This Weekend at the Bananahammock Compound

This past Sunday I woke up promptly at the triple-nickel. That’s 5:55AM for those of you who are unaware. I’m lying in bed admiring my physique in the mirrors above my big round rotating bed, snug in the flannel sheets that my compound staff put on, taking off the satin sheets for the season. Trying to get the blood flowing, I practice a couple of poses--Front Double Biceps, Front Lat Spread—then I roll over and do a Back lat spread though I cannot admire my muscle mass as now I am face down in bed.

I get up, shower, and air dry over my glass of breakfast wine. Naked and air drying, I take my morning supplement, Pump Tech™, which of course has led to even better pumps, jacked up my Nitric Oxide levels, increased my vascular response, and has my muscles blown up like balloons.

I decide I need to do some grocery shopping. Chilly morning, I slip commando-style into my Carla Behrle leather pants. Blue Armani flannel shirt with the arms pre-ripped off to accommodate my gigantic biceps. The shirt fits like a glove, taught across my ripped pecs. I’m strolling down the aisles at El Safeway with my shopping list and coupons:

ground panda
condor eggs
yak milk
emperor penguin tenderloin
Fresca
pepper jack cheese
Snuggle
apples
asparagus

The usual. Anyway, I’m over by the condom gulag and I notice this woman noticing me. Noticing my ripped definition. Noticing my muscle mass. Noticing my powerful presence. She’s staring at my crotch and squeezing those Fuji apples to test for firmness I suppose. And drooling. I approach and let her know that if she’s after something really firm, she should come back to my Adams Morgan compound for a glass of breakfast wine and enjoy a Lifetime movie, “Hunger Point” starring Barbara Hershey as an overbearing mother who nit-picks her daughter into bulimia.

Me you ask? Grocery shopping. Getting up early on Sunday. Lifetime movies. That is what I am about.

Working out. Looking good. 400 posts. That is what I am about.

Balmy morning. I am in my Carla Behrle leather pants. No shirt. Leaving my Adams Morgan compound at 8AM. I’m running late for my morning meeting with high government officials. My meeting with high government officials at NASA on whether NASA should take my image and style into outer space -- Autonomous Orbit Control & Stationkeeping for a Satellite Constellation with extra endurance. Freeze dried endangered delicacies for astronauts: NASA Space Shuttle Astronaut Toilet, Waste Collection System Restraint Bag with a picture of yours truly in my signature Back Lat Spread pose. You get the idea. I feel thought I am getting stretched a bit thin as the current Administration is trying to get me to aid the war effort by pacifying the Iraqi insurgents with my smoldering glance. I guess there is enough of me to go around though. I was even able to get in my SuperFreak Workout for Juiced-Up Psychos afterward and recovered some of my virility. The pump was good. The burn was better.

The Orange line was full of lovelies, but not as many as I am used to. I assume some are out on their flexible schedules. This gave me ample opportunity to pose -- Front Double Biceps, Front Lat Spread, Side Chest, Back Double Biceps, and signature Back Lat Spread. One lovely turns bright pink and faints. Another goes into labor. A third wants me to sign her breasts. I whip out my Mr. Sharpie and oblige. A fourth wants a charcoal rubbing of my abs. Have at it, babe!

I’m thinking of leaving work a little early today, 2PM, to head down to Borders. South of Dupont Circle. I think some music would liven my work-out. Maybe some Jill Sobule or Rilo Kiley or Sisters Of Sharon. After that, maybe head over to Angles for a Cadenhead's Old Raj Gin and Hybolin Decanoate.

Me you ask? Working out. Looking good. Girls that rock. Pleasing the lovelies of the Orange line. That is what I am about. And if you are tired of the New Age Submissives of craigslist, drop me a line.

The Daily "Chain you to my Kitchen Stove" Search Update...

Mr. Needle in a Haystack (see below) is at it again. I respond...

barefoot and pregnant...

October 20th Update: So, I'm almost getting more responses than I can count that high let alone reply to. At last count I ran out of fingers and toes yesterday alone. So I’ve received more than I have fingers and toes. I have the regular amount of fingers and toes if you’re all curious.

But, obviously, I'm still writing this update, so that "One of a Kind" is still out there.

Today, all I wanted to say is that yesterday I posted, and I quote, “I can walk into a room full of angry people and they will all stop being angry and will love and adore me. Small birds alight on my outstretched arms when I’m in Rock Creek Park. Squirrels and raccoons will nuzzle my feet. I’m really good at parallel parking. So good in fact pedestrians erupt in spontaneous cheering when I do. I’ve won the Nobel Prize for “outstanding achievements in the pursuit of excellence.” The laws of physics don’t apply to me.”

This statement is entirely true. In addition, though I would like to add that high government officials have recently asked me to solve the crisis in the Middle East with my smoldering good looks. I’ve played tennis naked while people cheered my grace and dignity on the court. People, who don’t even know me, stop me on the street and ask me questions. Questions like, “when did you become so fantastic or were you born that way?” or “you have great hair, can I copy your hairstyle?” and even “how do I get to the zoo?” I’ve also been favorably compared to Jesus AND the Dalai Lama.


*Previous update and original posting below*

Hope everyone's having a great day!

Updated! “One of a Kind.” Old-fashioned, Superlatively Gorgeous...

Updated! Self-described "unique" 27 year-old maybe only unique in his view of women, circa 1950s I guess...(permalink).

You know how most people say they're looking for a "One of a Kind" lady or some other awfully cliché comment like I’m looking for a "Needle in a Haystack"? Well, in my case I truly think it's appropriate.

I genuinely think that the girl I'm looking for is most likely one in a trillion or maybe she never even has exited or even she might only exist in my imagination or maybe she exists on some barely legal porn website. Or maybe I could look at myself in the mirror and then imagine myself with boobies and long hair and NO ambition but to please me! Wow! That paradox has my head spinning. It’s like going back in time and meeting yourself. What would happen? Would the universe implode?

A little dramatic? Sure, maybe. But let me explain, and then you'll see....

For starters, I'm a tall, very attractive and fit 37 year old guy. I've got a super job, a super apartment, a ficus AND a spider plant (which in my humble opinion are pretty super as far as plants go) and am about as outgoing, sociable and fun as they come. I love travelling, spelling, exploring new places and trying new things. I like dancing the YMCA! I've dated models, psychotic bloggers, hill rats, and drama queens... but ultimately just want to meet the girl I'm going to spend the rest of my life with. I don't want anything short term, no meaningless flings, just "The One." Think of George and Martha in “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf.”

Life is just better with a yes-man, er woman, in my corner. I hate all this "independence" garbage that is preached about constantly by feminists and others. I've driven across the country once with someone, but was wearing headphones so it seemed like I was alone. I can walk into a room full of angry people and they will all stop being angry and will love and adore me. Small birds alight on my outstretched arms when I’m in Rock Creek Park. Squirrels and raccoons will nuzzle my feet. I’m really good at parallel parking. So good in fact pedestrians erupt in spontaneous cheering when I do. I’ve won the Nobel prize for “outstanding achievements in the pursuit of excellence.” The laws of physics don’t apply to me.

What's the next catch? Well, I also know myself extremely well. I’d say better than anyone else for that matter. I'm about as old-fashioned a 37 year old as you’ll find. I want a 50’s style relationship, where I come first.

Now, what exactly does that mean? Well, once my wife and I get married and have kids, my wife won't be working any more for starters. Working outside of the home is not only bad for the kids, it’s also bad for the relationship. She might meet someone at work or the fact that she has her own money would make it easier for her to leave me. Remember, this is the 50’s and nobody gets divorced. It also means all the old-fashioned and outdated stuff that society has come to tell everyone is not politically correct anymore too. Like if you sass me, I’ll take out my belt. Or you have an opinion, I’ll take out my belt. Or if you don’t keep the place clean or fetch me beers fast enough, well, you know the drill.

I think the guy needs to be the head of the household. I think he needs to be the protector, the provider, the person who metes out punishments, and when it comes right down to it the guy who leads the family.

My problem is my whole life I've dated "trophy wife types." It's a Catch-22, or another poorly used cliché, because I'm only physically attracted to trophy wife types. And unfortunately, in this day and age, it is damn hard to change people.

I really just want a super attractive, mindless, person. Isn’t it evident I only care about your looks yet? One that'll quit working once there's kids. One that'll always be at my side. One that'll let me take care of everything simply because she trusts that I'm going to always take care of everything.

And on the occasions when I do make a decision that turns out badly... one that stands by my side and is supportive no matter what. Because my opinions are the only one’s that matter.

I'm 6'1" and 169lbs, good shape and a trendy, in an old fashioned, flannelly, Michigan sort of way, and superlatively gorgeous overall. I've got dozens and dozens of pictures sitting here on my comp, and I’ll show you one of “mine” first. Then you can show me “yours.”

Looking forward to meeting "You".

Experience my animalistic version of man on woman sensuality

Preparing for a meeting this afternoon with high government officials and a powerful DC lobbying group. I’m in my Carla Behrle leather pants. No shirt. My medallion of a Buddha Vitarka Mudra flanked by a couple of Bodhisattvas bounces off my rock hard pecs as I type. My head bouncing in rhythm to music that only I can hear. I was in the gym earlier today. A couple of days now into my new fitness regime. My SuperFreak Workout for Juiced-Up Psychos. I can still feel the pump. I can still feel the burn. I’m contemplating what I want to eat for lunch. I’m thinking, Piccola Scimmia con Vino Rosso. Spider monkey is best served con Aceto, braised in vinegar and maybe rosemary, but our cafeteria is a bit limited.

