I recently took the Alice in Wonderland Test. According to the test results, I am the Cheshire Cat — and I quote:

That sums me up perfectly. Cheesy magazine personality tests never lie. Sweet!

I like interesting, extraordinary people who are in touch with their own sexuality and spirituality, who know their own minds and bodies, and are capable of having a good time under most conditions. I would usually rather hang with circus freaks than dull suburbanites — but there’s a little sideshow in everyone, so maybe I can find your Inner Freak. Show me your battle scars and I’ll show you mine.

Who will I end up settling down with? Probably someday some guy with a duffle bag will come to visit and just refuse to leave. I admire persistence and know that things just HAPPEN, no matter how much we plan and scheme. Then again I could be the guy with the duffle bag.

You can fit a guy IN a duffle bag if you disassemble him.

(NOTE: to prevent embarrassing leakage, line the duffle bag with several layers of hefty bin liners.)

(FURTHER NOTE: It has been brought to my attention by a friend that you can fit an average-sized guy, fully assembled, into a large duffle bag. Now he tells me! Jeez!)

Someday I would like to ride across North America with a long-haul trucker. Someday I will do Europe on zero $$ a day. An old Dutch witch told me I would meet my soulmate in Australia. Australia is a place I never plan to go. I roll my own cigarettes in private. I read tarot cards. I practice black magic on a semi-regular basis. Pornography is a great boon to mankind. Homosexuality is THE sexuality of the future. Face it, breeders — you’re days of supremacy are numbered. In a perfect world, we will keep you as livestock.

Ask me anything. Talking about “work” bores me silly — if you are an ordinary wage-slave, I don’t give a fuck what you do. If I am telling you about my work, it means that (a) I’m lying, or (b) you have about 40 seconds to live … RUN!!!

Don’t tell me I’m quiet — if I am being quiet it means you’re boring me, or you intimidate me, or I am busy observing you or someone else. If I AM observing someone else, I’ll get back to you when I’m done. Patience is a virtue.

Most guys have 5 or 6 interesting things (THEY think) that have happened to them in their lives. They usually manage to work all 6 stories into the 1st hour of conversation, and then repeat or refer to those stories in every subsequent hour of conversation. I have a good memory, I only need to hear your war stories once. Move on. If you ever hear me tell the same story twice, it is because you begged to hear it again. I prefer to talk about ideas, other people and observations. I don’t care if you ALMOST met Mel Gibson, nor do I care if you ALMOST caught a ball at a world series game. Introduce me to the guy who actually caught the ball. Maybe he knows Mel Gibson.

Truly useless and arcane knowledge thrills me. I think cowboys and mechanics are sexy, but they are not usually very interesting people. Fix that! I like guys who know how to use fine French colognes. I like guys who are not afraid to stink. Smoking is a masculine attribute. Wearing diapers is silly if you don’t have to. Contrary to popular belief, the pun is the highest form of humor. A morbid sense of humor is a black pearl beyond price.

Chameleon, shape-shifter, trickster, vampire chic, heroin chic, rural funk, urban anorexic. My ideal “look”? Atmospherically, somewhere between Gloria Swanson descending the staircase in the last scene of Sunset Boulevard (I’m ready for my close-up, Mr DeMille) and Vincent Price singing ‘Somewhere over the Rainbow’ as he sails into the nether world in the last scene of Dr. Phibes Rises Again*. (There is a subtle connexion between the two.) I also have a major jones for that cloth-of-gold robe Gary Oldman wore in the last part of Bram Stoker’s Dracula.

In another gay.com profile of mine, in this section I described my look as: “Masculine, buzzed hair, short beard/unshaven, button fly jeans, black leather jacket and size 13 black work boots, no cologne, no deodorant.” That’s my hunting gear.**

I have no idea why the poor do not rise up and eat the rich. They should do so immediately. I have no idea why the rich do not enslave the poor as their personal playthings. They should do so immediately. I like human beings individually (if well prepared and served with the correct wine). I hate humanity as a whole. “The Simpsons” is the highwater mark of Western culture. Let’s get Homer-erotic. Over-population is the problem. Sodomy is the solution.

OK, some of you wanted me to add something here about my sexual tastes.

It might be easier to list those things that DON’T interest me sexually: cross-dressers, guys in diapers and getting fucked (I’m a TOP 99% of the time***). Having eliminated those three, you can assume that I am into most anything else your sick little imagination can devise. Or, more frighteningly, whatever else MY imagination can devise.

And in case my reputation has not reached you yet in that Martian cave of yours, I have a very talented mouth and tongue — kissing, cocksucking and especially rimming. (I use them to produce what is generally known as “The Cupid Effect.” Most guys recover completely from the effect in a few weeks. The trembling and weakness subsides in six to eight hours.)

My sexual interests often tend away from the tame and the ordinary (now there’s a shock). I enjoy group sex more than one-on-one. If you like to get fucked hard, or if you like to get fisted, or if you like to get tied up (or down), or if you like pain, etc., that can be arranged quite easily. If you want to be my “boy ” — cool.

I can also be tender, gentle, passionate etc., etc., but that assumes that you are a very special person, that you interest me as a person, and that you bring out in me the need to protect you from the other monsters out there in the dark.

Scared yet?

And you are: male, somewhere between highschool and retirement. Contrary to popular belief, I enjoy ALL shapes and sizes and ages of men. I tend to prefer dark men (interpret that how you will) but I’ll admit that a nice redhead will make my quimmy quiver. Uncut is nice, but whatever. If you want to hit that sweet spot at the back of my throat you will need at least 6½ inches. Good looks turn me on. I’m just a sucker for a pretty face.

Sic transit gloria mundi — glory is fleeting. That’s what makes it glorious. Everything fades until all that remains is the Cheshire Cat’s smile.