Clark Rockerfeller, the virtual gay man trapped inside a woman’s body, learns from ‘Adult Themes’ about food play and the world of ‘Wet and Messy’ (WAM).
‘Adult Themes’ lived down the street. His pseudonymn fails to do him justice. Half balding, with a forest green pea-cap and a white pair of speedos, he has a proud smile and an enthusiastic personality.
We chatted in earnest for a time. He had been closeted for 54 years, yet his Grindr photograph held no ambiguity, his nom de plume held no desire for anonymity. Typical of an older generation of Grindr-dwellers, he was comfortable in a space that had been designed rather than claimed for him. It remains a platform protected from interlopers, so much unlike global gay-streets, where seedy straights catch girls unawares and ‘real men’ seek fairy blood lust in the acrid, post-2am lull.
Also Grindr-typical, the conversation broke in half cleanly. It was 16.22:
“I want to eat slices of kiwi fruit off your body”
And so I wandered under the shade of a new umbrella – the world of ‘Wet and Messy’ (WAM) – sitophilia, foodplay and pie-fetishism. Conventional sex-texting merged with detailed produce imagery and continued Abbott allusions. It was a sweet salad of a conversation.
45 minutes passed before he suggested a rendezvous. Yes, the foreplay was protracted – an unspoken decision to get the pipes warmed up and the fruit pre-juiced before abandoning our own right hand/fruit/apendage trifecta, for a menage-a-six: two dicks, two tongues, a pineapple and a banana.
It was imperative at this stage to send a photo and an address. I was underprepared. Cropping a fully-clothed photograph of my old London hostel flame, I clicked ‘send’. It was not the expected cock-shot and my modesty piqued his interest. We were ready to WAM. I baited: ”Whenever you can CUM”. It was crude, but it secured a time. 17.30, he would be at my place. To fuck. With food.
The address was my neighbour’s. She’s an artist in her mid-eighties. I had a perfect view of the gentleman from my window, and I slunk into the kitchen in a corset and lacy underwear. If Clark was having imaginary sex, damn well was I going to dress the part.
He arrived early – 17.37, and messaged me via Grindr first. Grindr Protocol #1: ask permission to ring doorbell.
Again, I had no plan. I asked if he had brought the food as I craned my neck out the window. There he was – holding three grocery bags bulging at the seams with brown, prickly-skinned fruit.
My amateur and immature mind swung into action. I could not quite summon the spirit of the great lying sex-fiends of history, nor even my fraudulent namesake. Instead, the excuse, “My grandmother is home”, had to suffice. After much discussion about my grandmother’s strict Catholic upbringing (prohibiting loud, gay, kiwi sex in the upstairs bedroom), we concluded I’d meet him at his white Toyota Celica, halfway down the block. Ten minutes later, I was “cooking dinner with grandmother” and indefinitely unavailable.
We resumed the text fucking. Phrases like “Daddy Kiwi” and “cum in envelopes” were thrown about with increasing frequency. The conversation ceased when I fell asleep, exhausted and rather hungry… smacking my lips for whipped cream and dreaming of peach melba.
I favourited ‘Adult Themes’ in my Grindr list. I will likely never know his real name. All that remains is the conversation history of an imagined evening of wholefood WAMplay between one youthful Clark Rockerfeller (circa 1980) and a sweet old man in a Speedo.