**Personal Fantasy**
If you’re like me, you think humans are weird. Fascinating from behind the fishbowl glass of your computer, but too much to handle at any distance closer than thought. So you read pages and pages of people’s desires online. Dial-up admissions in all lowercase and bad grammar of what people want to do, and more often want done, to them. Look at you—what a proper horny scientist, you are.
If you’re like me, you think of browsing the Craigslist Personals as *science.*
Hopefully, you are not like me.
Here is what I know: A single refresh of the Personals contains more unfiltered truth than a thousand Catholic confessionals. Brutal truth and hurt and hope.
Sometimes I start with the Missed Connections to get myself going. See a stranger, and in the space of a moment imagine your whole life with them. It’s happy, and then the moment is gone. Connection missed. Pick up the pieces of yourself and take them to Craigslist and compose a post. If they feel the same, maybe they will too. Maybe you’ll see their post. Probably not. In all my browsing I’ve never actually seen two that correspond, but no one posts their story because they expect resolution.
When I’m in the mood to tease with Missed Connections, I start slow. Dim the lights, set out a towel over my computer chair, and tonight let myself build over a man who has written more than four hundred words about the green of a girl’s eyes—someone he’d never seen before and never will again.
**Perfect Moment at Winndixie** – by *caleb6341*
*You were at the winndixie off 28 nd you had a red scarf andhat with a purple button. My milk had gone bad in my fridge bcause i never get up or have energy to put up breakfast. So thats why i was in dairy but you needed to find the ethnic foods isle and asked “Excuse me, do you know where to find masala?” You looked at my eyes and smiled at me and your eyes were these round dark circles of blasck and but so green outside of that and i could see little lines like sunshine and the store lights were in the the black part. I pointed where to go and you thanked me and i wish i’d said more because so you would have stuck around llonger your eyes were pretty. It’s so cold outside but your eyes are green Spring. I can’t stop looking at them when i close mine. No on’es looked at me in a long time. I cant believe I fell in love with…*
That’s probably enough to get into here. Yeah, it’s sad, but I won’t lie. That *does* something for me. Slowly I gyrate my wrist and arc it up and down. There are pages of connections to scroll, but when I’ve had enough, when I’m ready to push myself over the top and be done, I hop to the Personals. These are the advertisements for right here and right now. Shorter. To the point.
**M4many (M) J!zz Dumpster** – by *cumdrunk*
*Come to my house (doors open email for address) and pump your cum. Ass or throat. Make your deposit and go. No hello, no name. Come in and cum in (me.)*
God, now *that’s* the stuff. *cumdrunk* wants literally more than anything for strangers to enter his home, unzip and push all the way inside of him without words. Only moans and groans. Wants to feel the mushroom frill of another man’s penis scoop the cum of everyone who came first out of his rectum. The wheels of my roller chair creak as I shudder. My hips can’t decide whether to clamp tight enough to crush whatever might get snapped inside (my hand) or just bloom. Unfurl like a flower. There’s something literary there about bees touching down for just a moment to pollinate the same spread petals and *cumdrunk*’s stranger-lover gangbang dream.
**W4m – Lights off Fuck** – *nosatisfaction*
*NSA. Can host or travel but lights must go off. Want a man who will pull my hair and thrust to my cervix. Want to ride you til you spill seed all over inside me and push back of my face into a pillow and drill ur children into me . Lights stay off. Play with my hard tits*
There’s an email attached to the post for interested parties to reach out, but I’ve already got everything I need. Hands in the dark. Reaching and fumbling. Finding something fleshy or hard and clasping tight / dipping in. Fingers slipping in juice of the unseen body. Starting in darkness and disappearing into the same, after. I wonder who OP is hiding from. Herself? God?
All of my browsing has done terrible things to my cookie-based advertisements. *LONELY MOMS NEED COCK TOO!* I guess it’s still a fantasy, but there’s not enough to latch on, except for maybe the *TOO!*
Something’s there. The heart-fluttering nervousness as an area MILF with no husband looks quickly left, right, and all around. Where has all the dick gone? Don’t forget the lonely, horny moms! *Spare us not the rod for don’t we too deserve to be spoiled?* Please—the kids are away at soccer camp!
Like I said, there’s something in the *TOO!* but not enough to get me there.
**W4w LF hot babe** – *lesbophile*
*Wanna crack u in half with my tongue*
I finish.
Love a hungry top. Would love to meet one. Not me though—fully submissive and deeply receptive. There’s something primal in having your space invaded and body stained by what your partner leaves behind, even if just a memory. You look at yourself in the mirror. See your own eyes, press fingers into your own cheek, and feel your skin bounce back. You make sure you’re still you. Still there. You are and you are, but still. I think I might enjoy having had sex more than having it.
