Cross-posted in “What’s Sore Today?

Like, everything, all over.

Get this: My phone rang at 3:26 AM this morning. I answer it; it’s Fantasy Rhadfi. He whispers, “You up?
Coz I am…for a boardgame.”

I’m thinking, seriously? Like I wanna play Settlers of Catan or some shit at 3AM. But it’s Fantasy Rhadfi,
so I’m not gonna say no.

I get over there and he’s got the chain mail on, so, yeah, something’s up all right. But turns out there’s
an honest-to-God boardgame on the floor, “Truth or Dare for Couples”.

Hmm…here’s some possibilities, I’m thinking. Only get this, every damn card has the activity crossed out
and written over in Sharpie, “6 Feet of Chicken Wire and a Cattle Prod.”

So 2 things I you need to know about Fantasy Rhadfi:

1. He cheats at cards.

2. Those marks you see all over this body today? Yeah, those aren’t hickeys.

Crossposted in For Women Only:

Somebody somebody wanted to come over yesterday, and when I say somebody somebody I
mean…well shit, what can you rhyme with Fantasy Rhadfi? So, oops! cover blown: Fantasy Rhadfi
wanted to come over. I said sure, hoping to God he’s not going to turn up in his usual booty call get-up. I
mean, I already got Nextdoor paranoiacs on my ass, the last thing I need is a 6’0”, vaguely foreign-
looking guy in chain mail showing up on my doorstep.

But no, I’d say his appearance was regular-looking, but…it’s Fantasy Rhadfi, right? Blue hypergiant hot,
but…ladies, I must tell you: Fantasy Rhadfi is hirsute. Like go down on him and you never need to floss
again hirsute. So I’m thinking, doing this guy is going to be like doing half of Eastern Europe, right? And I
told him so.

He looked at me with that sexy, heavy-lidded eye thing he does, and whispered, “Not Eastern Europe. I
want you to make love to me in the way of my true people.” So that had my inner anthropology major
humming, yeah? He could see it too, the way our eyes met…And that’s when he pulled out the roll of
saranwrap and handheld shop vac.

This was new to me, and I’m kinda worried about the hair thing but he wanted it, wanted it baaad, so I
started wrapping him up---“Extra layer over the nipples, gurl.” I remember that very clearly, that “gurl”
thing, gets me every time. Anyway, extra layer, and vac. Now I’m telling you, this had to be a lot more
fun on his end than mine because I had to recharge that damn vacuum 3 times to get the job done.
Okay, so job done, and I’m thinking “Now what, Fantasy Rhadfi? You look like a stick of beef jerky,
what’s my payoff?” Which is exactly what you’d think I’d be thinking, and you’d be right, but I also
couldn’t get this little tidbit out of mind: “What the hell “people” are you from, Fantasy Rhadfi? Who
exactly are “your people”? Because shrink wrap technology wasn’t invented until 1977, so how the hell
long could this “way of your people” have been around?”

So two more things you need to know about Fantasy Rhadfi:

1. He’s a prevaricator. There’s no way Moroccan shrink wrap erotica is a real thing.

2. I left him by the Costco holiday fruit basket display, if you’d like to go retrieve him. I wouldn’t
want to see the look on his when you’re start performing that saran wrap depilation. He’ll probably be
into it, though. Freeeak!

Crossposted in A Little Something About Me:

I was at home last night watching reruns of “Naked and Afraid”—I like to binge-eat a big bowl of Frosted
Flakes and pretend I’m taunting the contestants---and my cell buzzes. I look down. Fantasy Rhadfi. Yeah,
you know I’m taking that call.

“Intersection of Ocean and Redondo.” That’s it. That’s all he has to say, and I’m gonna have to go
through a few changes of panties, which proves serendipitous when he does that hot, low growly voice
and tells me, “Wear the black thing.”

Mmmm mmm…uh huh. The black thing. That I can do, Fantasy Rhadfi. So I’m in the black thing, about
two steps from the front door and a shattering orgasm when he adds, “Bring a straight razor”.

My heart sinks a little because, WTF this time, Fantasy Rhadfi? He is one dirty, kinky f*cker and if you’ve
been following our evolving romance you’ll note I have as yet to even achieve sexual congress with the
guy. This Fantasy Rhadfi is a f*cking c*nt tease, he knows it, he rubs my f*cking face in it. But, you know
what? Am I gonna do whatever he says? Yeah, I am. Yeah, I’ll do it, because it’s Fantasy Rhadfi.

I dive up there, it’s by the harbor. Not an especially safe area, as it were, and I nearly pee myself when
I’m just locking my car door, and someone jumps out at me. Dressed all in black, wearing a balaclava,
shoulders pumped up the size of the Crazy Horse Memorial, smells like a mix of licorice-y, fresh herby
food pheromone???---Oh, well shit, it’s Fantasy Rhadfi.

