I am one more errant pubic hair away from ending it all.
Your houseboy I may be, your mother I am not.
I will not teach you to be good mannered, well groomed, or soft spoken.
That was someone else's job.
My job is to unearth your toenail clippings from the carpet, throw out the condom wrapper you've doubled as a bookmark and left conveniently dog-earring a passage from Leviticus, and goddamn it I will even organize your dildo collection by order of ascending length and girth.
But that's where I draw the line.
I use Grindr not to get off, but rather to get out.
I don't keep regular hours, and it's nice to know exactly how many feet away I might be from the meth-addicted former selectman who raped me in front of my fireplace over PBR tallboys during a roaring February ice storm.
I am not looking for a hero, just someone to be here.
I don't need to be saved; I just want to be spared pocked innuendo and flowery language.
If you want to fuck me, then just stick it in.
Let me know first, ideally not through text, SMS, Skype, FaceTime, IM, Manhunt, Craigslist, Adam4Adam, OKCupid, or whatever creepy new site the Germans are working on.
Say it.
With words.
Out loud.
