I sometimes end up regretting telling this story, but here goes.
When I was 25 -- a century ago -- I went to a very sleazy bar in downtown Atlanta and picked up a very hot guy. We went back to his apartment and fucked all night. (Usual translation: 20 minutes.) The next morning, while he was making coffee, I looked across the room into his closet and I saw some weird clothing. Some very brightly colored stuff. I didn't think any more about it. We exchanged phone numbers and I went home.
The following Sunday, he called. He was in a panic. His car had died and he had an important appointment in a town in the Georgia mountains, about 1.5 hours north of Atlanta. He'd been unable to find a ride. Could I help him out?
I said I'd be glad to and drove to his place to pick him up. I honked the horn and out the door came RONALD MCDONALD.
Yes, I had fucked Ronald McDonald and I spent the rest of the day chauffeuring him from one hillbilly golden arch to the next. When we got home, he tried to start something -- in his damn costume and makeup -- and was hurt when my penis shrank to the size of a clitoris.