You’d think I’d know better to even ask at his point, and I do, so I don’t. He just hands me another ski
mask, tells to put it on. So I do, because it’s Fantasy fucking Rhadfi. We start…well, sneaking, I guess is
the word I’m looking for, into the marina and down the gangway. I’m a little nervous and ask if he has a
boat down here? He shushes me. So now I’m a little more nervous but it turns out were there, wherever
there is, which turns to be in front of this rusty old fishing boat, side says “The Sea Hag”. Against all
sense of good judgement, I follow him over the side.
I should be concerned anyway, even before Fantasy Rhadfi swears under this breath. I peek around;
there’s an old guy on the deck in yellow waders and a rain suit, beard hair down to his navel, looking like
he’s about to start bellowing a sea shanty.

Fantasy Rhadfi curses again, says, “He was supposed to be passed out already.” So there’s probably a
backstory there and I’m pretty sure I don’t want to know what it is. But it’s just as well, I figure, maybe I
can go rent a hotel or something, finally get this manwhore to quit teasing and put out for once.

Then he says, “No matter. I planned I for this.”

My heart drops. The straight razor. Dear god. I mean, I’ll do a lot of things for the prospect of magic dick
but no, Fantasy Rhadfi, no…

Then he pulls out this sheet. Like a white bedsheet, maybe? There’s little eye holes cut out though, so a
cheap ghost costume, I guess? It is close to Halloween, but this is…it just doesn’t seem right, right? “Put
it on,” he says, so I put it on, because it’s Fantasy Rhadfi and I’m a fool for magic dick.

“Go tempt the guy.”

What? No. No, no, no. Just no. And I tell Fantasy Rhadfi so. I am not going to go down on the Gorton’s
Seafood guy. Just, no. Gross.

But he smiles, that little sideways smile, a smirk almost, because he knows I’m gonna do it.

“Trust me.”

And I don’t want to. I really don’t. But I do.

“Say, ‘You won’t catch me,’ then run.”

And I do it.

The Gorton’s Guy is startled at first, stares at me, mean-like.

“Where the fuck did you come from?”

I’m scared. I’m ready to wet myself (again), but I manage to force out a tenuous, “You’ll never catch
me.”

The Gorton’s Guy’s eyes get meaner. He looks me up and down, sneers. “We’ll see about that now,
won’t we?”

And I do start running then, you bet your ass, ‘coz the guy’s pulled out a harpoon gun. I’m hauling it
around that deck, panting, squealing, “Can’t catch me…can’t catch me…”

This Gorton’s Guy is pretty damn spry for an 80-year-old, let me tell you. But I can hear him starting to
wheeze a little, I hope, anyway, though it sounds like, “Aaaarrrrgggghhhh!”

“Aaaarrrrgggghhhh! I’ll get ya yet , ya damn mighty white wha….”

Then Fantasy Rhadfi bashes him over the head with a belaying pin. The guy collapses. He’s out. He’s still
breathing though…I hope? Anyway, Fantasy Rhadfi gets the body by the arms and me the legs, and we
haul him down to the hold and dump him.
It’s not that I don’t have a conscience, alright? I do, and I feel really bad for the old guy, but on the bright
side, Fantasy Rhadfi and I are alone now, finally. “You wanna play pirate?” I ask. And I’m about ready to
swoon, because Fantasy Rhadfi looks so f*cking fine in that balaclava, with those big, pumped up
shoulders, and the…lower, you know…?

But he snorts, “What kind of a freak do you think I am?” A pretty open-ended question, I’d say. He starts
the engine, and we’re sailing out over the water, and so f*cking beautiful, out under the stars, ocean
breeze running through that dark, silky, argan-oil scented lion’s mane of hair he’s got. It’d so mind-
blowingly romantic if not for the smell of fish guts and the unconscious man in the hold.

Fantasy Rhadfi puts down the anchor. Mmm mmm….F*cking f i n a l l y ! Anyway, that’s what I’m
thinking when he pulls out the rope. Tells me to tie him up, around the legs, hard, tight. Then hook him
to the davit. And yeah, I’m disappointed. I mean, my god, he doesn’t want to do suspension again, does
he? The last time we did that Prof came home early from Calc Based Elec/Mag Lab and Fantasy Rhadfi
was stuck hanging from the ceiling for 6 hours while we slept, and the whole time I was praying Prof
wouldn’t roll over onto his back and look up.

But I do it, because magic dick + Fantasy Rhadfi, etc, you get it. Though when I hit the “run”, “up”
buttons and start to hoist him up, he yells, “Wait, we have to chum the water first.”

Okay, wtf? Seriously? Because I don’t want to go back down to that hold with the unconscious (I hope
that’s all he is) man, looking for bait or whatever.

“No, the razor! Cut me! Cut me! A sacrifice to He who lies dead yet dreaming in His palace in R'lyeh!”

