The Ad

Discussion in 'Fictitious Stories' started by Imported, Oct 15, 2003.

  1. Imported

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    Bollard: As a biker I was always firmly committed to the “Two wheels good, four wheels bad” ethos. But there are times when you need a car, and this was one of those times, so I picked up a copy of the local free ads paper and set about finding something big, dependable and cheap. I found an advertisement for exactly what I needed: a 1993 Volvo 240 estate (station wagon, in American). I picked up the phone and dialled the number.

    “Hello?”
    “Hello, I’m calling about your ad in Loot.”
    “Oh, hi.” The voice was warm and friendly. “You’re my first call.”
    “That’s good. It’s still for sale, then?”
    There was a puzzled sort of silence. Then he said: “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”
    He must be really fussy about the home his car goes to, I thought. “Sure, go ahead.”
    “OK. What are you looking for?” There was a strange emphasis on the “you”.
    “Well, a ‘93 Volvo 240 Estate would do fine.”
    There was a polite laugh. “Yeah, right. How big are you?”
    “Big enough to handle a Volvo.”

    He sounded like he was getting a little irritated. “I mean... like... well built?” The ad had promised immaculate bodywork but I didn’t understand this question. He continued: “That’s what they told me to say when I phoned in the ad. They’re not allowed to print ‘well hung’”.

    “Just a minute”, I said, “Have you got a ‘93 Volvo for sale?”
    “No. I’ve got an ‘87 Ford but the battery’s dead and it’s not for sale anyway.” There was another pause. “How did you get my number, by the way?”
    “Well, it was printed right there in your ad.”
    “They’re not supposed to do that.”
    “It’s just as well they did, or I couldn’t have phoned you.”
    “No, you’re supposed to phone my voice ad then leave a message so I can call you back.”
    “That’s a weird way to sell a car.”
    “Who’s selling a car?”
    “What are you selling, then?”
    “I’m not selling anything. I placed a personal ad. I haven’t seen the paper yet. You mean they printed my number next to an ad for a car? Fuck.”
    "Yeah, they must have mixed up your number with someone else's."
    "Fuck.”
    There was a pause. Then I said: "So, what was your ad for?"
    "Oh, you don't wanna know. You're looking for a Volvo. Cheers," he said, and hang up.

    I turned to the back of the paper and loked at the personal ads. Men Seeking Women filled about two pages. Then there was a little less than a page of Women Seeking Men. Then came something under a quarter of a page of Men Seeking Men and, finally, two ads beneath the heading Women Seeking Women. The paper was clearly making a liberal, equal-opportunity stand that its readership was not fully ready for. Towards the end of the Men Seeking Men columns I found something that sounded familiar:
    Married bi guy, 26, 6', fit, good looking, into sports, seeks well-built guy for fun and friendship.
    It was followed by a VoiceBox number. I picked up the phone and heard the same voice I'd heard a few minutes earlier.

    "Hi, my name's Vince. I'm 26, six feet tall, nice looking, into sport, and I'm lookng for a well built guy to have some fun with. So if you think you're that guy, give me a call." "Press one to hear the message again," said another voice. "Press two to leave your message." This was something I'd never tried before but pressed 2 on the keypad. "Speak after the tone. When you've finished your message, press the star key."
    "Hi," I began. "I'm Rick, and I'm... interested. I'm pretty well built. I've got a big cock, if that's what you mean." I gave my cellphone number and pressed the star key. "Thank you. To hear your message again, press one. To re-record your message, press two. To return to the main menu, press..."
    I hung up, feeling restless and horny. Turning back to the car ads, I found Vince's number and dialled it again.

    "Hello?"
    "Hi, I just called you a while back. I got your number by accident, I was looking for a car."
    "Oh, right."
    "I found your ad, and I heard your voice message. I like the sound of it."
    "Oh. Good."
    "Would you like to meet up?"
    "Perhaps. I'd like to know more about you first." We talked a little of what we did, what we liked, what we looked like -- the best way to describe our looks was to say which TV soap characters we resembled -- then he said "Shit, I've got to go. I've got a football match this afternoon. I'll be at the gym after that: do you want to meet later?" He gave me an address and we arranged to meet outside his gym that evening.

    It was starting to get dark when we were due to meet. I sat on a wall and waited. On the other side of the road a tall figure emerged from the shadows, looked over and gave me a nod of recognition, and jogged across the road towards me. He looked terific, like a marine ready for active service: lean and fit, with close-cropped blond hair, dressed in grey sweatpants and a hooded top. "You recognised me, then?"
    "No problem," I said. "Except you look a fuck of a lot better than Tony out of EastEnders."
    "Yeah, well, and you've got more hair than Grant Mitchell. Usually, when blokes say they're Grant Mitchell lookalikes, what they mean is they're bald."

    (An note for the uninitiated: EastEnders is a contemporary BBC TV drama. It's convenient to call it a soap opera, but it can rise to sublime heights of fine acting and character development, with carefully-crafted plots exploring complex issues. Tony and Grant, both EastEnders characters, have since left the series.)

    "Do you spend a lot of time at the gym?"
    "Yeah, I've been going quite a lot", he said. "I'm working on my six pack." He lifted up his sweat top to show a nicely-defined set of abdominals. "That looks good", I said. It did look good. I was getting a hard-on looking at this guy.

    "What have you got to show me?" he said, looking at my crotch. My cock was growing, fast, and straining to get out of my pants. The street was quite dark, and the yellow sodium lights were only just starting to light up: I was almost horny enough to take it out right there, but not quite. "Let's take a walk." We turned off the street into a narrow alleyway next to a railway line. About fifty feet further on, with no houses on either side and no people in sight, I stopped and took out my cock. He looked at it, said "Wow", dropped to a crouch and took it in his hands. I held his shoulders, ran my hands around his back then up and under his sweat top. His flesh felt warm but hard. He stood up and I slipped my hands under his sweatpants and over the smallest bum I've ever seen on a grown man. I drew him close to me and we stood, feeling each other's hard cocks through the thin cotton fleece of his pants.
    "Not here", he whispered.
     
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