My commute this morning was quite dull. I had to drop off rent for my Adams Morgan compound, which left me closer to the green line. Columbia Heights to Gallery Place to Metro Center to Dunn Loring. Not to be disrespectful, but the red line ladies are of a different class altogether. I soldiered on and gave a flex wink point with a trigger-finger to a few and gave them a series of poses that drove them nuts: Front Double Biceps, Front Lat Spread, Side Chest, Back Double Biceps, and signature Back Lat Spread. They are impressed with my physique and mien -- muscle mass, density, ripped definition, intensity, stamina, endurance, mental focus, dignity, flair, humility.

Me you ask? Eating bush meat. Posing for ladies attractive and not. Taking advantage of public transportation. Humility. That is what I am about. And to the Hill staffer who questioned whether or not I had a job: if you really want to experience my powerful and animalistic version of man on woman sensuality just drop an email. That goes for the rest of you also.

looking for females

Am I hot or not (permalink).

i'm 37 years old 6’1” 169 pounds vietnamese ppl said that i'm hot.

Jenny Lewis Sings about Mr. BH's "Big Guns."

Flashback. Sunday evening. I’m at the 9:30 Club to check out Jenny Lewis and the Watson Twins. The Blow opened. Vietnam followed. Then came Jenny Lewis and the Watson Twins. It was all age show. It was warm. I was in my Carla Behrle leather pants. No shirt. She sings “The Big Guns.” It’s about me, naturally. My new fitness regime, Mr. Banana Hammock’s SuperFreak Workout for Juiced-Up Psychos has got my guns blown up like balloons. Really big guns indeed. I can still feel the pump. I can still feel the burn.

I point wink with a trigger finger at Jenny and she returns the gesture. Without thinking, I begin a pose routine to impress Jenny: Front Double Biceps, Front Lat Spread, Side Chest, Back Double Biceps, and signature Back Lat Spread. She is impressed with my physique and mien -- muscle mass, density, ripped definition, intensity, stamina, endurance, mental focus, dignity, flair, humility. The over 21-set in attendance are also impressed. Unfortunately, so are members of the dangerous Tween Syndicate who are also in attendance. Mr. Banana Hammock is about female attention, don’t get me wrong. What Mr. Banana Hammock isn’t about, though, is jailbait.

So I am left to defend myself with the Heiwa discipline of the ancient and deadly art of Shohei-Ryu-Bollywood Karate. Regular Shohei-Ryu-Bollywood Karate requires us to vanquish our foes with extreme prejudice. Golden-cock-stands-on-one-leg-Dhandia and needle-at-sea-bottom-Araalam mudra followed with a HamsaPaksham mudra. You know. Stuff like that. Probably too much power for the Tweens. The Heiwa discipline requires of me that I do no harm while I subdue my foe. This is the tack I must take. So in a flurry that to most would appear like a big blurry mass, and at the same time taking great care, I am able to subdue the Tween Syndicate without harming them or touching them in any way improper.

Tired, I retreat to Busboys and Poets where I order a Complete Creatine Effervescent Power and scotch and a panda sausage pizza while numerous sycophants approach and as me to sign their breasts with a Mr. Sharpie. I, of course, oblige.

Me you ask? Girl bands. Eating endangered animals in sausage form on pizzas. Signing breasts. Experiencing man on woman sensuality with the legally-aged members of the female persuasion. That is what I am about. And if you want me to sign your breasts, let me know. I’ve got a new blue Mr. Sharpie.

Sea Turtle Eggs Benedict with Marmoset Bacon. Breakfast Wine.

Waking up around six AM this morning in my Adams Morgan compound, I glance up to the mirrors over my bed and take it all in -- muscle mass, density, ripped definition, intensity, stamina, endurance, mental focus, dignity, flair, and humility. I shower. While I am air drying I read the Washington Post and treat myself to a breakfast of sea turtle Eggs Benedict with marmoset bacon. I wash it down with a glass of breakfast wine.

Dry I am contemplating my morning commute. The post says it will be warm today, so I throw on my Carla Behrle leather pants. No shirt. I grab my New Yorker that came in the mail yesterday and I head for the Orange line from Farragut West to Dunn Loring. Yes I am at work today. The multinational conglomerate that I help run never rests. When I hit the platform I notice that I am not alone. Tons of lovelies on the platform. I give them a few poses before the train arrives: Front Double Biceps, Front Lat Spread, Side Chest, Back Double Biceps, and signature Back Lat Spread. You can tell they are getting hot. A brown haired woman nearly faints before she can grab for the ceiling of the train. I suspect my pheromones are overpowering her ability to balance. Others react differently. A green-eyed blond starts grinding her ass into my banana hammock and doesn’t stop until she gets off at Farragut North. All in all, a good morning for yours truly.

Me you ask? Air drying. Eating exotic and endangered animals. Public transportation. Keeping informed. That is what I am about. And if you want to rub your ass on my banana hammock on metro, please keep in mind that shouting, “Ride’em Cowboy!” probably isn’t appropriate behavior.

He gets letters:

"Is your full time job to post on CL?"

Extreme posing. Dressing well. That is what I am about.

Important meeting later this evening, so after my Superfreak Workout for Juiced-Up Psychos 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 head to the Orange line to Metro Center then grab the Red line to Woodley Park.

Hitting the Red line platform in stride I notice a plethora of lovelies. Cracking my neck, I give them my smoky stare with one eyebrow raised, oozing raw sexuality. I launch into a series of poses: Front Double Biceps, Front Lat Spread, Side Chest, Back Double Biceps, and signature Back Lat Spread. One woman faints. Another lunges at my banana hammock, her eyes wild and fixated on my prodigious manhood. I brush her aside. I don’t countenance inappropriate public behavior on Metrorail in DC. Maybe they behave that way in Clarendon or Crystal City, but not in tony Woodley Park.

The train arrives, I get on, and dive into David Eggers latest offering, “You Shall Know Our Velocity,” my head bouncing in rhythm to music only I can hear. Until, of course, a lovely comes up to me, impressed with my posing and impressed with muscle mass, density, ripped definition, intensity, stamina, endurance, mental focus, dignity, flair, and humility. She wants me to autograph her breasts with my Mr. Sharpie. Luckily, I have it on me today and am happy to oblige.

I stop off at the Organic Chinese Restaurant and pick up my standing order of General Tso’s Macaque. The owner greets me by my Chinese name, Sho Kui Ge. He doesn’t charge me as I am a spokesmodel for his business. I head home to my Adams Morgan Compound to eat.

Me you ask? Extreme posing. Dressing well. Intolerant of bad behavior in public. Reading quality fiction. And if you can resist lunging at my prodigious manhood on metro, drop me a line.

He gets letters:

"Thank you Mr. Banana Hammock for having an awesome sense of humor. Everyday you me laugh! Please don't stop posting, they never get old."

Mr. Banana Hammock's SuperFreak Workout for Juiced-Up Psychos.

Sitting in my office. Tired. Contemplating what to wear for Halloween at the office later this month. I’m in my Carla Behrle leather pants. No shirt. I’m thinking maybe I’ll be a 70s porn star, except I have no time to grow a moustache. I’m thinking maybe I’ll wear my lime green polyester Armani leisure suit. Buffalo shirt. I’m thinking that should definitely get the ladies of the Orange line pretty hot, although frankly, they’re already pretty overheated in my humble opinion.

This morning I’m riding the Orange line from Farragut West to Dunn Loring. It’s about 8:30 AM. The women are all over me. I cannot even get into my Atlantic article on North Korea. One lovely wants a charcoal rubbing of my abs. Another wants me to bend a piece of iron rebar she brought along with her this morning into an origami animal shape. Using my glutes. “Leaping Stag,” she says. I oblige. A third drops to her knees ands starts clawing at my crotch, muttering something about buffing my banana hammock. I pick her up, hand her a glass of water and a fistful of Valium. I tell her I am commando this morning and remind her of what happened to Icarus.

I finally make it into work, grab a double-cap-frap-half-caf-mocha-PowerBar from the cafeteria, and head down to the gym. I slip out of my Carla Behrle leather pants and into my lime green banana hammock, securing it in place with some bikini bite. I’ve designed a routine in preparation for my competition in the Bali Jute Mill Bodybuilding Invitational in Bangladesh coming up soon. I need an extra pump and extra fast. I call it Mr. Banana Hammock's SuperFreak Workout for Juiced-Up Psychos. It has a nice ring I think, don’t you? It only takes 45 minutes. I shower. Air drying, I pose in the mirror and take it all in -- muscle mass, density, ripped definition, intensity, stamina, endurance, mental focus, dignity, flair. I slip back into my Carla Behrle leather pants. No shirt. I head back to the office.

Me you ask? Clothes horse. Politically aware. Dispenser of pharmaceuticals to the needy. Celebrating all of the holidays with panache. That is what I am about. And if you feel the need to claw at my crotch, make sure I am not commando. Unless of course you’re not worried about melting your wings.

Tantric Fella seeks woman seeking massage replete with Trantriosity

Perfect stranger, idiot, would like to rub your vulva (permalink).

I'm a full tantriotic master who with his fingers fraught with tantricness and such can give you professional tantra sessions replete with tratriosity. I'm looking for a tantrically-inclined woman who seeks the tantric touch of tantranicity.

If you're missing being touched tantrically and the tantricness of trantriotic trantra from your life, you're looking for a new level of tantriciousness in your tantric experiences, please contact me with your pic in your e-mail and let's get a chance to get to know each other better. Tantrically of course.

I look forward to hearing from you.

