Sharing my VD with the lovelies of craigslist

Happy VD! Or STD or whatever....

My retreat last weekend to my private island hideaway in Pulau Tinggi was just what the doctor ordered. Recharged my batteries and it shows. Relaxed. Even tan all over thanks to my Jan Tana Hair Remover. I'll need to hit the gym soon to be ready for the Bally Jute Mill Bodybuiding Invitational in Bangladesh later this month.

I head to Tryst this afternoon for an ISS Effervescent Creatine Orange and Strawberry Smoothie. I'm in my Carla Berhle leather pants. No shirt. I walk in the room and all the ladies are looking up from their laptops. A pregnant woman almost went into labor. I tone it down as much as I can. I give them my Front Double Biceps and Back Lat Spread combo before taking a seat at the bar. I scan the room. Hot blonde lady in a sheer white top and short black skirt. I notice she is noticing me -- muscle mass, density, ripped definition, intensity, stamina, endurance. I give her a point and wink.

Just sharing my VD with the lovelies of craigslist.

The only man in DC who cares only about sex

This self-proclaimed king of smartiosity attempts a humorous ad but it comes off a bit obnoxious. I've always found the self-deprecating humor works better in these situations. Otherwise you come off sounding like someone aspiring to alpha-male status (permalink). If the topic touches the nerve of a particular reader, well then, don't read me.


It seems that approximately 99% of the people on here use some sort of variation on that tired cliché "I'm looking for someone who likes me for me. Someone I can love who will love me back. I just want to be held." Stuff like that. Well, I suppose I'm looking for the same, only when I’m talking about like and love and holding, they’re just basically euphemisms for s-e-x. In short, I need someone who can keep up with me horizontally (or vertically or otherwise). Go ahead and send me hate mail for the following statement, calling me a lout, a pervert, “sex positive” and insensitive throw-back to an earlier era; and then praise the men of today as “in touch” with their “feminine side” and that is how you like your men; if you can't deal with honesty, that's your hang-up, not mine: I'm “sex positive.” I'm really, really really “sex positive” and I am more than just talking about being “sex positive.” I actually like doin’ it. I spend most of my day, each and every day, downloading barely legal porn. And masturbating. And it's exhausting. Truly exhausting. I'm on here, hoping that I can find a woman, a woman with a vagina, who wants me to stick my penis in her vagina and vice versa. Not that she would stick her penis in my vagina, but that she would want me to stick my penis in her vagina. You get the drift.

Okay, with that being said ... hi, hello, greetings and/or salutations, my name is Mr. BananaHammock. It is not a pseudonym, it’s my actual name. I am 38 years and change. I live in Adams Morgan. I'm your typical patent boutique law firm marketing manager who put himself through grad school by taking out a lot of personal loans. My parents actually paid them off so I guess that the statement “I put myself through grad school” is not entirely correct. I'm a bibliophile with a slight astigmatism in my left eye I think (I don’t have to wear glasses but started because I used to check out hotties in the distance walking up the street and as I approached they weren’t as hot as they seemed when they were blurry, sigh). Let's see, I'm not in therapy but probably should be. I seem to attract damaged women and rebound women and these relationships always seem to end weirdly. I read voraciously, sloth obsessively and I'm definitely outdoorsy he-man type. See below my deer hunting picture in full flannel.

My Ideal Person: Is “sex positive” in the sense that they like to act on that urge rather than talk about how “sex positive” they are. Also, my ideal person has a vagina. I like vaginas. I could never get tired of looking at vaginas. Maybe I should’ve been a gynecologist rather than a patent boutique firm marketing manager? That being said ... please be very well educated, be reasonably fit and attractive, and you must have an extremely dark sense of humor.

No relationship rebounders, crazies, commitment-phobes or psychos. I am no longer psycho-friendly.

He gets letters:

"Yes! You're back. We missed you on CL."

"Please, pleeeease do this guy. I think we chatted once or twice on salon.com personals before so I feel like I almost know you and can ask you this. "

I'm the most hardcore fat-burning machine I can be. What about you?

Mr. BananaHammock returns...

So this morning 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. Also, I take my Hydroxycut Hardcore™, enabling the enzymatic response involved in thermogenesis and the fat-uncoupling process turning me into the most effective and hardcore fat-burning machine I can be.

Before work I decide I need to do some grocery shopping. My refrigerator was recently fixed after being broken for a while and I need to restock. I’ve been tired of eating out every night. It’s going to be a hot day so I slip commando-style into my Carla Behrle leather pants. No shirt. 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
peaches
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 peaches to test for firmness I suppose. And drooling. I approach and let her know that if she’s after something a little firmer, 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. Eating endangered species. Lifetime movies. That is what I am about.


