These Gay Ghosts… The Continuing Bullshit over Photos, Honesty and Me
Of late, I’ve been so lucky to engage with some interesting conversations. The introduction of Kik as an option to get in touch with me produced many more inquiries along with the normal production of e-mails and other messaging. Generally, I’m grateful.
But yet again, I get a message that just sends me over the edge. It seems to be a frequent of late.
“How old are you?”
Visiting my blog (where you are right this very moment unless you’re reading a feed), just click the About Me page in the navigation. All my basics appear there. My age and stats. None inflated or improved to make me seem younger, weigh less or more athletic or hung than I actually am. The cock pics are mine. The avatar pic on Twitter is me.
It’s so fucking easy.
However, because I put myself out there, so many people expect that I shall continue to give and give and give with no expectation of anything in return. As people get in touch, many begin with a barrage of questions (again, some available answers online) but mostly with an expectation that I shall give them a personal rendition of everything about me.
No fucking way.
Even as I get to know people, we’ll exchange a little and I’ll mention things like my next post about my last hook-up has gone online. I’ll get a response inquiring about what happened. I’ll let them know it’s ONLINE.
“I know, but I’d rather hear it from you.” Or, my favorite. “I just don’t want to open my browser.”
What? You’re too fucking lazy to open your browser and type, “iblastinside.com”?
I even get asked for people to send them a link.
I actually enjoy meeting the people who read my stuff and getting to know them. But if it just doesn’t chap my ass (and currently, my ass is chapped thanks to one hook-up) that people won’t share a single iota of themselves back. Or they share just enough.
I’m not exactly your everyday porn producer and I don’t have the backing of any major studio. I do this myself. I’ve had death-threats from what I’ve posted — some may be legitimate and some possibly not serious. Over time, I’ve used my gut to weed out the liars.
But in the last couple of years, the sophistication of those who develop online personas has indeed risen to a level worthy of any fictional novel.
I wrote of my Catfish in Las Vegas (you need to see the documentary “Catfish” to truly get the reference, spoiler alert if you click the link), but he hasn’t been the only one to fool me. A retired woman in late 2009 and early 2010 provided quite an elaborate scheme, duping me and several others, using photographs and the voice of an underaged employee to assist in the con. I had several entries a while back but took them down since they exposed the young man and the woman’s family including her grandchildren.
Many others have come along and I’ve rejected outright.
As I’ve written about hot or not photography and the lies men tell , I’ve got a strong bullshit meter now.
Fuck if it’s not going off all the fucking time now.
The excuses are a lot of the same and some new ones. The new one that just gets me — coming from youthful (but legal) 19-year-olds to 25-year-olds: I have anxiety about taking my own photo.
Take a Xanax.
I’ve been chatting with this one hottie via Kik in Chicago. Or he says he’s in Chi-town. He sends me photos of people he fucks. Photos of his roommate. Of his roommate’s half brother. But when it came to sending a photo of himself, fuck if suddenly he had an anxiety attack and couldn’t send.
For another guy, this one in D.C., I get a limited number of photos. Three maximum. Then he become indignant about providing more, being insulted if I ask for additional images as if I am somehow asking for them to send me $1,000.
These guys haven’t hesitated to send me photos of with whom they fuck around. In some cases, the images will have come from amateur websites, blogs or Twitter accounts. Of course, my own photos are being used by others. We cannot stop that. There’s a guy in Pennsylvania who uses my cock pic in his Manhunt profile and, quite frankly, short of driving to Manhunt and whipping it out, there’s no way of proving it’s mine.
They lie and speak of others stealing their identity.
How to prove it?
It’s like a family whose loved one has keep kidnapped. I need “proof of life,” so I generally ask for an unusual photo that they might not have handy. For example, get me a photo of yourself in your underwear, showing both nipples, shooting a bird with your left hand in your bathroom mirror.
The only problem is if they’ve got another source for photos — meaning another guy on the hook like you — they can get you one quick from him. Your best bet is to establish where they or are some interesting fact prior to the photo — like the kind or color of underwear they’re wearing.
For one of mine, the underwear changed color
Still, those aren’t the only excuses one gets. Today, I received one of the most unusual: I can’t send or receive photos or visit your website until after 5 p.m.
Seriously, what the fuck?
He claimed to know nothing about me so it was “fair” for us to discuss everything because we both knew nothing about the other.
Even if his little story were true, as soon as the clock struck 5, he’d be able to find a whole shit lot about me.
Another bottom told me yesterday that his Grindr wouldn’t allow him to upload photos. I mentioned e-mail probably worked. He didn’t think about that. But no volunteer to send since he was “discreet.” I could drive 20 miles to his place and see his offer and, if I didn’t like, I could leave.
I met a local the other day for coffee who had a similar situation. The gentleman invited him over and he drove (get this) 42 miles one way. When he arrived, the man opened the door: Unshaven, unbathed and in a bathrobe.
That wasn’t the worst part.
The man unfortunately had some medical condition that forced him to use a colostomy bag . All of these were issues neglected to be mentioned. And the fucking asshole hoped that the bad medical condition would call out for a pity fuck. He didn’t get one.
I call bullshit on people without pictures.
Bullshit about viruses eating all your images is just that — bullshit. Your computer crashing and taking everything, same thing.
You’re talking to someone who knows enough to know a lie.
You don’t know how to attach and send an image? GET THE FUCK OFF THE INTERNET.
As for using a work phone or someone monitoring your phone, um, don’t be a damn idiot about that too. You’re e-mailing or messaging me on it. And just keep in mind, I now have the number. I could call or message at inopportune times and tell whoever answers what’s going on with you.
If you’re going to give excuses, then expect to be getting fucked some other way by me.
Moreover, the clear text messages or e-mails from that same damn phone will get you into a whole lot more trouble than sending G-rated images of yourself.
For all the gay ghosts, the fakes who love to trick me, there are those who are real and don’t mind being on the up and up. Like this Midwestern guy who’s just plain slutty and doesn’t mind letting me know it. We shoot the shit, Skype, text, whatever. And someday I’ll fuck him. Breed him. Put him into my camp of those carrying around my DNA.
Do you have to be 19 years old and a twink? No. He’s not. And every time I talk with him, he gets hotter. He doesn’t have to make shit up. He can tell me about his fucked up hook up or he can show me the video of his really hot breeding.
I’m not summoning a spirit with him. He’s real.
There will be a follow-up piece for my little Chicago friend and just for him.
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