This is what lingers in my head when I finally answer a Personal written by *SadDad*.
His was one of those rarer posts from an emotional top. I think you’ll know enough about me by now to understand why I was drawn to it.
**M4any I Miss My Wife** – *SadDad*
*Father of four, newly divorced. Wife moved out last spring and still in love with her (youngest barely 8 month-old). We were high school sweethearts and got engaged at Prom. Got pregnant a little after that. We wer scared but also excited and maybe she never forgave me. Or that soured later. We had a good-ish life for fifteen years but she left me when I lost my job. I don’t know what happened those last three years but I’ll never see her or semell the spot behind her ear where she dabs perfume again. I miss the woody smell of her hair and how she’d say my nam so I knew we were doing good sex (haven’t in years) I miss you and I love you and I’ll never stop missing or loving her.I’m sorry for everything I know and don’t know or did or didn’t do so much I feel like Im going to die. Can’t host because I have roommates instead of amily now but would love to have sex with someone in my Corolla.*
I am a bad horny scientist. I read, read, read but never conduct any experiment of my own. Shame summons my hand from between my thighs to take the mouse and click *SadDad*’s email.
**Me**: *Hi. I read your ad in the Personals and would be interested in meeting up in your Corolla.*
*SadDad* replies in eleven minutes—long enough to read my message immediately and then think.
**Sad**: *Sure! Ha ha. I kind of didn’t think anyone would respond.*
My heart sinks a little, but I can understand the need for expectation-less posting catharsis. This is a fine dismissal. I’m no longer so bad a scientist because regardless of results, I did try. Some experiments fail. But then *SadDad* replies to himself.
**Sad**: *Sorry. I’m still new to this kind of thing. We can meet up in my car. I would love to fuck you. But can you tell me a little more about who you are?*
I’m surprised and nervous. Unsure what to really say. Takes me an hour to chisel words from raw thought and type them out. I’m not used to talking about myself. In all my most intimate thoughts I pretend to be other people.
But somehow this works out. I guess it makes sense. *SadDad* is nervous too, and just spilling words. He’s not looking for anyone he’ll ever find on Craigslist, so maybe no one is ideal. Someone who’s like no one, like me.
We fall into emailing back and emailing forth. He wants to know if I’m free now and I am but I’m also a little scared. I tell him tomorrow after work hours. Sometime around sunset, so it’s not so dark. He asks what I look like and I ask if it’s okay for me to send pictures.
**Sad**: *Yes, of course.*
I’m not great at pictures even when someone else is doing the heavy-lifting behind the camera. Now I’m trying to jangle my elbow to hold my Nokia Flip at a good angle and getting a lot of belly and blur. This is not something I’ve done before, but finally the necessary synapses fire in my brain for me to do the obvious thing and take a picture in the bathroom mirror. I send.
**Me**: *This is what I look like. I’m sorry that it might not be all of what you’re looking for.*
This is the part where he tells me I’m just not his wife. Or doesn’t reply at all.
**Sad**: *You look fine!*
I think I glow.
This is better than scrolling. I touch myself and ask him questions. What kind of perfume did your wife like? What styles did she wear? How and how often would she ask to fuck? Did she use words or her eyes, or just hug a certain way as her hand crawls finger over finger to that hot space of creases and fabric folds, where the lushness of body heat burns trapped behind clothes?
I find out that the answer is *“Hey.”* Not a greeting and definitely not overly loud, but a *hey* said sideways. Affection and affirmation. A *hey* of *I want you* and *I love you*. Of *Forget everyone in the world who isn’t you*, I want *you* most of all and *you* inside *me*.
*Hey. Please fuck me.*
*SadDad*, whose name is Harold, doesn’t put it in so many words, but I am a connoisseur of desire and can see him and see the wife that left him. His need becomes mine and I will not be combing the Personals tonight.
…
I call in sick to work the next day. Use the time that buys to buy lavender perfume and a burgundy blouse. Harold’s fantasy is armor that protects me from the embarrassment of the Walmart clerk’s questioning eyes as I purchase these items for the express purpose of getting railed in a lonely divorcé’s Toyota.
When Harold comes to pick me up, I’m dressed, and the perfume has been dabbed behind my ear for him to whiff, if he wants. The silence is awkward and heavy as he moves his car through winter’s last light. “I was thinking maybe the Wendy’s parking lot by the interstate. It’s closed down today, if that’s all right.”
It is. I certainly won’t complain. He takes us around one lap of the lot, a big sign of Wendy blaring loud, red, and neon overhead, her slogan in electric cursive: *Wendy’s. You Know When It’s Real*.