My glutes can bend rebar into more than just origami swan shapes

Another chilly morning. I’m on the Orange line from Farragut West to Dunn Loring. Lovelies abound this morning. I’m in my dark green Armani suit and green shirt. The arms of both are ripped off to accommodate my ever-expanding biceps. All I can say is, “thank you PUMP TECH™!” This product has also increased my vascular response, has created serious muscle pumps, and jacked up my nitric oxide levels. I have the most outrageous pumps now more than ever.

I’m practicing my pose downs on the platform waiting for the train, periodically flexing, winking, and pointing with a trigger finger to some of the nearby lovelies, my head bobbing in rhythm to music only I can hear. Much swooning results from my display. They are dazzled as they take it all in -- muscle mass, density, ripped definition, intensity, stamina, endurance, mental focus. The train arrives and is crowded. I’m reading my Atlantic. Hands running up and down my washboard abs and kneading my rock hard glutes. A beautiful freckled blonde asks me to bend something for her with a piece of iron rebar that she has along with her, having heard that my glutes can bend iron rebar into origami swan shapes. A gallery in Dupont wants to show my unique butt sculptures, what they call them anyway, so I’ve been practicing folding more difficult animals. I bend her a lioness. She gets off at Rosslyn before I can get a number.

As I type this missive, my thick gold bracelet is clanging on my keyboard. I’m eating leftovers from last night. General Tso’s Macaque from the organic Chinese place in Woodley Park. They deliver. And their Macaque is the best in town. I need to get back to work as I am the keystone in this multinational corporation. Without me the whole place falls to the ground. And if you would like a private viewing of my unique butt sculptures, drop me a line. I can also do a leaping buck.

Eating endangered species. Flair. Dignity. That is what I am about.

Travel log: Earlier this weekend, Silver Spring, Maryland.

I’m sitting at the bar in the Marriott Intercontinental. Five Stars. I’m wearing my Carla Behrle leather pants. No shirt. I order my second Xango™ Juice and HGH Velvet plus IGF-1 & IGF-2. Chase it with a shot of Goldschlager, increasing my inner bling. My meetings earlier with high government officials in Maryland leave me assured that the property rights for my image and style will be well protected and that I will be generously compensated for my endorsements of Hugger-Mugger Yoga Products, MuscleTech® supplements, such as CELL-TECH™ and ACETABOLAN III®, and feminine hygiene products like the menstrual cup. Still, I think I need some relaxation.

I’m thinking a dip in the pool might afford me the relaxation I readily deserve. They make me wear a swimsuit. House rules. Grudgingly I slip into my Koala Brazilian cut swimsuit. Form fitted to the max. I have the pool boy chase the sun with my chaise as I swim a couple of laps. I get out, air dry in my chaise and read the Bagavagita.

Dry, I’m off to the spa. I change out of my Koala Brazilian cut swimsuit and into a terrycloth robe. Deep Tissue Massage, Tangerine Blossom Exfoliation, and Anti-Aging Botanical Power Repair.

The woman working on me knows of my reputation as an expert on man on woman sensuality and cannot resist my body -- total fitness and power, muscle mass, ripped definition, stamina, intensity, mental focus, flair. She knows it’s unprofessional, but insists on a demonstration. I take her up to my room and start with my oral techniques. First, the Adhara-sphuritam, better known as the Quivering Kiss. Then I move onto Jihva-bhramanaka, or the Circling Tongue, and finish with the Jihva-mardita, the tongue massage. Next I instruct her in the Mayura. Seated, she rises and has one foot pointing vertically over her head, steadying it with her hands. Here she offers up her yoni for lovemaking. I graciously accept.

After, thoroughly exhausted, laying in bed and smoking a Davidoff Especiales “7.” My thoughts drift to my trip to Bethesda, looking forward to Montgomery Farm Woman's Cooperative Market, high tea at the Marriott Intercontinental Bethesda, scones and clotted cream, Humphead Wrasse lip tea sandwiches, and box seats at the Imagination Stage.

Me you ask? Total fitness and power. Superior coition in the mouth. Eating endangered species. Flair. Dignity. That is what I am about. And if you’re tired of the whiny anti-sybaritic milquetoasts of craigslist, you know where to find me. And as William Wirt wrote, “Seize the moment of excited curiosity on any subject to solve your doubts; for if you let it pass, the desire may never return, and you may remain in ignorance.”

I am total concentration. Total control.

Tanned and relaxed, but a little soft, from my Maryland junket. I make my way to the gym from my Adams Morgan compound. I want to look good tonight at the Jenny Lewis concert at the 9:30 Club. I’m in my Carla Behrle leather pants. Grey shirt. I need a pump badly and will get one later today. I scan the pedestrians on my way to the gym with my Jean Lafonte brown rimmed glasses with orange tinted lenses looking for that someone special that can handle the animal intensity of my man on woman sensuality. A couple of lovelies blush and turn away as I give them a wink and a flex.

For me, of course, slippage is dangerous if there are women working out in the vicinity. The other week I experienced some slippage at the gym and as I return from my trip I find out that a coworker is pregnant. I hope her husband thinks it’s his. I apply some Bikini Bite to make sure nothing pops out unexpectedly and slip into my hot pink banana hammock. Extra large. My pecs, abs and biceps are in sore need of a workout as far as I’m concerned: Preacher Reverse Curl, Seated Concentration Curl, Crossover Chest Fly, Pullover Crunch.

Done with my workout I shower. Air dry. Practice my pose combos: Front Double Biceps, Back Lat Spread, Front Abdominal-Thigh Isolation. The mirror doesn’t lie -- I am total concentration. Total control. Savage intensity. Grace and Dignity. Muscle mass. Ripped definition.

I slip back into my Carla Behrle leather pants. No shirt. My medallion of a Buddha Vitarka Mudra flanked by a couple of Bodhisattvas bounces off my pecs as I make my way to my office, head bobbing in rhythm to music that only I can hear. My body glistens, my muscles are pumped and totally cut. Abs, delts, biceps, triceps. I flex for the ladies at the 9:30 Club. One of them brings me an iced-double-half-calf-mocha-latte-something-or-another as I listen to the sweet sounds of Jenny Lewis and the Watson Twins..

Posing. Poise. Dignity. Preventing slippage. That is what I am about. And if you think you can handle the animal intensity of my man on woman sensuality, you know where to write.

Fantasize about my raw and powerful version of man on woman sensuality

Chilly morning. I’m in my Carla Behrle leather pants. Flannel shirt. Green crewneck sweater. The arms are ripped off of both to accommodate my massive biceps. Wary of the red line this morning, I hop on the 42 bus. Quarry and Columbia to Metro Center. I must say, I was quite impressed by the talent. Maybe as impressed as the lovelies were of me -- muscle mass, density, ripped definition, intensity, stamina, endurance, mental focus, dignity, flair, humility. A brown-haired beauty with dark, smoldering eyes cooed as I went through my routine for her. Front Double Biceps, Front Lat Spread, Side Chest, Back Double Biceps, and signature Back Lat Spread. I finished it off with a bicep flex, point and wink. Not used my superior display of masculine prowess, which is usually reserved for the red line lovelies, she drops like a stone. I revive her with a whiff of my pheromones and she stumbles off near Farragut North, probably still fantasizing about me and my raw and powerful version of man on woman sensuality. I hope she knew where she was going.

Me? I know where I am going. I’m on my way to the gym. I figure instead of weights this morning I will hone my craft: the ancient and deadly art of Shohei-Ryu-Bollywood Karate. I put on my kashmiri styled silk kurta-lehenga and enter the Shohei-Ryu-Bollywood Karate dojo. I practice Snake-creeps-down-and performs-the-dance-of-the-Shakti and Golden-cock-stands-on-one-leg-Dhandia on the China Red Freestanding Wing Chun Dummy as I sing Tere Bina Zindagi Se:

Tere Bina Zindagi Se Koi, Shikva, To Nahin,
Shikva Nahin
Shikva Nahin, Shikva Nahin
Tere Bina Zindagi Bhi Lekin, Zindagi, To Nahin, Zindagi Nahin Zindagi Nahin,
Zindagi Nahin

Kash Aisa Ho Tere Kadamon Se, Chun Ke Manzil Chale
Aur Kahin Dur Kahin
Tum Gar Saath Ho, Manzilon Ki Kami To Nahin
Tere Bina Zindagi Se Koi, Shikva, To Nahin, Shikva Nahin

I don’t know what the words mean, but the sound will truly frighten any opponent.

Me you ask? Taking advantage of all forms of public transportations, electric and gas powered. Superior posing. Potent pheromones. Martial arts. That is what I am about. And if you think you can handle my superior display of masculine prowess, please look me up.

Why do I do this you ask?

I wake up this morning thinking it was Friday instead of Saturday. For a minute there confusion as I was creating my day. I was going to create me working out in the gym, me practicing the ancient and deadly Shohei-Ryu-Bollywood Karate, and then perhaps me seducing a woman, bringing her back to my Adams Morgan compound. creating, me unclothed contemplating my body in the mirrors on the ceiling of my bedroom -- total fitness and power, muscle mass, ripped definition, stamina, intensity, mental focus.

I shower, slip on my hot pink banana hammock and my Carla Behrle leather pants. No shirt. Breakfast? Sea turtle eggs and macaque bacon. I head down to Tryst to pick up a double-cap-frap-half-caf-mocha-something-or-another and head to scout talent at the Safeway.

I return to my Adams Morgan compound to write this missive. My chunky gold bracelet keeps clanging on the keyboard as I type. Why do I do this you ask? I can't leave the exploration of hot man on woman sensuality to the polymorphously perverse anti-intellectual milquetoasts who frequent this message board.

