[...]

"Casual Encounters" is a pretty straightforward name for a website focused on NSA sex hookups. But sometimes people posting there don't seem to really grasp the nature of that term. How it means having no expectations of the person you fuck and no required commitment other than an agreement to bump uglies.

Even the title of this guy's ad is disturbingly uncasual: "I know my job and I own up to it".

[...] My job is to pay for dinner even if you say you want to pay half. My job is to be ambitious in my career and make enough money that if we live together and your career takes a turn for the worse - I would have the money to afford to keep you fed and healthy AND sexy (we will talk about you being sexy below). [...]

Oh boy.

[...] I recognize that obligation. I agree to it every day when I put my pants on, or when we take a photo and you have to lean into me (we know who is who). I don't lean into you. We don't have photos of me sitting in your lap. My job is to intuit, using my sexual psychic powers, when you need to be objectified and fucked like an animal (yet still ensuring your orgasm) or spanked or hair pulled, or more, and when you need gentle love like what you saw in that romantic movie you watched. I need to also magically know when you want it quick and urgent and when you want it to take all night. And when you scream the very painful words "fuck me harder," even whilst I am fucking as hard as I can and running out of breath, it is my job to find a way to do it harder. Yes, it is tough, but it is my job [...]

It is HIS JOB! But what is my job?

Now you: There are many jobs for you. Your first and last job are the same. The rest of the list is important too, but they don't work if you don’t do your first job first. Your first job is to be sexy in the way that you can be. It is your job to discover your own natural sexiness, manifest it, AND your job to figure out what I think is sexy. [...] I have heard girls get upset about this. They say, "it is not my job to be sexy all the time," or "It is not my job to meet your definitions of sexy." And I say, bullshit. Have you never stepped outside? Who raised you? It IS your job. It may not be your job to be sexy ALL the time, but you better believe it is your job to be sexy when you are around me, my friends, our friends, and the neighbors. I am not saying you have to dress up, I am only saying you need to figure out where/what and how to create your sexiness and make sure I agree with it. Sure you can have your off-days where you don't change your underwear until noon the following day, or you are bloated and gassy and you just can not be sexy. That’s ok - I like girls who are real - I will still love you. I know you fart and get acne in strange places sometimes and have all kinds of biological processes that are esoteric to me - those things don't turn me off either, afterall I like real girls. I just ask that you manage and control the things that are in your control. But don't let me catch you eating pork sticks everyday and then complain that your stomach hurts and you have the runs for weeks.

You be sexy. Eat right, wear sexy underwear (which I will gladly buy for you), comb your hair and as you dress in the morning DON’T ask yourself, "will this outfit make guys at the county fair want to jerk off on me? If yes, then change and stop wearing shirts with your name airbrushed on them. Ask something like, "Would this look turn my man off if I were giving him head and he were looking at me." or "would my man be proud to walk with me in this outfit?" This question will keep you from dressing like your grandmother, a nun and the lonely lady you work with that, when she shows up in the morning you look at her clothes or hair and murmur, "what is she thinking? And she wonders why no men are attracted to her?" Don't be that woman. You be sexy. Ask the right questions when dressing in the morning.

Okay, got it, fuck bunny, internalized. All the time, right?

And you need to be able to figure out when not to be sexy, like: when meeting my perverted father, when I am sick in a hospital bed, incapacitated and unable to move, but only able to see that some male interns and you are talking about my condition. At that moment you need to be clinical and NOT sexy; when you are at the dentists office and he is about to put you under (wear ugly stuff), when I am feeling down on life and we go to a party - don't be hot, you are only going to get me to sink lower. Just be nice looking or better yet, suggest that we cancel and have some "us" time.

Uh...all right...but wha -

I can not tell you how to locate your inner sexiness - but I can offer you some advice on how to avoid being unsexy.

Thank god.

Unsexy: photos of yourself cramming food in your mouth, or cookies or an alcoholic beverage. Or photos with your mouth gaping open as if you are wasted and screaming at a party. I am out here working out, staying in shape and taking care of myself - for what? For you to cram cookies and beer into your mouth, run around drunk with your jaw hanging open? and take photos? No. We will not date.
Unsexy: Your growing gut.

But what if I have, like, a little pooch, even though I do 1000 situps a day?

