Privacy? What Privacy?


People often ask why I don’t use a pen name, especially because I’m crude, rude, and socially unacceptable. They assume it’s a part of my narcissism. Nope. I’m simply too lazy to hide.

I’m also aware that anyone with a browser and Internet access can pretty much find my contact information, residence, work history, etc. So, why stress about it? If somebody wants to fuck me up or just fuck me, they can find me.

Ever have a date ask if it would be OK to do a background check? I have. My answer is always, “Knock yourself out, Flo-Jack.” I’m not handing over my SSN, which I’m sure she could find anyway. I’ve got nothing to hide, so no biggie. Yet, I find the people who look for dirt are usually quite dirty themselves.

Or, how about this one: “When’s the last time you were checked for STDs?” That one always cracks me up. If my answer isn’t “Five minutes ago,” there’s no guarantee you’ll remain unpolluted. What if I say, “Oh, I get checked monthly,” or whip out a folder full of test results? Instead of feeling more secure, shouldn’t one infer there’s a good reason for all the testing?

There are security cameras everywhere now. I have them, my office has them, every bar I go to has them. Heck, I see shit-stools on bikes wearing them on their helmets. People choose to ignore the fact that they’re probably being watched or recorded a good part of the day. I’ve had house guests do things they’d never do with me in the room, even though they were fully aware that I have cameras. Although I have a camera at my front door, I’ve seen delivery people toss my packages onto the doorstep like bean bags. It boggles the mind.

So, why not skip the nonsense and do full disclosure the minute you meet someone? I hear people (women) prefer to peel the onion—learn about someone gradually by spending time with him. You wouldn’t shop that way, would you? Take the first blouse you like home, without looking at others. Wear it for a week or so, then decide if you want to return it, and look for others. Tedious.

I would love it if my first date fully disclothed—I mean, disclosed.

“OK, Philly. You ready? I drink Cabernet, and not the cheap stuff. I don’t mind giving a blow job, but you had better go down on me often. You’re not putting your dick in my ass, ever. I do yoga. I don’t care if you do yoga, but I’m not going to miss classes because you want to cuddle. Some of my girlfriends are soulless sluts, and they WILL hit on you. Fuck one of them, and I’ll superglue your balls to your asshole. If I ask you how I look, you can be tactfully honest. If I text you, and you don’t reply within thirty minutes, I’ll assume you’re dead, and revoke your vagina lease. I don’t eat gluten-free, non-GMO, or anything that ends in tofu. If you need to do that, don’t do it around me. Please keep your pubes trimmed, fart in the other room, don’t spit, and never talk to me like a pimp would, even during dirty-talk. I watch reality TV. You don’t get to ask why. Now, sign here, and refill my glass if you understand these guidelines.”

“I think I’m in love.”

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About the author

Author of humorous essays about relationships and lifestyles.