My NEW SuperFreak Workout for Juiced-Up Psychos

I’m in meetings much of the day with high officials outside of government on whether or not they should recommend to NASA that NASA should take my image and style into outer space. I’m wearing my Carla Behrle leather pants. No Shirt. I’m wearing my gold medallion of Zhuangzi and Huizi strolling on Bridge Hao and contemplating whether or not the fish are happy. The medallion is slapping against my ripped pecs as my head bobs to the rhythm of music that only I can hear. I’m thinking they’re happy. The fish too. I am mostly thinking about my NEW SuperFreak Workout for Juiced-Up Psychos fitness regime, feeling the burn, and what is for dinner. Perhaps I'll head down to Angles. Not much thinking is going on about bringing my image and style into outer space. That is why my PR team is with me this morning.

I’m still trying to figure out how they can put my brand into outer space: Autonomous Orbit Control & Stationkeeping for a Satellite Constellation with extra endurance? Freeze dried endangered delicacies for astronauts? NASA Space Shuttle Astronaut Toilet, Waste Collection System Restraint Bag with a picture of yours truly in my signature Back Lat Spread pose? I shudder. I guess that is why I have a PR team in the first place.

Me you ask? Advising federal agencies. Metro commuting. New workout routines. Dignity. Flair. That is what I am about. And if you can handle the fact that my version of man on woman sensuality may send you into orbit, drop me a line.

SEARCHING FOR A HAREM OF CL LOVELIES FOR REAL

I’m sitting here at my keyboard digesting my lunch. Panda-burger with cheddar. No bun. Listening to Jill Sobule. Her voice soothes my general sense of ennui. I’m in my Carla Behrle leather pants. No shirt. Blue chinchilla jacket to ward off the cold. Brown Jean LaFont frames with orange tinted glasses to better stalk my prey.

An early morning meeting near Washington Circle found me walking up toward the red line at Dupont. As I pass a lovely, I notice her noticing me -- muscle mass, density, ripped definition, intensity, stamina, endurance, mental focus, dignity, flair, humility. I am though cautious as Bel Biv DeVoe wisely teaches us to never trust a big butt and smile. The lovely could be poison. And poison is the last thing this body needs, with the Bali Jute Mill Bodybuilding Invitational coming up. No. I must stick to a strict regimen of high-protein endangered species and my SuperFreak Workout for Juiced-Up Psychos. Also, handfuls of PUMP TECH™ washed down with ISS Effervescent Creatine Orange and shots of Goldschlager should get my body in top physical form.

I give the red line lovelies at Dupont Circle a couple of poses as I ride to Metro Center then hop the Orange line to Dunn Loring. I head for the gym. Put on my extra large lime green banana hammock, first slathering on the bikini bite to keep everything in place. I get to work. Preacher Reverse Curl, Seated Concentration Curl, Crossover Chest Fly, Pullover Crunch. Done, I hit the shower. I air dry. My body glistens as I practice my pose downs in the mirror – a body that makes women ache. Ache just like a woman.

Me? Girl bands. Low carb diets. Recognizing that women with big butts can be poison (from experience). Looking good. Making women ache. That is what I am about. And if the “SEARCHING FOR A WIFE FOR REAL” guy sends shudders down your spine, then we’re riding the same wave.

Fur coats. Pleasing the ladies. That is what I am about.

Chilly morning. I’m in my Carla Behrle leather pants. No shirt. Baby blue mink/chinchilla jacket. Keeps out the cold and keeps the heat in. My medallion of a Buddha Vitarka Mudra flanked by a couple of Bodhisattvas bounces off my pecs as I make my way to my Hummer. Standing outside of my Adams Morgan compound is a raven-haired lovely waiting for the 42 bus and obviously checking me out. I give her a point-wink-with a trigger finger and she swoons. Poor dear. I’m too much for her muscle mass, density, ripped definition, intensity, stamina, endurance, mental focus.

I don’t usually drive to work but I lost my prime parking space on Quarry Road near my Adams Morgan compound. I wanted to make sure that no evildoers dared to something untoward to my Hummer, which would have forced me to unleash my savage and ancient art Shohei-Ryu-Bollywood Karate on their sorry asses. Fortunately for them, no. Not today. I retake my coveted parking spot and head for the Orange line. Farragut West to Dunn Loring.

I lost my coveted parking spot Saturday apple picking outside of Charlottesville. Hot donuts sprinked with Goat Anti-Rat Growth Hormone Polyclonal Antibodies. They hit the spot. In the orchards, few if any apples on the trees. I try to will them to me with little success. Only 5 or 6 small ones. Frustrated I head back to DC, losing my prime piece of parking territory in the process.

Back to metro, a few lovelies of the elderly variety in my car today. Still, I think they deserve a break from their dreary reality. I give them my Front Double Biceps, Front Lat Spread, Side Chest, Back Double Biceps, and signature Back Lat Spread. It’s like watching kids in a candy store, a frenzied lather as they take it all in. I am barely able to get off the train. I’ve got women hanging off my arms and legs as I make my way to work. Outside, I shake them off one at a time and settle in for another Friday.

Me you ask? Fur coats. Pleasing the ladies. Apple pickin’. Having fruit come to me off trees through the sheer, unadulterated, power of my will. That is what I am about. And I am very wary about directing this power toward women. Only fruit.

He gets letters:

"Cute. very cute. little advice though. shouldn't put your picture... it ruins the mystique."

Eating Endangered Species. That is what I am about.

It’s Thursday and I hit the gym. I figure I am not going to get any exercise on the plane. Unless of course there is a lovely who aches for my total fitness and power, muscle mass, ripped definition, stamina, and intensity in the lavatory. A woman who is eager to experience my version of man on woman sensuality. Where am I going? I have series of meetings with high government officials to consult on what I am known for: love, looking good, flair, and dignity. My image and style will be all over Maryland on Hugger-Mugger Yoga Products, MuscleTech® supplements, such as CELL-TECH™ and ACETABOLAN III®, and feminine hygiene products.

Anyway, so back to the gym. Of course, any slippage of my banana hammock could be dangerous if there are women working out, so I apply some Bikini Bite to make sure stuff nothing pops out unexpectedly and slip into lime green banana hammock. Extra large. Before I hit the gym I give the mirror a Front Double Biceps and Side Chest combo. I'm thinking, Babe, you are way too much. Pleased, my head bobs in rhythm to music only I can hear. In the gym I’m working on my pecs, biceps, and abs: Preacher Reverse Curl, Seated Concentration Curl, Crossover Chest Fly, Pullover Crunch.

Shower. I slip into my Carla Behrle leather pants. No shirt. Brown Jean Lafont frames with orange tinted lenses. My medallion of a Buddha Vitarka Mudra flanked by a couple of Bodhisattvas rests comfortably on my ripped pecs. My driver is taking me to Dulles. Flight #902 to BWI where I'll find out if the lovelies of Maryland can hold a candle to those of Washington, DC before my Monday meetings with high government officials. I settle into my seat and order a vodka and ISS Effervescent Creatine Orange from the stewardess. Hungry. Looking forward to dinner. Betraying a little pan-gallic chauvinism, I ordered a specialty meal of Terrine de baby fur seal aux Epinards, Haricots Verts, and Crème caramel.

Me? Ripped Definition. Banana hammocks. Eating endangered species. Jet setting. Anonymous sex on planes. That is what I am about. And if you want to experience my version of man on woman sensuality, I’ll meet you in the bathroom.

He gets letters:

"are you over 49? i just want someone as close to my age as possible. I am 52. I look younger. I have class, educated and am seeking a man for companionship, fun, laughter and all the things which come with a good relationship. well, back to you. . .we are in the same neighborhood. we can meet for coffee and chat a little just to see if we can move forward."

"Amusing, so I'll bite...what's behind the screen?"

Smacking it up. Flipping it. Rubbing it down.

Sitting at my desk typing this. I’m in my Carla Behrle leather pants. No shirt. I just finished my Cajun blackened sea turtle in focaccia with spicy mayonnaise. I burp.

Last night I was hanging out at Angles, nursing a Cadenhead's Old Raj Gin and Hybolin Decanoate. I cracked my neck, took another sip and scanned the room for my next conquest. Somebody sorely in need of my superior man on woman sensuality that you are not wont to find on this message board. As I scan, Jim sidles up to the bar asking me for more advice on pleasing his woman in bed. I have given him many suggestions in the past. I’ve given him Tao: Cat And Mice Sharing A Hole, Cicada On A Bough, and even the Dragon Turns. I’ve given him the secrets of the Yoni: the Uchchushita then the Jihva-bhramanaka, telling him to cleave asunder that archway with his nose and letting his tongue gently probe her yoni with his nose, lips and chin slowly circling. I’ve given him Mausala, where stiff as a pole in the bed's center, I instructed him make love to his woman in way that would make her coo and warble like a woodpigeon.

Jim’s, “Anything else I can use?” I’m, “Yes. But be very careful. One slip-up can cause disaster beyond anything you have ever known. I give you this from the ancient teachings of Bell Biv Devoe. First, you’ll need to smack it up. Then, flip it. Last, rub it down.” Jim’s, “Ok. First I flip it, then smack it up, then rub it down?” Me, “No. No. No. Smack it up. Flip it. Rub it down.” Jim, “Gotcha.” I finish my drink and head home to my Adams Morgan compound.

Me you ask? Eating rare and endangered animals. The Tao. The Kama Sutra. Smacking it up. Flipping it. Rubbing it down. That is what I am about. And if you are ready for my superior version of man on woman sensuality, drop me a line.

My unique version of man on woman sensuality should get you aroused

Today of course I’m in my grey Armani 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 tie with yellow fishies. I know how to put myself together for high-powered K Street meetings, one of which will be happening around 2:45 PM this afternoon.

