Also, the ending about "lips like a batfish" seemed like a game-changer, but no one mentioned it. Fourteen people replied. My heart sank a little with each new email. I guess I hadn't considered how a conversation develops between two strangers who only connected via a desire to have group poop fun. Have you ever considered that? I suspect not. And do you know how you'd initiate such a conversation? Well, let me tell you, there's a wide range of ways men broach this subject, and none made me feel better about this stupid idea, especially the one who posed with his penis wrapped around a can of Coke. Or the guy who looked like the hirsute bastard child of Andy Samberg and Sly Stallone who sent me five full-body nude photos while he stared longingly into the lens, as if to say, "My furry body is going to be the last thing you see before you die if you respond to this."
It was clear to me that my idea had backfired to a degree. I had not so much found out what was too awful for Craigslist so much as I'd found out what was too awful for me, and I had no one to blame but myself. My choices were to quit now, my triumph being a handful of pictures of naked men, or to persevere and try to win this battle of smuttery by turning the tables and making these guys uncomfortable enough to stop talking to me.
Everyone who replied was greeted with this follow-up message, regardless of what they said to me:
Wanting to make the most of life. My ultimate fantasy is to make love in prison. What are your special goals?
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"Sweet, sweet fantasy, baby/When I close my eyes/You come and you take me/On and on and on"