A guy's attacking her. She's in the bathroom.

Let's go then.

You're a dominatrix? Can we be friends?

Since university, I've developed a strong interest in sexual perversion. Any oddity or uncommon things related to sex, gender, sexuality and fetishes really interest me. Ever since my first Sex Ethics class, where we talked about power in relationships, cross-dressing, domination, fetishes, homosexuality/bisexuality, I've just loved learning about what people do in the bedroom (or else where). I love just talking to people about what atypical things turn them on and catching a glimpse into their erotic world, which from my sexual perspective I don't understand or have no emotional attachment to. What could be more odd, interesting and funny than a guy who like to cry when masturbating because it turns him on? Tears a lubricant, hahaha. (Nope, I'm not making this up)

Before I continue, I think it's a good idea to clarify two things:
First, people tend to associate a negative connotation to the word perversion. I don't see anything bad with unusual or atypical behaviors related to the realms of sex. Perversion itself doesn't mean bad, just unusual or uncommon
Second, I'm fascinated by sexual perversion, however it doesn't mean at all that I want to try out any of these things. I consider myself pretty vanilla when it comes to sex and I'm pretty happy to keep it that way. Like I said, I find it interesting because it's the fact that someone else finds these things arousing.

I think my enthusiasm for the subject stems from wanting to glimpse into someone else's life and understand their perspective. Voyeuristic? Ya, I think so (of course I also download porn so this should be no big surprise there). To me it's natural fact that most people don't really understand each other. We all lead our own singular lives, so it's tough to grasp a person's history and thought process for why they might react in a particular fashion to a specific situation. I, myself, like to talk with people and understand their perspective though. It's fascinating to hear the differences between the view of someone else and my own, in reference to the same situation.

How people feel with regards to sex and sexual behavior is a natural extension all this. Everyone likes to talk about sex, anyways. I just prefer to ask a few deeper, more invasive questions than most.

Craigslist is definitely a fun source for glimpsing into someone's head. Protected my anonymity, people just type out their innermost desires and fetishes in hopes of other who are looking for the same. I love reading the adds and seeing what bizarre, from my viewpoint, things people find hot. Anonymous sex is already really interesting, but popular other entries are people looking for gang bangs, domination or "I'm not gay but..."

A current friendship I have with a girl was purely even sparked because of my interest in her sexual perversion: Tayla is an escort.
Finding out she works in the sex industry was a complete accident. We had hung out with mutual friends at a few parties, then one day I was walking through a park and overheard some girl on the street speaking with a potential client about what they want: it was the type of talk along the lines of "200$ for a blowjob...". When I was through the park and on the sidewalk, I actually saw the person's face who had been talking and I recognize Tayla. She also recognized me and made the connection I had overheard her. Long-story short, we were both shocked, we avoided each other, but eventually began talking about it since I was obviously super interested in asking her about it all.

These days, most of what we talk about are her tricks and funny requests from clients. She likes how I'm nonjudgmental and morally-neutral about it: I have a little bit of concern but I see it as her life and her choices. I'm actually really amazed by her whole job and life, but that's the topic for another post.

Some memorable lines from conversations I've had with people:
- "I think I'm falling in love with a woman" - Alicia
- "Sex with guys and girls is so different, but they're both really good. You should give it a try Thomas." - a past guy friend telling me this
- "I love dirty talk"
- "I really get turned on by touching my nipples, but only after doing exercise"
- "I think she's actually non-sexual. Not asexual, but just non sexual. She's has no sexual urges at all."
- "Can you guys just get over it? Ya, she was a dominatrix in university. Whatever."
- "I feel bad for her. She's transitioning from a man to a woman, but she still has 5 o'clock shadow."
- "It's an overwhelming urge to go to the bathroom and jack-off with these strangers."
- " And she put the ping pong ball in her vagina and clenched and shot it out at me! I loved every moment of it."
- "Ya, so she gets payed once a month to go to the man's house and piss on him."
- "They had all done so much drugs that one man was trying to shove his entire head into another guy's ass" - my ex-roommates' Dad saying this.
- "Maybe you want me to lick your feet?" - creepy stalker email I received, that made me fall out of my chair and almost die from laughter.

My life is weird and I love it like that.

5 Days

Let's set up the scene:

My Friend and I are in St. Petersburgh, Russia. This is the first part of our whirlwind tour of Eastern Europe for the half of the summer. It's windy and raining outside, so her and myself are sitting in the hostel's kitchen, talking to a cool Australian guy.