Red line from Woodley Park to Farragut North. Way too crowded for any serious posing. Packed in so tight I worry that any unintentional rubbing of my crotch area may cause some to drop and egg or two. To distract myself, I reflect on the interesting set of circumstances that happened yesterday on my morning commute, my mind still a little hazy from my breakfast wine. You? You came out of nowhere. With a fury I have not witnessed in a long time, you attack the 30-something Peace Corp blonde. Gedan Barai, striking the back of her arm and kidney. Age Uke, striking her jaw and neck with Hikite Pull. Finally, Shuto Uke striking her neck with Hikite Pull, and she's down for the count. Somebody who may be able to match the raw power and savage fury of my ancient but deadly Shohei-Ryu-Bollywood Karate. I was impressed. Admiring her skill in dispatching those much taller than her, my head bobs to music only I can hear. Hers does as well, except it's separate music, and we bob off-beat and I become dizzy. Then as soon as she came, she was gone. I notice the puddle on the floor that she left and notify a metro agent.

Metro police horses whinny as I strut past on my way to my meeting. I guess they are also taking it all in -- muscle mass, density, ripped definition, intensity, stamina, endurance, mental focus, dignity, flair. My unique version of man on woman sensuality should get you equally aroused.

He gets letters:

"i'm your neighboor. let's meet for coffee and conversation."

"so how did your K street power meeting go? did you kick ass and take names, bollywood-famous style? was there money involved? did you win? i don't know anything about expensive fashion. i can tell you what looks right. i just got back from two weeks in barcelona and everyone is rocking mullets. women in shit i couldn't afford with two month's of good salary, parading around with mullets, shaved bangs and awkward single dredlocks out one side of the dome-piece. what's that jazz about? redneck couture. the 80's are alive and well there, RE: legwarmers and leggings. lots of beautiful naked brown titties on the beach too, can't go wrong with that."

"mmm, sounds perfect, lets play. i'm off work for the next 2 days. hit me up."

Mr. BH gives mad props to all the Orange line lovelies

As I sit air drying in my Adams Morgan compound sipping my breakfast wine and eating a meal of poached spotted owl eggs and Canadian meerkat bacon on brioche accompanied with a hollandaise sauce, I contemplate all things manly. It is hard to help doing this. My kitchen is fully mirrored and I take it all in from my different angles, each one better than the first -- muscle mass, density, ripped definition, intensity, stamina, endurance, mental focus. The ladies of Washington, DC have it too good with me around.

I change into my Armani black suit. Dark blue shirt. The arms are ripped off both to accommodate my ballooning pecs thanks to my PUMP TECH™ dietary supplement. A blue tie accented with little yellow fishes almost completes the look. I put on my Armani rimmed frames with blue tinted lenses, grab this months copy of Playboy© and head for the Orange line. Farragut West to Dunn Loring.

So many lovely ladies on the Orange line this morning I do my best to flex, wink, and point with a trigger finger to all of them before they exit at Rosslyn to offices unknown to me. My head bobbing in rhythm to music only I can hear. With winter fast approaching, it is harder and harder for them to catch me shirtless. The result? I am getting fewer requests for charcoal rubbings of my abs. Perhaps I should have an open house some day? A few want me to sign their breasts. I graciously accede to their requests with my Mr. Sharpie. Then I settle into my magazine. A pictorial on the Girls of Hawaiian Tropic. I should get one of those, I’m thinking.

Me you ask? Drinking in the morning. Eating endangered animals. Reading softcore pornography during my morning commute. Dignity. That is what I am about. And if you want me to sign your breasts with my Mr. Sharpie, drop me a line.

He gets letters:

"you are handsome. how about a glass of that morning wine?"

My prodigious manhood can induce pregnancy in the infertile

I get back from my errands and I'm thinking it's time to take the scarlet satin sheets off the round rotating bed in the boudoir of my Adams Morgan compound and put on the flannel set. Sipping another glass of breakfast wine and creating my tomorrow and contemplating my water. So far my water is happy. Happy water keeps my night stick wielding inner gummy policeman at bay. I create a bit of a delay on the metro tomorrow followed by paperwork in the office. I'm creating that I'll slip into my Carla Behrle leather pants and grey Brooks Brothers shirt. The sleeves will be ripped off at the shoulders to accommodate my gigantic biceps. The material, of course, will be stretched thin and taught over my rock hard pecs. I'll probably wear my Green Hermès tie with little penguins on them. One of my favorite foods. Penguins, not ties. I'll finish the look off with a chunky gold bracelet.

I'll be taking the Red line from Woodley Park to Metro Center where I'll hop on the Orange line to Dunn Loring. Red line delay. Expecting a crowded car, I'll entertain the waiting ladies with a series of poses: Front Double Biceps, Front Lat Spread, Side Chest, Back Double Biceps, and Back Lat Spread. My Brooks Brothers shirt will be in shreds. Think the Incredible Hulk. Think a tanned and beautiful Incredible Hulk -- total fitness and power, muscle mass, ripped definition, stamina, intensity, mental focus. You can tell they'll want me and their men will want to be me.

Good thing I won't be doing a Front Abdominal-Thigh Isolation for them. I can’t afford to lose the Carla Behrle leather pants tomorrow. I’ll be going commando and catching sight of my prodigious manhood can induce pregnancy in the infertile and labor in the pregnant.

Me you ask? Total fitness and power. Happy water. Foreign fashions. Grace and dignity. Creating the future. That is what I am about. And if you have a penchant for the ithyphallic and are tired of the flaccid denizens of craigslist, drop me a line.

Mr. BH is all about creating unique butt sculptures for CL lovelies

My meeting this weekend with high officials in Maryland went well. My suite at the 5 Star Holiday Inn Rockville was big enough to practice my pose downs. Later, dinner at an unnamed Councilwoman's palatial estate. Knowing my predilection for eating endangered species and a penchant for pan-gallic chauvinism, she served Terrine de Tigre aux Epinards - Riz Spécial followed by a Plateau de fromages et salade verte. I wore my Carla Behrle leather pants. No shirt.

Relaxed from a quiet weekend, I sat this morning sipping a glass of breakfast wine and creating my day. I created a trip down to the Verizon store to pick up a replacement charger for my phone which I somehow lost. Anyway, it was chilly this morning so dressed accordingly. Carla Behrle leather pants. Armani flannel shirt with the arms ripped off. The red line from Woodley Park to Farragut North was really crowded, so no charcoal rubbings of my abs this morning. One young lady wanted to caress the buns that can bend iron rebar into origami swan shapes. I told her no problem. Don’t stick your finger between my cheeks, babe, unless you don’t want to keep it. My cheeks are so tight they can turn charcoal briquettes into diamonds. She got off at Dupont Circle and I worked on the novel I am reading.

Me you ask? Eating endangered species. Total fitness and power. Glutes that can bend iron rebar into unique butt sculptures. Replacing lost personal items. Dignity. That is what I am about. And if you’re going to stick your finger in my butt, warn me first. My cheeks are so tight they can make diamonds out of stuff you can buy at the grocery store. I don't want to hurt you.

Mr. BH honors the good work that Columbus did

I find myself having the day off. My superb memo went through regarding observing the Columbus Day holiday and the good work that Columbus did to bringing western culture and values to the native populations of this new world. Relaxing and reading the paper I take a sip of my glass of breakfast wine, naked and air drying, I take my morning supplement, Pump Tech™, which I can report has led to even better pumps, jacked up my Nitric Oxide levels, increased my vascular response, and has my muscles blown up like balloons.

I decide to figure out what to do with my day. Chilly morning, I slip commando-style into my Carla Behrle leather pants. Blue Armani flannel shirt with the arms pre-ripped off to accommodate my gigantic biceps. The shirt fits like a glove, taught across my ripped pecs. Armani has designed a series of flannel shirts with the arms pre-ripped off for yours truly and others who appreciate a good pump. I have modeled them on runways from Bethesda to Silver Spring to Rockville, in part out of gratitude to Armani for thinking of yours truly, and in part as a cross promotional opportunity for MuscleTech® supplements, such as CELL-TECH™ and ACETABOLAN III® since high government officials in Maryland are interested in importing my image and style. I put on my brown framed Jean LaFont frames with orange tinted lenses (to better stalk my prey), and head out of my Adams Morgan Compound.

I figure I'll stop off at Tryst for a half-caf-frap-mocha-something-or-another and entertain the waiting ladies with a series of poses: Front Double Biceps, Front Lat Spread, Side Chest, Back Double Biceps, and Back Lat Spread. My specially designed Armani flannel has just enough give and survives to poses. I wink with a double point with a trigger finger to a few swooning lovelies before walking back to my Adams Morgan compound.

Me you ask? High fashion. Total fitness and power. Product endorsement. Superior posing. Honoring dead guys with a day off. Dignity. That is what I am about. And if you think you can handle the sublime beauty and hyper-erotic nature of my version of man on woman sensuality, you know where to get in touch.

He gets letters:

"Not so much fun to read without your cute face at the bottom, Monsieur."

Mr. BH Enjoys Endangered Species...Mexican-style

Sunday. 11 AM. I’m in my Carla Behrle leather pants. No shirt. The weather still permits me this wardrobe. Lauriol Plaza for brunch. Dining with a friend and her friend and his partner. I am not threatened by man on man sensuality. I just know it is not for me. I order the huevos con chorizo only because the waiter insists that the chorizo is made from the meat of pygmy marmoset and that it is made on the premises. Also, that the huevos are sea turtle huevos.

After brunch I head home to supervise the cleaning of my Adams Morgan compound. My hangers-on won’t get anything accomplished unless I tell them what to do and when. I would fire them if they were in my employ, but they are not. I decide to take in the Redskins game before heading down to Tryst for my Sunday afternoon a double-cap-frap-half-caf-mocha-something-or-another. The place is crowded and I am not into getting too much attention today. I have a crossword puzzle to finish and “From Death to Dust” to read. I decide to bag the whole thing and head back to the compound.

