I met the Sexsomniac (nickname to be explained shortly) after seeing his ad and picture on the Craigslist “men seeking women” section. Honestly, I was looking for a new place to live, but when I couldn’t find the 5-bedroom palace with swimming pool, sauna and butler for under $1500 a month I started getting bored. I figured, if I could find a great deal on a race car bed (which I had) then why not a man? Plus, it was free and I just didn’t have the motivation to pay for and reactivate my Match account.
If you’ve ever trolled Craigslist for a date, for anything really, you will be entertained and appalled in equal measure. Some men come at you with humor (I once had sex for 1.5 hours. Of course, an hour of that was spent crying.), descriptions of their..ahem..equipment, their barely concealed misogyny (Looking for a real girl, no drama no bullshit. Just be real) or their very specific requests (Searching for Asian woman. 5’1.5′ and under with no kids and a good sense of humor. Oh and must love grapes). Bad spelling, grammar and punctuation abound. You really don’t go on Craigslist hoping to find the man of your dreams, but if you’re just looking for a date, it’s really not much worse than any other way. Bad dates come in many forms, and they issue forth from many dark corners of the internet.
After being genuinely stunned, frightened and vaguely sad for humanity in general, I stumbled upon the Sexsomniac’s ad. It was very unassuming, almost Puritan in its simplicity. “Hi, my name is “Seymour” and I’m 30 years old. I am in the process of finishing my law degree and am looking for a great girl to meet and see where it goes from there. I’m 5’10” and 160 pounds. Hope to hear from you!” Ok, not terribly witty or outstanding or even remotely interesting but there was a picture attached and I couldn’t deny that he was an attractive fellow. I decided to take a chance on it being a) a really, really old picture or b) a picture of someone else. I replied to the ad, attached some pictures and was mildly surprised when, less than a day later, I received a reply. We corresponded for a day or two, and the emails were succinct, witty and I was impressed by his grasp of the English language in general. I gave him my cell phone number and was delighted to receive a text message, asking me when was a good time to call later that evening.
The appointed hour came, and right on time I received a call. We must have spoken for a little over an hour and had a very spirited and intellectually stimulating conversation about politics, relationships, world events, etc. There were lots of laughs, a dozen little delightful coincidences and absolutely no awkward silences. So when the time came for us to hang up, I was more than willing to accept his invitation to have a drink later on in the week. A day or two passed and he texted back to confirm our date, along with the time and the place that he had picked out. I immediately took to Yelp to check out this place, and it was adorable! Patio with twinkly lights, great beer menu, right outside of the BART station so that I wouldn’t have to walk very far to get there.
I couldn’t remember the last time I had been this excited for a first date, and I put on my favorite date outfit and paid extra attention to my hair and makeup. In short, I looked amazing! I got to the bar a bit early and scoped out a seat on the patio, contemplating whether or not I should pre-game the date since I was starting to get a bit nervous. Before I could do that, he arrived, looking better than his picture and smiling in a way that made his eyes crinkle up in the most adorable way. My heart gave a little lurch as I stood up to hug him hello. We made our way inside and got a couple of beers and then headed up to the second floor to find a nice quiet table. Things seemed to be going very well. The beer was great, the company was even better and we were getting along wonderfully.
About 15 minutes in, he leaned in and let me know that he had to tell me something. And…here we go I say to myself. The deep dark secret, the dealbreaker that everyone has was about to be revealed to me right here on the first date. Trying to conceal my disappointment, I leaned in. He tells me that he has a condition in which he performs sexual acts on whoever he happens to be in bed with in the middle of the night. The next morning, he doesn’t remember doing it. In essence he’s sleepwalking. But instead of walking in his sleep, he’s fucking in his sleep. The condition is called, I kid you not, Sexsomnia. Lucky for him, I watch 20/20 and 48 hours so I have actually heard of this condition and to be honest, I’m a bit relieved that this is the big secret, and that it’s out. Am I thrilled about it? No, not exactly but I’m not completely horrified. I make a mental note to never sleep over, but at this point there’s still too much promise to pull the fake “my cat is on fire” phone call. All that was about to change however.
He must have sensed that I was mostly OK with his reveal, so the rest of his dirty little secrets just started pouring out. It was like the Niagara Falls of kink was cascading all around me and I was there in a little tiny barrel, bobbing up and down and hoping I would make it out when I finally reached the bottom. It started off with a discussion of penis size, and how much that mattered to me, all illustrated by a story of how his friend had gotten out of a traffic ticket by agreeing to go on a date with the cop. When they got back to his place and started getting down to business, she was shocked to discover his micro-penis and walked out. He asked me point-blank what I would do in this situation. I hem and haw a bit, throwing out the old “size doesn’t matter” line that us girls are so fond of using and he takes this as yet another signal to keep up the confessional tone of our conversation.
It was at this point that he dropped the BDSM bomb. That’s right folks, I am on a date with a micro-penised, Sexsomniac BDSM practitioner. He tells me that he is a top/dom and his specialty is intricate rope work. I’m speechless, but really trying to be nice about it and it’s about this time that I go and get another drink. The conversation is actually fascinating. He tells me the whole history of how he got into the scene, all the different genres and subgenres, the code of ethics, rules and answers all of my questions. With my 2nd beer gone, we say our goodbyes. He promised to contact me soon and send me pictures. And a contract. A contract? What? I’m not exactly sure what he means, so I give him a little hug, say goodbye and head home. I purposefully avoid telling him to call me sometime.
All this could have been mine
Sure enough, by the next morning I had an email from him. Included are a half-dozen pictures of women trussed up in various ways and positions. I can’t help but admire his handiwork. And then I get to the contract, along with instructions that I am to fill it out in its entirety before our next meeting. Meeting? Not date? This thing was six pages long, most of it consisting of a questionnaire asking things such as “Do you give your permission to be photographed? If so, do the photos need to be headless or can your face be included,” “Do you agree to be trained alongside of 3 or 4 other girls simultaneously,” and my personal favorite, “What do you weigh, and do you promise to disclose in a timely manner if your weight has fluctuated by 5 pounds or more.” At the end was a hold harmless agreement. I promptly email it to all of my girlfriends, with the subject WTF???
While I appreciated the lengths that this lawyer was willing to go to in order to cover his own ass and stop one of his poor trussed-up beauties from suing his ass off, I knew that I would never sign this thing. I also knew that I would never see this man again. Not willingly, at least. So the next afternoon when he texted me asking about the status of his contracts, I replied with something very vague. Apparently I also hit a nerve, as he texted back for me to “Be a good girl and never, ever use text-speak with me again.” Shivers. I didn’t respond and prayed that I would never hear from him again, but am horrified when a few hours later, I get an email asking for 2 items – a signed copy of the contract and full-length nude photograph of myself. Oh my.
What’s the best way to get a Dom off your back? Be a BAD girl, like Michael Jackson bad, and tell him you don’t have any nude photos, and no, you don’t need his help taking one. Better yet, say you DO have a nude photo but there’s no way in hell you’re sending it to him. Works like a charm.
A few weeks later, I was trolling Craigslist again when I ran across a new ad from the Sexsomniac. The tagline – Normal Guy Looking for Normal Girl. I just had to laugh.