The protagonist of the story, Nikita, is sitting at the front desk of the hostel, having just started his shift. He is the good guy, although still a dick.

Enter the antagonist: Phil, the middle-aged, German tourist, walks into the hostel. He's a bulky guy (250 pounds) and a little socially awkward. Not in a pleasant "we all speak different languages and come from different cultures so we inherently appear slight awkward and funny to one-another" but in a "whenever he's in the same room as My Friend, he can't stop silently staring at her and he especially loves to do this when she is sleeping".

And now for the action:

Phil yells at Nikita. "You call me a bastard! You call me a Nazi!"

I can't see Nikita's reaction.

Phil yells some more.

Phil walks toward us in the kitchen, still screaming. He opens up a beer bottle, drinks some, and then smashes it on the table spilling beer on himself. "They call me a bastard! They call me a Nazi!"

Australian Guy, My Friend and I stop talking. We all give each other awkward looks, to confirm that we realize that he's drunk and that clearly Nikita and himself have had some sort of mis-communication. That or maybe Nikita was just being a dick. I would be told later that, stereotypically, Russians don't like Germans. I would also hear later that he wouldn't leave the female desk clerks alone.

Phil, Australian Guy, My Friend and I all sit silently.

Phil puts down the beer, gets up and runs to the hostel desk and starts punching Nikita. We all stay seated in shock. Nikita jumps over the front desk and looks at Phil, yelling at him. Nikita doesn't know what to do.

Phil yells "I am not a bastard! I am not a Nazi! You are bastard! You are Nazi!"

Phil decides to turn around, walk back toward us and drink more beer. Nikita looks down the hall at us in horror. We look back at Nikita in horror. None of us know what to so.

Being the intelligent person that I am, I say: "Phil, I think you should just calm down. I have a bottle of vodka in the fridge. Do you want some vodka?"

Phil ignores me. Unlike the rest of us, he does know what to do. He opens a second beer, drinks it, spills it, puts it on the table and runs at Nikita again. Being 80 pounds lighter than Phil, Nikita runs out of the hostel. Phil doesn't chase after him, but instead decides to sit next to my Friend and drink beer. Australian Guy, My Friend and I all sit quietly, looking towards the floor wondering what the hell we're going to do.

Phil says: "Don't worry - no problem with you. Them, they treat me like shit. Call me bastard! Call me Nazi!"

A small part of me becomes calm. Luckily, the freaked out part of me screams in my head: "We all know how this is going to end! Russian police! Passport checks! Bribing! Ass-kicking". The asshole in me suggests making popcorn, in anticipation of the second act.

10 minutes pass.

Nikita walks back into the hostel. 4 of Nikita's friends also walk into the hostel.

Phil decides to run at them and swing a few punches. They dodge and hold themselves back. They want Phil just to stay seated in the kitchen. We just want to get the hell out of there. I catch a few Russians words that Nikita says. The police are on the way.

Australian Guy, My Friend and I all get up on the same cue and walk past Phil, Nikita and his friends to go outside. We'd rather avoid the police, who would really love to get their hands on our passports. Australian Guy brings an empty beer bottle.

We hangout in front of the entrance. They smoke and we all listen to Phil & "Friends" yell and possibly punch each other.

I ask "Why did you bring the beer bottle?" to Australian Guy.

"If Phil was going to rush me, I was gonna smack him with this," he replies.

I wish I was as smart as Australian Guy.

The police arrive. We simultaneously point them toward the entrance of the hostel. They go upstairs, we hear some more yelling and then it gets quiet. We decide it's best to go 2 floors up because it's cold and we want to avoid the police as they leave.

We hangout upstairs for a while, laugh and talk. It seems awfully quiet.

Eventually we head back downstairs to the main floor. The police and Phil are walking downstairs. We see Nikita and head over to him.

My Friend asks "Are you ok? That was so freaky!"

Nikita replies "Ya, no problem. It's all guuuuud"

I note that Nikita still sounds like a douche.

My Friend: "What's going to happen to Phil?"

Nikita: "They will send him back to Germany, but not after [punching motion] him in jail for 5 days."
Nikita laughs. Australian Guy, My Friend and I join in, laughing awkwardly while trading looks.

We walk back to the kitchen and look out the window. Phil is lying on the ground outside, getting kicked in the chest by one of the policemen.

------

A few days later, while drinking in the twilight of Estonia's capital, I think back to Phil. I can't help feel a little sorry. 5 days is a long time.