And I’m thinking, WTF? Really? Seriously? To WHO, Fantasy Rhadfi? But you know, I don’t even want to
know at this point. I close my eyes, wince, and I do it, I cut his chest. Then haul him up, over the water.
He’s bleeding pretty freely; his eyes are closed. I’m getting worried, because Jesus Christ, Fantasy
Rhadfi, you are one kinky, dirty f*cker but there has to be some kind of line.

As I’m trying to determine if he’s still conscious or not, those dark velvet eyes snap open, and there’s
this voice, his voice? I just don’t know. Fantasy Rhadfi’s got one of those deep, sexy radio voices, but this
sound is just blood-chilling. It’s this weird, howling gibberish. It doesn’t even make sense.

“THAT MEMBRANOUS, CRYSTALLINE, SHUFFLING, MOTTLED MOULD... THAT PECULIAR, PITILESS

ABYSS... THAT OUTLANDISH CHAOS... SICKLY, JUMBLED, MEMBRANOUS TENTACLE... FANTASTIC
CADAVER... NEBULOUS, BRUTISH, SLITHER... THAT UNNAMABLE, YAMMERING, MADNESS…!

Cahf ah nafl mglw'nafh hh' ahor syha'h ah'legeth, ng llll or'azath syha'hnahh n'ghftephai n'gha ahornah
ah'mglw'nafh! Lo, black doorway ahnythor 'vulgtmm vugtlag'n vugtlagln vulgtmm mglw'nafh that
eternal lie! llll vugtlag'n ph'nglui mglw'nafh n'gha-ghaa thou sharp night gaunts! Ph'nglui sna Ahehyee h'
yogor ng h' mggoka mglagln, thy Great Ones fear! Ph'nglui fhtagnor mgfm'latghnanah ng epgoka sum
geb! Vulgtmnahor hash ah ot mgepuaaah rmgepmgr'luh stark white ng vugtlag'n ph'nglui mglw'nafh of
olden wrath! H' cf'ayak'vulgtmm h' shaggornyth foul stranger! Ph'nglui mglw'nafh wgah'nagl fhtagn Iä
Hastur cf'ayak'vulgtmm, vugtlagln vulgtmm mglw'nafh fhthagn-ngah cf'ayak 'vulgtmm vugtlag'n ph'nglui
mglw'nafh Cthugha Fomalhaut n'gha-ghaa naf'lthagn…!!

Gone but not forgotten, Cthugha waits at Fomalhaut, promising death to one and all!”
And sure enough, that’s when I see the first of the fins. And I’m not even horny anymore, believe that. I
just want to get TF out of the there. I lower the dinghy into the water, but funny thing is I don’t know
how to row, so the dinghy keeps going round and round in circles. So I’m circling under Fantasy Rhadfi’s
hanging body, and the sharks are circling, and everybody’s circling as he just keeps on chanting that
gibberish and dripping blood into the water.

Well, I’ve had enough. I don’t even care. I don’t care how hot Fantasy Rhadfi is, or about that thing he
keeps telling me he can do with his tongue. I jump in that shark-infested water and swim for shore. And
let me let you, I may not be strong swimmer, but I do have stamina, plus tits big enough to serve as my
own floatation device. I make it, I crawl out of the water and head for the nearest pay phone. I call up
the Coast Guard, disguising my voice like Kelly Kapoor in “The Office”, telling them there’s some crazy
person out summoning Cthulhu from a stolen fishing boat. Then I split, back to “Naked and Afraid”
again, but from the safety of my goddamn couch.

So two more things you need to know about Fantasy Rhadfi:

1. He’s out of his goddamn mind, I don’t know what else to tell you.

2. If you want to go retrieve him, he’s probably at the San Pedro lock up. Coz, yeah, Fantasy Rhadfi
is a as hot as the hydrogen-fusing core of Aldebaran, but I’m not going to jail for that criminally-insane
pervert.

BONUS (FROM TMI TUESDAY:

Miss: I'm dressed in best outfit, including expensive a pair of Saint Laurent lace-ups that are really
knockoffs from Santee Alley, and the Tom Ford (spelled “Tum Fard”) briefcase, also a knockoff. It's for a
managerial position that I'm in no way qualified for, but the guy who owns the company is really hot,
and Russian, so I've been doing self-study with an older edition of "Troika: A Communicative Approach
to Russian Language, Life, and Culture", and then googling dirty Russian phrases online, which I figure
will come in handy—though really, that last part was just to amuse myself.