Me you ask? Total fitness and power, muscle mass, ripped definition, stamina, intensity, mental focus, and enjoying eating endangered species Mexican-style. But if you want to experience my version of raw, animalistic man on woman sensuality next week sometime, drop me a line.

He gets letters:

"I enjoy a man with a sense of humor, and clearly, your's is great. Wish I were closer and could meet you for a half-caf-frap-mocha-something and a giggle. ***** in Oregon"

Mr. Banana Hammock folds his laundry

Home today. Home in my Adams Morgan compound. Just finished with laundry and now am watching college football. Me? I'm not wearing a stitch. I just took a shower and I'm air drying while I fold my laundry. I'm admiring myself in the wall mirror -- total fitness and power, ripped definition, grace, dignity, glutes so tight they can bend iron rebar into oragami swan shapes.

Anyway, I am folding my laundry. Carla Behrle leather pants. Check. No shirt. Check. Check. Lime green banana hammock. Check. Hot pink banana hammock. Check. Grey Armani suit. Check.

The ladies of the Orange line and craigslist will have to live without my superior version of man on woman sensuality, at least for a couple of days. Raw animal power, unbridled sexuality, double jointed hips, glutes so tight they can bend iron rebar into oragami swan shapes. I've got Monday off, a 3-day weekend, and no need to commute.

Meticulously I Crush My Warm Balls. A Poem by Mr. Banana Hammock

Meticulously I crush my warm balls
Nestled in pita
Before slathering them in hummus
Tomato and cucumber salad
Baba ganoush and pickled cabbage

Fried crushed chickpeas
Ancient fare of the forebearers
Of one of my ex-girlfriends
Best accompanied with pomme frites
And mayonnaise and a coke.

Oh falafel
Uniquely dutch treat
I ate you for lunch
At the Amsterdam Falafel Shop
Open seven days a week
Friday and Saturday until 4 AM.

My Nipples are Hard in the Cold Morning Air...

My nipples hard in the cold morning air at my Adams Morgan compound. I am air drying after my morning hygiene ritual and management has yet to turn on the heat. I’m sipping my breakfast wine over a plate of turtle eggs and free range bush baby bacon that a friend acquired somewhere in DC. I think about the owner who might have missed the bush baby, as I am sensitive to the feelings of others, but then catch sight of myself in one of the many mirrors in the compound and all I can think of now is a body that almost resists adequate description.

Chilly. I put on my dark green Armani suit. Blue shirt. Of course the arms are ripped off of both to accommodate my massive biceps. I complete the outfit with an orange and green Hermès tie. No penguins. Brown framed Jean LaFont glasses with orange-tinted lenses to better stalk my prey.

I am taking the day off to get my hair cut and my chest waxed as one faithful reader suggested. I'll be leaving soon so I hope there will be opportunities for my flex point wink with a trigger finger. Maybe a chance to give a lovely the thrill of my signature Front Double Biceps pose. Perhaps she will reach orgasm when I segue into a Back Lat Spread. Maybe someone will request a charcoal rubbings of my abs? Who can tell the future? Not even I can.

Me you ask? Eating exotic animals and their embryos. High fashion. Ripped definition. Stalking my prey in and around Adams Morgan That is what I am about. And if you are tired of the “free erotic massage” New Age milquetoasts of craigslist, drop me a line.

Talar du engelska?

Deux can play at your game, sir! (permalink)...

Jag kan bara litet svenska. Jag blir nervös när jag ska tala svenska. Jobbar du naken? Kanna jag se? Älskar du mig inte?

{roughly translated -- I can speak a little Swedish. I get nervous speaking Swedish. Do you work naked? Can I watch? Do you love me?}

Experience Extreme Man on Woman Sensuality!

Last night, Orange line from Dunn Loring to Metro Center then Red line to Woodley Park. The Grosvenor train mostly empty. A cutie I flexed pointed and winked at wanted me to sign her breasts. Luckily I had my Mr. Sharpie on hand. I was wearing my Carla Behrle leather pants. No shirt. My well-muscled torso was glistening with a mixture of drizzle and sweat from my PM workout. She asked for a couple of poses and I gave her what she wanted: Front Double Biceps and a Back Lat Spread . She swooned at the sight of me – extreme vascularity, ripped definition, extreme cell volumnization, stamina, endurance, complete hydration. Trust me. You would have also had you been there to witness the display.

Instead of heading directly home, I stopped by Angles for a Cadenhead's Old Raj Gin and Hybolin Decanoate. Cracking my neck, I take a sip and scan the room. My head bobbing in rhythm to music that only I can hear. Wink point with a trigger finger. She comes up. I don’t know her name. I didn’t ask. She did though. She asked to experience my version of man on woman sensuality. She has heard I mix the Tantra with the Tao for a lovemaking far superior to what you would normally experience from the regular posters on craigslist. She knows I know how to create a circuit from her yoni to her thigh. She knows I know Cat And Mice Sharing A Hole, Cicada On A Bough, and the Dragon Turns. What she doesn’t know is that I don’t have time right now.

I pay and head home to my Adams Morgan compound. I order General Tso’s Penguin from the organic Chinese restaurant in Woodley Park. Waiting for dinner I settle into my couch and watch “Degrassi: Next Generation” on the NOGN.

Me you ask? Eating birds that swim. Signing breasts with a Mr. Sharpie. Superior coitus. That is what I am about. And if you are tired of the guy looking for a woman to fuck, and would prefer to experience extreme man on woman sensuality, you know where to write.

He gets letters:

"Sensei! I'm a guy, checking out the competition, but wanted to congratulate
you on your Mark Leyneresque story. If I were a babe I'd do ya..."

"please tell me you are joking"

Mr. Banana Hammock Cares about the less fortunate

Chilly morning. After a hot shower and air dry I enjoy a double-cap-frap-half-caf-mocha-PowerBar and Heavy Weight Gainer 900. I slip into my Carla Behrle leather pants. Flannel shirt. The sleeves are ripped off at the shoulder to accommodate my gigantic biceps. What material remains is stretched thin and taught over my rock hard pecs. I take off for my morning commute from Farragut West to Dunn Loring.

The train is crowded this morning as I fumble with my briefing materials from my meeting with high officials in Maryland and this weeks issue of the "New Yorker" that I have been trying to finish for sometime now. I can’t help but notice one of the loveliest lovelies that I’ve encountered in a long time during my morning commute. I do my best to flex point and wink with a trigger finger but metro is very crowded. You? Pixie cut, creamy skin, and green velvet jacket, USAID ID, and funky shoes. I approve of the good work you do around the world for the people whose bodies are less developed than my own. If you want to experience my version of man on woman sensuality, please let me know. Me? Admiring you, my head bobbing in rhythm to music that only I can hear. Anyway, she gets off at Rosslyn and I don't get off at at all.

Before hitting the office, I hit the gym. Slip out of my Carla Behrle leather pants and flannel shirt and into my lime green banana hammock, apply some bikini bite, and get started. Preacher Reverse Curl, Seated Concentration Curl, Crossover Chest Fly, Pullover Crunch. Done, I hit the shower. I air dry. My body glistens as I practice my posedowns in the mirror -- total fitness and power, muscle mass, ripped definition, stamina, intensity, mental focus is what I see. It is what you would see too if you were in here with me.

Me you ask yourself? Total fitness and power. Looking good in a shirt. Admiring lovelies on the Orange line. Caring about those in the Third World whose bodies are less developed than my own. That is what I am about. And if you want to experience the raw and animalist man on woman sensuality that only I can provide (especially if you’re the lovely in the green velvet jacket), drop me a line.

Get Pumped by Mr. Banana Hammock in his Adams Morgan Compound

Dinner with my PR team and others of importance this evening. I changed into my charcoal grey Armani suit. Blue shirt. Of course the arms are ripped off of both to accommodate my massive biceps. I complete the outfit with a bright red tie with blue and yellow accents. Italian. Zadi of Milan.

I’m heading back to DC via the Orange line to Metro Center and waiting to catch the Red line to Gallery Place. I give a flex wink point with a trigger finger to a lovely young woman with brown hair and deep brown eyes. Green shirt. She faints but recovers in time to get off at her stop at Metro Center. Why is it that the beautiful women get off at Metro Center? Barely enough time for them to take it all in -- muscle mass, density, ripped definition, intensity, stamina, endurance, mental focus.

On to Zaytinya to meet with my PR team who is already assembled around the bar. I order a Grey Goose and ISS Effervescent Creatine Orange. I’ve assembled the team to go over a new product endorsement and contest featuring yours truly. The product, Pump Tech™. This product leads to even better pumps, will jack up your Nitric Oxide levels, increase your vascular response, and will have your muscles blown up like balloons with two proprietary blends – Vaso-Tech™ and AAKG-Tech™. This is a product I highly recommend.

The contest? “Get pumped by Mr. Banana Hammock in his Adams Morgan compound.” Your personal pump may be preceded by drinks at my favorite Adams Morgan watering hole, Angels, and dinner at an Adams Morgan restaurant of your choosing. To register an entry, reply below with a funny reason you may benefit from a personal pumping by Mr. Banana Hammock and include a pic. The winner will make me laugh my ass off and have a pic.

Me you ask? Product endorsements. Silly contests. Endurance. Mental Focus. Dignity. That is what I am about. And as infamous serial killer Gerald Stano once said, “I hate a bitchy chick. Ba’al Shem Tov once said, “From every human being there rises a light that reaches straight to heaven, and when two souls that are destined to be together find each other, the streams of light flow together and a single brighter light goes forth from that united being.

