Mr. Banana Hammock, Irresistable God of a Man

Well rested from my night in, I am really looking forward to a night on the town. It has been said that I've favorably compared myself to the Dalai Lama and Jesus. This is true. Except I’m more pumped. Important meeting in the AM, so I put on my grey flannel suit. Blue shirt. The arms are ripped off of both to accommodate my rippling biceps. The shirt stretched taut against my ballooning pecs. My nipples hard from the chill morning air. To accent the outfit I throw on a Zadi tie from Milan. Blue with little yellow fish. Armani glasses with blue tinted frames to better stalk my prey.

I’m feeling the need for a pump. The multinational conglomerate that I help run was wise to consult me on gym setup and the training equipment necessary to keep our workforce in top-notch physical shape. I head down to the gym.

Well known to all, any slippage could be dangerous if there are women working out in the vicinity. Last time I had slippage at the gym, three ladies went into labor and four got pregnant. And me? I cannot afford another paternity suit. I apply some Bikini Bite to make sure nothing pops out unexpectedly and slip into my hot pink banana hammock. Extra large. I hit the gym.

You can never do too much work on your pecs, abs and biceps as far as I’m concerned: Preacher Reverse Curl, Seated Concentration Curl, Crossover Chest Fly, Pullover Crunch. The speakers in the gym pumping out Bob Seger. “Practicing our night moves,” I’m thinking: Bob, maybe later tonight.

After my shower, while I air dry, I do a Front Double Biceps, Front Abdominal-Thigh Isolation, Front Lat Spread combo in the mirror and try to take it all in -- total fitness and power, muscle mass, ripped definition, stamina, intensity, mental focus.

Sensing potential trouble later in the evening, I might need to call on the deadly and savage martial art of Shohei-Ryu-Bollywood Karate of which I am a master. I put on my yellow bustier and with leopard print hipsters like Sushmita Sen wore in Tumko Naa Bhool Payenge, and head for the Orange line at Dunn Loring, switch off at Metro Center, and take the Red line to Woodley Park. I step inside Angles and flex, wink, and point with a trigger finger to a couple of swooning lovelies.

I order a Cadenhead's Old Raj Gin and Hybolin Decanoate and settle in with Jim who is looking for more advice from the master of man on woman sensuality. He’s having “size” and “duration” issues, so I have to draw from my vast knowledge of tantrism. I say, “Jim, try this. First rub your lingam with wasp stings and massage it with sweet oil. When it swells, let it dangle for ten nights through a hole in your bed, going to sleep each night on your stomach. After this period use a cool ointment to remove the pain and swelling. Never fails. And her yoni will be pleased.” And Jim’s all, “Ouch. You did this?” And I’m, “Me? No need. Never had a problem in that department. I’m just here to impart my vast knowledge of tantric sensuality.” With that I head back to my Adams Morgan compound.

Me? Shohei-Ryu-Bollywood Karate. Concern about slippage. Total fitness. Mental focus. Dignity. That is what I am about. And if you are tired of the whiny metrosexual denizens of craigslist, people like “Mr. Seriously Dude,” and want a man considered expert in all things related to man on woman sensuality, you know where to write.

He gets mentions on craigslist:

" its true ,its a joke or at least it was last year but he seems to have reached a new level of desperation or is unemployed maybe on disability or SSI judging by his prolific posting as of late
maybe someone should check on him ,bring him soup"