I shake the guy’s guys hand; he’s got a big hand, and his knuckles look a little rough, and maybe some
flecks of dark…something?—on them. Blood? But it can’t be, I know, because this is a wealthy
import/export tycoon. Cocktail sauce, maybe, or red caviar dust. He introduces himself as “Slava”, and I
think aha! I have a heads up on the other interviewees. “Short for Vyacheslav,” I say, and even
pronounce that shit right. I’m so IN, I think. But it goes all downhill from there, because I don’t know the
first thing about the import/export business. Or anything, really. He’s getting ready to toss me out of his
office, when I grasp on the first and last bit of Russian I can remember: “Самого хоть в жопу.”

I don’t even remember what it means, but Slava clearly does. “You’re hired”, he says. “Follow me.”
So I do, and we go down the stairs, the backstairs, looks like. Now his office, it’s a very nice office, 6th
floor. All glass, fancy, nice part of town. Fancy offices, at least from the 1st floor up. But I get the feeling
we’re going lower than the 1st floor. Big metal door; he opens it. Smoke comes wafting out. More an
olfactory assault than a waft, honestly. And there’s this music, techno, but like shitty techno from the
80’s. And before my eyes can even focus, there’s a massive simian-like man running his hands down the
sides of my body. Pat down. Normally that might excite me but this whole situation is going south, way
south. Below south. But Kaliningrad Kong’s not going to find a gun on me, so I’ll probably be okay, I
figure. And I am. He lets me go, and I follow Slava.

It’s a club. I guess. I hope. Yeah, it’s a club, and as we approach the bar I see a sign posted: Pаспутин
Пивнаыа, then in English: The Mad Monk’s Beerhouse: Come for good time, not a long time. “Drink,”
Slava says, and hands me a big stemmed glass. The glass is very cold. Vodka, gotta be. I can do this, I
think. I channel my inner 19-year old party girl, and I down it. I’m immediately on the floor. Oh, and
what a nasty floor. Nothing but rows of Adidas sweatpants and oxblood leather dress shoes, and some
liquid substance that I hope is spilled liquor, but probably has trace amounts of body fluids. Or maybe
the other way around. I back to what I think is the bar. I pull myself up, and…yeah, it’s not the bar. It’s a
dais where they patrons are, well…it’s a ping pong show. And I’ve got a good view, I guess, but before I
can duck I get nailed in the left eye.

I’m back on the floor. Someone thankfully hauls me up. It’s Slava. His nose twitches from the scent of
what used to be my best button down shirt. He drags me back over to the bar, or I think it’s the bar. I
have both hands wrapped over my left eyes, so I can see so well. “Change,” he says. He hands me a
shirt. It’s got the club’s logo on it, that I can make out. But my eye really hurts, so I hesitate.

“Ты че, блыад! Како́ го ху́я ты ещё тут стои́ шь?”

When I still don’t move, he figures it and hands me an eyepatch. I guess this ping pong injury is a regular
hazard in the bar. So I put that on and change into that shirt. He then grabs me by the scruff of it and
starts hauling me out of the club. He’s literally dragging up the stairs, my Tum Fard briefcase banging
loudly against each step, and I hear the shirt rip. But I’m already in the probationary employment
period, so I don’t complain. I don’t even say anything until we arrive at the airport. Well, I don’t even say
anything then, either, since he just tells me, “You’re making a delivery.”

Here’s where the import/export thing comes in, I guess. So I get in the plane. It’s an Antonov An-225
Mriya, which I only know because I research things before I write them. I seem to the be the only one on
the plane, except whoever’s flying it. I wish I’d thought to ask just what it is we’re exporting.

I go into the cargo hold. Row and row of boxes, wooden boxes. There’s a crowbar angled against one of
them. I put down my Tum Fard and open the crate. Bottles. They have an image of St Basil’s Cathedral
and the words “YOURI DOLGORUKI”. Vodka, I figure. That makes sense. We’re exporting vodka. We’re
importing Russian vodka and then exporting Russian vodka back to…? Well, I guess that doesn’t make
that much sense, but what do I care. A paycheck’s a paycheck. Slava and I never discussed
renumeration, but I figure I must be salaried. And since I’m on salary, I can take a long lunch with Youri. I
crack open a bottle and start to drink. One, two…I stop at two. Or at least I stop counting after two. I
should probably double check on the inventory, right?
And that’s when I realize that, uh…yeah, we’re exporting Vityaz-SNs. I pick one up, put it on. Might as
well test out he inventory. I open the bay doors, squeeze the trigger. Empty. I start opening more crates,
looking for whatever you use to load Vityaz-SNs. I have no knowledge of such things, but I figure I’ll
know it when I see it. I’m working the crowbar on the 3rd crate (all guns, bummer) when my body
decides to remind me I’m no longer a 19-year old party girl, and I start to get dizzy, and my head hurts
like I’ve been kicked repeatedly in the head by a Moscow mule, which is just a few cups of ginger beer
from the truth. All the buzzers going off aren’t helping my headache none, and as I watch, my Tum Fard,
full of not my resume or work experience references, merely old newspaper clippings, slides further and
further towards the open bay door.