He gets letters:

"leather in the heat without undies is likely to cause a nasty rash...When I'm having a bad day I cruise CL and find the most off the wall post and send it to my colleagues. You won today. Thanks for the giggle."

" Welcome back! Now I can really look forward to reading the personals again."

Why no B-Day Sex is OK by me by Mr. Banana Hammock (not Omari)

Another tribute to Omari, who hasn't posted in a while...

Birthday sex. My white whale. Call me Ahab, not Ishmael.. I have been in several long term relationships, dated short term, dated casually, and have never had birthday sex. I've heard tell of it happening, but it hasn't happened for me. I've given birthday sex, but never received birthday sex. Apparently I've stumbled into some sort of "it's that time of the month" conspiracy whereby the female population of wherever I happen to be at any given moment is synchronizing their biological clocks. I've largely accepted this as fact and am more or less resigned to a life without birthday sex. Generally speaking, I wouldn't turn birthday sex down, although I would probably be suspicious somebody was playing a practical joke on me. And not even a good practical joke, like cup-a-souping someone by shoving a fart in their face or placing dog poop in their coffee.

Regarding practical jokes, the American humorist H. Allen Smith wrote a 320-page book in 1953 called The Compleat Practical Joker that contains many examples of practical jokes. A typical one concerns the American painter and bohemian character Waldo Peirce. Peirce was living in Paris in the 1920s and made a gift of a very small turtle to the woman who was the concierge of his building. The woman doted on the turtle and lavished it with care and affection. A few days later Peirce substituted a somewhat larger turtle for the original one. This continued for some time, with larger and larger turtles being surreptitiously introduced into the woman's apartment. The concierge was beside herself with happiness and displayed her miraculous turtle to the entire neighborhood. Peirce then began to sneak in and replace the turtle with smaller and smaller ones, to her bewildered distress. This was the storyline behind Esio Trot, by Roald Dahl, though I don’t recall if Mrs. Silver gave Mr. Hoppy birthday sex. They get married in the end, so I guess probably not.

This year I am grateful that there will be no birthday sex for me. The air conditioning in my building has given out so no central air. I had been running the air in my apartment with the windows closed out of respect for our scant natural resources. It is at least 100 degrees in the bedroom. And though I had one of those giant bottles of Gatorade Rain (green flavored), I'm pretty sure that I would not be a good birthday sex host. Perhaps it is because of the combination of heat and humidity and lack of air conditioning. Or, although because, ultimately, we all came from water and we all are water, it's not always pleasant sharing your water with a total stranger. Does anyone care? I'll gladly accept rain-checks.

I taught her how to love again

Something somewhat new. Mr. BananaHammock M4W post coupled with a W4M missed connection for the woman he taught how to love again...

I'm at the office so I'm wearing my Carla Behrle leather pants. No shirt. My chunky gold bracelet keeps clanging on the keyboard as I type. Just back from the gym so my body glistens, my muscles are pumped and totally cut. Abs, delts, biceps, triceps. I flex for the ladies in the cubicles as I make my way back to my office to type this missive.

Last night, I walk into Angles. I flex for the ladies and grab an ISS Effervescent Creatine Orange and Hybolin Decanoate mixed with Old Raj Gin. My back to the bar, I settle into a one of those bar stools, my head bobbing in rhythm to music that only I can hear. I glance to my left. I glance to my right. I’m scanning the joint for ladies that can handle this juggernaut of ecstasy. Spotted in the corner. One special one, I give her my bicep flex swivel-wrist point and wink. I can tell she needs the kind of hot man on woman sensuality that only I can provide. She needs me to teach her how to love again.

She’s a hot, dirty blonde in a sheer summer dress. I give my smoky, smoldering, bedroom eyes. I give her my hot, snarly lip curl. I give her my Front Double Biceps and Back Lat Spread combo and then run through my posedown routine. I notice that she is noticing me. She’s taking it all in -- muscle mass, density, ripped definition, intensity, dignity and flair. She’s blushing. I know what she wants to ask me but she is shy. I approach and tell her that I’d be more than happy to teach her how to love again. We proceed to the ladies room which is much more spacious than the men’s room, enough space necessary to accommodate all of my hot man on woman sensuality techniques. Space enough that she won’t bang her head on a urinal. It is here that I teach her to love again.

After I spoil her for other men, I head for the Safeway on the way to my Adams Morgan compound to get something for dinner. I pick up a crudités platter, panda tenderloin, and Ranch Salad kit. I’ll be up late practicing my bedroom eyes.

Looking good. Human growth hormones. Eating exotic animals. A juggernaut of ecstasy. Teaching women how to love. That is what I am about. And if you’re tired of those limp-wrist denizens of craigslist, you know where to find me. Your pic gets mine.