Tired of the Anal-Expulsive New Age milquetoasts of craigslist?

Chilly morning, but I don’t mind. I’m in my Carla Behrle leather pants. No shirt. The Orange line from Farragut West to Dunn Loring wasn’t too crowded so I was able to give the lovelies a Front Double Biceps and Front Lat Spread combo, a flex wink point with a trigger finger, and left myself open to the possibility that some may want a charcoal rubbing of my abs. If they don’t have charcoal or paper, they know they can simply touch. Just ask. A few do. One wants to run her hands over my rock hard pecs. Another wants to squeeze my glutes. Sorry honey, you can try to squeeze them, but there just isn’t that much give in ‘em. I worry about the pinchers though. With the Iberian Bodybuilding championships coming up, I cannot afford any bruising.

I’ve not only been hitting the gym hard, I’ve been hitting the tanning salons equally as hard, mostly because of the chilly weather. How to get the perfect bodybuilding tan you ask? Not as easy as you think. Let me walk you through the routine:

Normally, I tan naked outside. I wouldn’t recommend this for most people. Their bodies aren’t nearly as nice as mine and they will get arrested for indecent exposure. So for those of you less than flawless, you have to find a stand up bed so your armpits and butt crease get tan as well as the normal parts. Next, when lying down tanning you have to hold your package out of the way at least every other time to eliminate that nice white spot on your front side. I use two hands. The rest probably only need to use one.

That’s about it, except for the pre-pose self-tan applications and that routine which is necessary for the contests, as well as the application of PAM® to give you that nice sheen. I’ll spare you the details.

Me, you ask? Muscle mass, density, ripped definition, intensity, stamina, endurance. Glutes you can bounce quarters off. The perfect tan. And if you tired of the Anal-Expulsive New Age milquetoasts of craigslist, you know where to write.

Why do girls always throw themselves at me?

Is it my superior display of masculine prowess?

Is it because of my similarities to both Jesus and the Dalai Lama?

Is it because I speak with extra long words that are difficult to pronounce?

Words like floccinaucinihilipilification? Or maybe hippopotomonstrosesquipedalian?

Or is it my world-renowned command of advanced techniques in man on woman sensuality?

The following snippet about my typical morning commute should answer all your legitimate questions.

Dateline: October 3, Orange Line, 7:30 AM.

I am in my Carla Behrle leather pants. No shirt. Brown Jean LaFont glasses with orange lenses to better stalk my prey. I’ve been leaving my Adams Morgan compound at 7AM since changing jobs. Different hours. Different commute. Different lovelies. Now the Orange line denizens of the female persuasion bear witness to this superior specimen of the male species. Deprived for far too long, they take it all in -- muscle mass, density, ripped definition, intensity, stamina, endurance, mental focus, dignity, flair

I’m practicing my pose downs on the train, Front Double Biceps, Front Lat Spread, Side Chest, Back Double Biceps, and signature Back Lat Spread, periodically flexing, winking, and pointing with a trigger finger to some of the nearby lovelies. My head bobbing in rhythm to music only I can hear. Much swooning results from my display. They are dazzled.

Soon, hands running up and down my washboard abs and kneading my rock hard glutes. A beautiful brunette asks me to bend something for her with a piece of iron rebar that she has along with her, having heard that my glutes can bend iron rebar into origami swan shapes. A gallery in Dupont has been selling my unique butt sculptures, what they call them anyway, so I’ve been practicing folding more difficult animals along with other forms of statuary. I bend her Artemis. Goddess of the Hunt. She gets off at East Falls Church before I can get a number.

Me you ask? Total fitness and power. Using extra big words in daily communication. Dignity and flair. Long Orange line commutes. Bending iron rebar with my ass. That is what I am about. And if you are tired of the flaccid “takers” of craigslist, drop me a line.

Are you ready for my superior version of man on woman sensuality?

Sitting at my desk typing this. I’m in my Carla Behrle leather pants. No shirt. I just finished my Cajun blackened sea turtle in focaccia with spicy mayonnaise. I burp.

Last night I was hanging out at Angles, nursing a Cadenhead's Old Raj Gin and Hybolin Decanoate. I cracked my neck, took another sip and scanned the room for my next conquest. Somebody sorely in need of my superior man on woman sensuality that you are not wont to find on this message board. As I scan, Jim sidles up to the bar asking me for more advice on pleasing his woman in bed. I have given him many suggestions in the past. I've given him the "sock puppet." I’ve given him Tao: Cat And Mice Sharing A Hole, Cicada On A Bough, and even the Dragon Turns. I’ve given him the secrets of the Yoni: the Uchchushita then the Jihva-bhramanaka, telling him to cleave asunder that archway with his nose and letting his tongue gently probe her yoni with his nose, lips and chin slowly circling. I’ve given him Mausala, where stiff as a pole in the bed's center, I instructed him make love to his woman in way that would make her coo and warble like a woodpigeon.

Jim’s, “Anything else I can use?” I’m, “Yes. But be very careful. One slip-up can cause disaster beyond anything you have ever known. I give you this from the ancient teachings of Bell Biv Devoe. First, you’ll need to smack it up. Then, flip it. Last, rub it down.” Jim’s, “Ok. First I flip it, then smack it up, then rub it down?” Me, “No. No. No. Smack it up. Flip it. Rub it down.” Jim, “Gotcha.” I finish my drink and head home to my Adams Morgan compound.

Me you ask? Eating rare and endangered animals. The Tao. The Kama Sutra. Smacking it up. Flipping it. Rubbing it down. That is what I am about. And if you are ready for my superior version of man on woman sensuality, drop me a line.

Be not afraid of my inner night stick wielding gummy policemen

Last night was my “pamper yourself” night as taught in the Queer Eye Veda. There is profound wisdom to the mind/body/spirit teachings of good skin care in this ancient text. And although I personally don’t agree with their teachings of man on man sensuality, I am nonetheless happy for those who happily lead that life. I am not about hating. And more women for yours truly. First, my Lab Series Treatment Scrub to exfoliate and then Peel-Off Hydroxy Masque. Last, L'Oreal Dermo-Expertise Future Moisturizer + Daily Dose of Pure Vitamin E. My skin feels years younger.

This morning, refreshed, I head to the Farragut West Metro. Orange line to Dunn Loring. Me? I’m wearing my Carla Behrle leather pants no shirt. Brown Jean Lafont frames with orange tinted lenses to better stalk my prey. Days of positive thinking has made my water happy. I’ve restrained my inner night-stick wielding gummy policemen so I no problem turning it out. All things I learned watching “What The Bleep Do We Know!?” the other weekend.

Metro is packed this morning so I give the train a Front Double Biceps, Back Lat Spread, Front Abdominal-Thigh Isolation on the platform before boarding. There are too many gorgeous DC women on the train this morning. I flex wink point with a trigger finger to all of them, but there is no room for charcoal rubbings of my pecs. Many blush and someone with small hands is squeezing as best she can my rock hard glutes. My head bobbing to the sound of music only I can hear, I settle into my book. Atonement.

Before heading up to the office, I hit the gym. I change into my tangerine banana hammock, apply some bikini bite, and get started. Preacher Reverse Curl, Seated Concentration Curl, Crossover Chest Fly, Pullover Crunch. Done, I hit the shower. I air dry. My body glistens as I practice my posedowns in the mirror -- total fitness and power, muscle mass, ripped definition, stamina, intensity, mental focus.

Me you ask? Air drying. Not hating. Total fitness and power. Skin care. Making my water happy. That is what I am about. And be not afraid of my inner night stick wielding gummy policemen, I’ve restrained them.

Men want to be him. Their women want to be with him.

Men want to be him. Their women want to be with him. This rare specimen, knowledgeable in life and man on woman sensuality, decided he needed a change of pace. This weekend he decided to head down to the Diner for pancakes and sea turtle eggs. Side of panda bacon. He’s in his Carla Behrle leather pants. No shirt. Brown frame Jean Lafont glasses with orange tinted lenses to better scope out his prey. He steps into the restaurant and sits at the counter. He’s finishing the Washington Post Sunday crossword puzzle, naturally, being the head of a multinational conglomerate he is smart. A lovely he has never seen before in and around Washington, DC steps around 11:30 AM. She is reading an “Express” from last week. He wonders why anybody reads that garbage. He gives her a Front Double Biceps and Front Lat Spread combo anyway. Then a Single bicep flex, he winks and points with a trigger thumb at her, letting her know he approves of her blue top and long black skirt. He wonders if she wants a charcoal rubbing of his abs. She is probably too shy to ask.

Before he heads to the office for a series of Sunday meetings with his PR team and his phalanx of intellectual property attorneys, he decides to hit the gym. He changes out of his Carla Behrle leather pants, applies some Bikini Bite to keep things in, and puts on his tangerine posing banana hammock. Extra large. Sprays on a little Hot Stuff to increase and enhance his vascularity and slathers on some Jan Tana posing gel to highlight his muscularity. In the mirror, he sees what you see -- muscle mass, density, ripped definition, intensity, stamina endurance, mental focus, total fitness and power.

In the gym he does some lat pulldowns, triceps pressdowns, hack squats and hits the shower. He slips into his Carla Behrle leather pants. No shirt. He heads up to the office for his meetings, pumped and relaxed. On the way he picks up a double-cap-frap-half-caf-mocha-Ergopharm-1-ad-prohormone.

Total Power and fitness. Prohormones. Brown frame Jean Lafont glasses. The Sunday crossword puzzle. Letting women know they look good with a point and a wink. Referring to himself in the third-person. That is what he is about. And if you’ve grown weary of the repeated postings of the guy who wants to give you an erotic massage, you know where to write him.