Then we’re parked and he’s looking at me, and squinting so hard. He’s probably trying to see his wife, who I’m not, but maybe can be close enough. I’m too invested now. I don’t want this experiment to fail. I look at him and say quietly, softly, in a *please fuck me* way, *“Hey.”*
The backseat of his car is too cramped and that’s okay. We’re entangled by the limitations of space before we even get into each other. He pulls me out of my underwear but leaves the blouse that looks like hers. Runs his fingers through the soft fabric over my stomach as he buries himself to the hilt in my forked asscheeks again and again. He leans down and I feel the caves of his nostrils lifting at the softness behind my earlobe like the world’s gentlest twin vacuum, and… I’m sorry. I’m not great at words right now. I’m being fucked.
His nose keeps bonking into the back of my skull with each looping thrust, which has to be worse for him than me, but I can feel how much he needs this. All of this. Needs everything, and I love it. I love him, and I say his name like I imagine she did on those rare occasions when he fucked her right, “Har*old*…. *Har*old…. *Har*old….”
I think what drew me to his post over the rest was the fantasy. Mechanically, Harold is not the receiving partner, but truths of the flesh transcend flesh. I deliver to him the ghost of his nubile wife, and he is my bottom even as he pounds mine.
Now I lay on my back, neck bent to a painfully right angle. Almost takes my eyeballs out of my head to look up into his, but I’m curious. I want to see what emotions play on his face, but again he surprises me. Catches me looking and spits onto the fingers he’s not using to open my thigh and reaches down. Works doubletime with digits and dick.
I understand that I am something like a parasite, but it’s worse than that: I am hopeless and uncreative, getting off on other’s dreams and fantasies because I have none of my own.
I understand all of this, and still know that I am more than it, and even less. The truth is that I am hardly anyone. Hardly a person. I am a burning core of yearning and need caged by a fragile shell of meat that is utterly irrelevant but for its openings through which someone else might penetrate—someone whose need I can mirror and thereby give definition to myself.
We fuck frantic and hard in that Corolla, sweat and other fluids seeping into the faux leather. My ass makes a squelching sound like a fart as I peel it free for us to switch positions before he’s done. I hope he’s nearly done. He’s either about to climax or die of a heart attack and possibly both. But everyone will die eventually, so we screw like it’s our last act in the world and with quickness.
When it’s over and he is pulsingly, throbbingly empty, my blouse is darkened with his cum. My skin sticky from where it’s landed. Can’t open one eye until I wipe splooge off the lid. The interior of his car smells like sour skin and lavender perfume and he’s just looming there, all gray stubble and tangly wild pubes, one knee resting on the stained backseat and the other leg straight to the floor. Got his goopy cock deflating in his hand.
So this is it. Experiment probably successful. I’m fine with this. I’m content.
“You all right?” he checks in.
“Yes,” I breathe.
His eyes. They’re so pale and brown. Tastes something sweet just looking at them and having them look back. Maybe this is the post-coital glow of which I have read. I can’t help the bone-shaking rush of jealousy I feel for the woman whose space I temporarily occupy. The role I have assigned myself.
“You want a little help finishing?”
I rise out of my thoughts but can’t put myself together enough for words. I nod.
He sinks back down. In the space of the Corolla, somehow manages to wedge one protective arm behind my head while his fingers spider inside my waist. Their pads curl to rub my walls and I shake my whole body, spine arching as he pushes out moan after moan. I am a melty puppet dancing in staticky spasms on his fingers that play and pluck my inside nerves like a string instrument, and I slide my own hand down to crank and crank faster like it’s the Personals until trembling, my muscles seize and legs clamp over his arm.
After, we are tired. We are breathing. We are alive.
“Too bad the Wendy’s is closed,” he says, eventually. “I could get a burger.”
…
He drops me off and I undress and shower. Let the water run down all the spaces his hands ran up. For the second night in a row I leave the Personals alone. Sleep long and hard. I am tired and my neck hurts, but my body still buzzes.
The experiment must have been a success because I dream of empty concrete, viscous fluid, and Wendy’s neon. I masturbate immediately upon waking and do it again before falling asleep. Wake. Repeat.
Finally I do something I’ve never done before and post. None of us here expect resolution, but I leave an ad on the Craigslist Personals detailing what I know I want more than anything:
**LFany for achingly passionate sex, open to NSA or LTR** – *corollabang*
*Looking for someone who will need me. I can be anyone you want and do anything.* \
FIN
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New to posting stuff so please connect if you enjoyed! Also if you’ve got recommendations on other subreddits or places to post for eyes….. Please pass on bc mommy wants to monetize!
I’m open to commissions on my website [here](https://lyrahex.squarespace.com).
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/mxyrrj/sad_daddy_craigslist_cry_fuck_gender_ambiguous_mc