And the Missed Connection...

You taught me how to love again - w4mLast night at Angles. You were wearing tight leather pants and no shirt. Your physique was like nothing I’ve ever seen before. You spoiled me for other men in the ladies room around 8:00 PM. I wish I’d asked for your number. Coffee?

Easter by Mr. Banana Hammock (not Omari)

It seems a bit hollow to me that Jesus' dad let Jesus die for our sins. My sins? vodka, cigarettes, barely legal porn, and premarital sex. I don't count masturbation as a sin since the fundies started saying that you should worship your body like a temple and I've had to worship that temple a lot recently.

Easter is apparently named after the pagan goddess Eostre, an Anglo-Saxon maiden-goddess of fertility. Primitive cultures found this to be a very sacred and holy thing, and have honored Eostre in many ways down through recorded history. And, as one might expect, it has been invariably symbolized by the rebirth of a dead deity.

The name Eostre or Oestre in Latin apparently derives from the Greek, and has it's roots in a word that means "frenzy." We see this word again in English in "estrus," meaning a female mammal 'in heat' and able to conceive, and if anybody has encountered a female in estrus, let me tell you...they are frenzied.

In my family, Easter is a celebration of a certain animal from the family of leporids who leave chocolate candy and hard boiled eggs as treats. I don't eat chocolate generally so I generally gave them to my crazy sister. Also we color the hard boiled eggs. Later, before the ham dinner, we strip naked, go out in the woods, dance around a tree, and offer to dye the pubic hair of the young women that would walk by my house singing their fertility songs or regularly ranting about not "getting any."

Mr. BananaHammock’s smoky glare can rejuvenate your vagina

Normal posters on craiglist are getting so dull. No material. Drat. Never fear. A friend called attention to a recent article in the Washington Post on vaginal rejuvenation coming to the DC area. Vaginal rejuvenation a la Dr. 90210! I had to write an ad...

Waking up around seven 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 Emperor Penguin bacon. I was it down with a glass of breakfast wine. I put on my Carla Behrle leather pants. No shirt. I head out for the Orange Line for my morning commute.

When I hit the platform at Farragut West 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 Foggy Bottom. I give her my smoky glare. No doubt her vagina feels rejuvenated.

After work, I stop in at Tryst, flex for the ladies and grab an iced-double-half-calf-mocha-latte-something-or-another with a shot of baby fur seal Somatotrophin and settle into a big overstuffed couch with this week’s New Yorker Magazine. A woman stops by to talk. She wants to talk about my man on woman sensuality. She’s all, “as being fully functioning and very alive female I have burning sensuality. You might be coming on too strong.” I’m all, “Too strong? I’m toning it down babe.” She doesn’t fully understand. I know that women have their own burning sensualities. I’m not trying to sell a product like my image and style. I’m just trying to let the people know that there is me and there are the New Age milquetoast metrosexual denizens of craigslist. I give her my smoky glare. She says her vagina feels rejuvenated.

Eating exotic and endangered animals. Riding Metro. Vaginal Rejuvenation. That is what I am about. Forget the E! Network’s “Dr. 90210” and his expensive Laser Vaginal Rejuvenation procedure. Mr. BananaHammock’s smoky glare can rejuvenate your vagina for free.

He gets letters:

"Dude....You're a fucking riot. I'm sure your posting will bring you a gazillion responses. I just wanted to take the time to personally thank you for brightening an impossibly dreary day. You should seriously consider writing a Mr. BananaHammock screenplay and trying to sell it. You're hilarious."

"that was funny. it just was ..I know you can't be serious, but you made me smile. good job."

Mr. Bananahammock says "Be my Valentine, Bitch!"

~ flagged and removed by craigslist "bitches" ~

NO HATERS!!!

That's just how I roll...

Much more coolerer than any others here. Especially that BH weirdo

Could he be talking about moi? (permalink)...I suppose it is possible.

Especially that one weirdo. Mr. Banana Hammock or something. C'mon. You can't ride metro topless!!!!

For me? I'd like to think I'm Mr. Rick Marshall, longing for the dead Mrs. Marshall, who was beautiful and headstrong. Hey I can see many of her qualities in Holly. . .but I'm probably more like Will. He is kind of a dweeb. I'm definitely not willing to engage in ANY sexual activity with Sleestaks...

About you. . .hopefully you are attractive and thin, not ugly, not fugly, not a sleestak. Smokers ok. Drinkers ok. In shape good. Well rounded intellectually very good. Possession of pylon crystal matrix tables a plus. I'm looking for a nice girl who isn't going to try to change me. Please be drug and disease free too. Again, no Sleestaks (or Pekuni for that matter -- too hairy, not waxed, yuck).

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.

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.

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.

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.