When the ladies want their hot man on woman sensuality HOT...

Walking to the Orange line at Farragut West today I was beginning to think that it is almost time to break out the baby blue mink/chinchilla jacket. It’s chilly. I’m in my Carla Behrle leather pants. No shirt. Jean Lafont glasses with orange tinted lenses. I step onto a very crowded metro, give the ladies a Front Double Biceps and Side Chest combo before settling into my book. Atonement. Ian McEwan. A good read so far. I know you’re thinking that this guy, running a multinational conglomerate, only has time for the Economist, Business Week, and the Wall Street Journal. Well, you are wrong. Long ago I recognized the importance of being a well rounded individual. Not only do I take care of my body, but I also take care of my mind. The reason men want to be me and their women want to be with me is because of this. This and that I am recognized around the globe as the foremost expert on man on woman sensuality.

It’s like last night at Angles. Indulging my pan-gallic chauvinism, I order a Gratinée de Coquilles St Jacques and Rognons au d’éléphant flambés au Madère and a Juniper Green Organic Gin and Thyroxine to wash it all down. I’m not there 10 minutes and there is Jim. He needs more techniques. His lover is getting bored. Demanding I suppose. I say, “Jim, You tried the Uchchushita?” He’s all, “What are you talking about,” and “I can’t even spell that. What is that?” I’m, “Babe. It’s dynamite. Cup, lift her young buttocks, let your tongue-tip probe her navel, slither down to rotate skillfully in the archway of the love-god's dwelling and lap her love-water: that is Uchchushita." And Jim, he’s all, “Holy crap that is good. But what about me?”

This is Jim’s problem. And frankly it is the problem of many of the prehensile milquetoasts of craigslist. “Jim,” I say, “you don’t want to be that guy, the ‘I love women big rear-end-all race no problem guy.’ You want to be a special guy.” Jim’s all, “Yea, you’re right.” So I’m, “OK, start with the Uchchushita, then the Jihva-bhramanaka. First, cleave asunder that archway with your nose and let your tongue gently probe her yoni with your nose, lips and chin slowly circling. Never fails.” Jim’s taking notes. “Last,” I say,” go in for the kill: Mausala.” Jim’s, “Mausala?” I’m, “Mausala. Stiff as a pole in the bed's center, you make love to your woman, she’s cooing and warbling like a woodpigeon, the jewel of her clitoris well-polished. This is Mausala. And this is your goal.” Jim’s, “Thanks.” Me? I’m hoping he doesn’t fuck it up.

Me? Well rounded. Well traveled in Maryland. Eater of endangered species. Ripped definition. A total force of nature. Keeper of the secrets of man on woman sensuality. You? Tired of those selfish one-trick ponies of craigslist? You know where to write.

If you think you can handle the intensity...

Me? I’m in my Carla Behrle leather pants. No shirt. I’m walking past kiosk ads all over the Westfield Shoppingtown in Wheaton imparting my image and style to Hugger-Mugger Yoga Products, MuscleTech® supplements, such as CELL-TECH™ and ACETABOLAN III®, and feminine hygiene products. Large billboard of me near the Twinbrook Community Recreation Center in Rockville, MD, number 26 on the list of best places to live in the U.S. In it, I’m wearing a kashmiri styled silk kurta-lehenga like the one that Karisma Kapoor wore in Baaz, striking a Shohei-Ryu-Bollywood Karate pose: Snake-creeps-down-and performs-the-dance-of-the-Shakti. Silver Spring. Over by the Piratz Tavern on Georgia Avenue. Another large billboard of me wearing a yellow bustier and with leopard print hipsters like Sushmita Sen wore in Tumko Naa Bhool Payenge at the Gare de Cornavin. I am striking another pose I am famous for: Golden-cock-stands-on-one-leg-Dhandia. Things seem to be going great. I’m looking good – stamina, ripped definition, intensity, and dignity.

I wake up. Stretch and check out my ripped definition in the mirrors over my bed. Give myself a wink and a point for a change and head for the shower. Air drying I dig in to a Northern Spotted Owl egg omelet and two strips of panda bacon. Reading the Post I am surprised at the lack of coverage regarding yours truly and my looming trip to Maryland to meet with high government officials regarding their desire to import my image, style, flair. I’ll have to have a little talk with the PR team when I get to work.

As I step on the Orange line at Farragut West, I do Front Double Biceps and Front Lat Spread combo. “Doors Closing.” Single bicep flex, I wink and point with a trigger thumb to a lovely in my car. She looks familiar. She wants to do a charcoal rubbing of my abs. She remembered to bring charcoal and paper this morning. I graciously oblige. Her hands tremble. She knows of my reputation regarding the savage intensity of my version of man on woman sensuality. Getting off at Dunn Loring, I head to work.

Shohei-Ryu-Bollywood Karate. Dining on endangered species. Dream sequences. Style. Flair. Dignity. That is what I am about. And if you think you can handle the intensity of my version of man on woman sensuality, you know where to write.

He gets letters:

"My name is Natasha, I am from Russia. I have found your ad I want to know you better. Sorry, if bothered you, but I really want to find a good man and I think that you are that man :) May I send photos to you?"

Curvy white guy seeks attractive white woman.

Apparently this guy (permalink) stole an ad from the W4M side of craiglist personals and posted it on M4W and poorly edited it so that I couldn't tell if he was looking for a man, a woman, or both. Folks called him out on the theft but not on his conflicted desires. Ironically, the title of his post was "Different Loving." I wonder if it worked for him? Hmmm....

I'm searching for a handsome white woman to call my own! sHe should be at least 5 feet tall, at least 100 pounds, and have short hair or long hair. (Sometimes the cornrows a la Bo Derek work for me, but usually I like my gal to go to the salon every week. =)) sHe should be intelligent, articulate, career-oriented, and -- most importantly -- be able to make me laugh. Someone who attends church regularly and who is willing to give me a little spoiling would get bonus points! =)

Mr. Banana Hammock hunts the most dangerous game...man

I'm choppered up to an exclusive resort in Western Maryland for a weekend retreat to meet with high government officials to discuss the importation of my image and style to a handful of communities around the beltway that seem to lack a coherent image and style, namely Wheaton, Silver Spring, and Rockville.

So yesterday I’m out in woods. I'm business networking with high government officials and their families. Innovative business paintball solutions or something. I’m wearing my Carla Behrle leather pants. No shirt. They make me take off my medallion of a Buddha Vitarka Mudra flanked by a couple of Bodhisattvas. Dangerous I guess. In the wilderness stalking the most dangerous game, man, my ripped physique is up to the challenge. Me? Muscle mass, density, power, intensity, mental focus, daring. That is about the size of it.

While I’m out in the Maryland wilderness to escape the all the attention I receive from the women in Washington DC., I also figure I could incorporate some of the ancient teachings of paintball into the even more ancient and horrible Shohei-Ryu-Bollywood Karate which I practice. It would give me a jump on some of my foes. Incognito Sweetie, of whom we already know something about, and Aurora Green, of whom we know precious little. Aurora and her cartel of Bashi-Bazooks, trafficking in counterfeit tampons and also supplying the Tae Bo Underground with those BootCamp Elite™ Billy Bands they often use in battle. More deadly the nunchucks.

Protective gear is on my face. I wear a belt with canisters of extra paintballs placed strategically in front of my banana hammock to protect my prodigiousness. I begin to stalk my prey. Slowly through the woods I creep, careful not to make a sound. I see him. Pinned behind a blind, waiting to take out one of my teammates. Five feet away. He does not hear me. He does not see me. I see him. I take aim. He turns to look at me. He screams out of weakness and turns to protect his front. His back to me I shoot him. He screams again, this time from pain. I feel no mercy when I am hunting the most dangerous game. It could cost me dearly. I raise my paintball gun aloft and howl at the sky. I have vanquished my foe. A nine-year old boy.

I figure I got a good workout, so there’s no reason to hit the gym today. I want to show the kid I harbor no hard feelings, so upon returning to DC, we decide to hang out at Café Rumba. I order mojitos. I make his a virgin. He’s a little thin and poor at paintball so I get him a shot of baby fur seal Somatotropin. I also order one for myself. So we’re smoking cigarettes and talking about my latest run-in with Incognito Sweetie and the Tae Bo Underground. I tell him how I fended off a series Knee-Front Kick-Jack Combos, Knee Cross Combos, Back Fist Punches, and Side Lunge Stretches. And then how I broke out in song. How “Dholi dhol baajaa” seemed appropriate since that is the song Urmila Matondkar sang in the lemon ghargara choli that I was wearing. How as I sung, danced, lunged, punched, and kicked, that it seemed as this group was no match for my skills. Snake-creeps-down-and performs-the-dance-of-the-Shakti, Golden-cock-stands-on-one-leg-Dhandia, and needle-at-sea-bottom-Araalam mudra followed with a HamsaPaksham mudra, and all that.

And him? He’s all, ““Dholi dhol baajaa?” I would’ve sung “Dulhan hum le jayenge” from the film “Dulhan Hum Le Jayenge.” The music and lyrics are of the same brand as the earlier ones from Anu Malik and David Dhawan. But it does grow on you after a while.” And I’m thinking to myself: typical 9 year old.

Anyway, I send him home to his parents. I hope he learned something about being a man this weekend. It might save his life some day. Also, I hope the high government officials in Maryland learned something about me as well -- I am total concentration. Total control. Savage intensity. Grace and Dignity. Ruthless paintballer. If any ladies out there think they can handle themselves as well as me and are tired of the somnambulant New Age milquetoasts of craigslist, you know where to write.