Pooch like Maya Rudolph - very hot. Gut like post high school ex-jock? It is diet time.
Unsexy: yellow underwear. You wear it, you sleep on the couch. I don't want to see it and I don't want it touching my laundry.
Unsexy: panties with little cutesy polka dots on them or any pattern that looks like something a 4 yr old girl would wear at her pajama party. Save those for when you feel puffy and bloated and want to snuggle with your stuffed animals and eat chocolate ice cream.

This is where he really started to lose me. I'm sorry what? You don't want me to wear cute underwear?

Don’t tell me that your ass is fat because that is your body type - and then shovel lasagna down your throat 3 days a week. We have a deal. I will do my part. You do yours. Stay thin - meaning if you are 130 pounds - you need to stay around 125 to 135. I like slender girls or muscular or thin or thinner than average. Slender does not equal thick. If you look like Minnie Driver or Kate Winslet - then your excess weight is hot and I love it.

It's his lucky day, because I am in fact (size 6) Kate Winslet. Sam Mendes says hi, future loverman!

Your job is to be in charge of our morality. If we are at a dinner party and I say something a little mean to someone and you notice it. It is your job to pull me aside and say, "that was wrong - you go and apologize because you hurt that persons feelings." I won't like it - but I will obey. You are doing your job and I respect it. I will somehow find a way to go apologize.

You are in charge of the our emotional health. Even if I say I am fine. When you notice that I have some unresolved issue that I need to work on, I have to listen and do whatever it takes - even if it means seeing a therapist or counseling or reading some stupid book. You are in charge and you must find a way to do this without ever being bossy or over-critical.

How do you do that? I don’t know. It's a tough job and only you can do it. My job is not easy either.

***

Way more potentially loveable, although just as problematic probably, is this guy, "Gaslight Fairytale - NY, 1896":

You're a female who has always daydreamed about
(1) being an inquisitive child, and
(2) having a dear older stepbrother, cousin.

In "real" life, we two are adults who share this
Edwardian / Victorian, Grimms' fairytale,
pseudo-Euro-art-film taboo vision.

Oh! Okay, okay, we're Goth, got it...

(Glasses, skinny, stringy hair, or geeky?
Not mandatory... but fine.)

Whatever your beliefs, you likely have odd tin-type, daguerreotype
memories of the past. A poetic pickpocket
or a scrappy street-urchin -- if only at your core.
Be intelligent, sometimes submissive but often
terribly sassy,
perhaps a collage of girly and tomboy spunk...
and possibly a wee dram secretive or
shy about your unusual nature
and thought processes.

(I love how it is spaced out like freshman Intro to Poetry homework)

This is not a mere kink:
We may share strong roleplay and
ageplay; but also much sibling
conversation -- it's quite natural for
you to believe this is real.
So by all means, have your own "normal"(?) relationship
in your other, grownup life. As I do. But you and I keep in
touch by e-mail, telegraph, lurking on a
streetcorner.
When we can, we meet up and play, fight, romp
around, hold hands.
Let yourself go... and regress: I keep
a sharp eye out for swerving trucks and
frothing carriage-horses, and stare down
sneering villains (Your brother
is terribly brave).
I rescue you from all manner
of real and invented dangers,
as we escape from the (fictional?)
"scary man in the park."
We roam ancient churchyards, dank
alleyways; secretly mock passersby;
play at Alienist and amateur sleuth;
or just watch the
rain from a swell Deco diner booth.

Uh, this is Manhattan, right?

Tell me every daydream, desire, complaint, obsession,
bit of angst, woe and fantasy, light or dark:
I cannot be shocked by anything. I will mentor and
protect, scold and praise you, make you laugh when
you cry. I'll be glad to advise you (your brother is
very smart, you know), and pick your eager
inquisitive brain. I entertain you; brush your hair
while you tell me your dreams.
If outbursts are in your nature, I dodge your fury,
hold and tease you while you wriggle;
tickle and/or spank you should you require:
The extent, intensity and limits of our
relationship will go no further than what you
desire and are able to handle, dear Baby Sister.

I mean...he's not wrong in thinking this is an attractive scenario for a lady. I'm half tempted to email him. Unfortch, I know that as much as I hope my secret fantasy Edward Gorey big brother looks like the most recent incarnation of Mr. Tumnus, the truth is probably closer to this. Or maybe it's my friend Daniel. Hi, Daniel!