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37 M Los Angeles, CA

I’m looking for

  • Women who like men
  • Ages 21–49
  • Near me
  • Who are single
  • For short-term dating, casual sex

My Details

Last Online
Yesterday – 11:26pm
5′ 11″ (1.80m)
Body Type
Mostly anything
When drinking
Agnosticism, but not too serious about it
Cancer, but it doesn’t matter
Graduated from university
Art / Music / Writing
Relationship Status
Relationship Type
Doesn’t want kids
Likes dogs and dislikes cats
English (Fluently)

Similar Users

My self-summary
Write a little about yourself. Just a paragraph will do.
Some take care of me better than they do their own spouses. Just the other day my owner brought his wife and kid. The wife sat in the front seat of course. When he made a sharp left turn, she bumped her head against the passenger window. The dumb bitch wasn't wearing a seatbelt. So what does he do but check for a crack before asking if she was ok.
He and I have private conversations, not verbal but communicative nonetheless. We share a common trust that has nothing to do with his wife, although I'm sure she thinks different, and that is if he takes care of me; I'll take care of him. He knew that if her head cracked my window then I (or her) would've cost him a lot of money. Serves him right; he should've told that moron of his to buckle up.
What I’m doing with my life
Don’t overthink this one; tell us what you’re doing day-to-day.
They're east coast, though: stubborn. Many don't believe in seat belts over there. My last owner, a New Yorker, thought seat belts were for pussies. What a load of crap is that. Nobody cares that they're tough, especially me. Those fucks make me look bad.
I’m really good at
Go on, brag a little (or a lot). We won’t judge.
Next thing you know, the driver has to slam the brakes, I flip over and he crashes right through the windshield; he decapitates himself. Not my fault. And now I'm almost as fucked as him. There I am, tipped over in the middle of the street with the smashed grill of a diesel right over me, breathing it's hot breath. I'm thinking either death or impoundment.
The first things people usually notice about me
I’m an empty essay… fill me out!
Impoundment is even worse than death. Your hopes are crushed. You begin to realize that the next owner will be even worse than the prior: my value has only gone down. They're poorer, even more desperate and unstable. They're dirtier, too. They just picked me off a cheap lot, so what do you think they'll do but toss French fries to my floor, sandwich wrappers, soda cans and cigarette butts, making me look uglier. They won't clean me, either, unless they're spouses nag them enough.
Favorite books, movies, shows, music, and food
Help your potential matches find common interests.
I'll never forget the lowest point of my life. He was one of those hoarders. I wouldn't realize until one morning all that clutter. You wouldn't have been able to see my floor beneath all the newspapers and butts and boxes and coffee cups. It accumulated halfway up my windows. I must've looked like an aquarium of trash to people driving by. Thank god he didn't last too long. He'd begun hoarding so much shit that he started losing track of his statements. Repos had to pull me away from him like a childcare service. He won't be missed.
The six things I could never do without
Think outside the box. Sometimes the little things can say a lot.
Someone had the decency to clear all that shit out of me. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't as good as new but at least I looked somewhat like myself again, except older and dried up. Nobody wanted me again until that good man with the dumb bitch of a wife.
I spend a lot of time thinking about
Global warming, lunch, or your next vacation… it’s all fair game.
I've been on this earth for eleven years. I like to call myself resilient, what with all the shit I've been through. Others barely survive outside the factories before something faulty happens. They lose their parts and eventually fall apart soon after, all because some mechanic did a half-ass job. Some blow up. Some are stolen and sold to the worst owners possible. Hopefully that never happens to me.
On a typical Friday night I am
Netflix and takeout, or getting your party on — how do you let loose?
I'd say there's another five years before they have to drag me to the junkyard. Maybe I'll never be taken by a rich, respectful driver, but all I have is hope.
The most private thing I’m willing to admit
I’m an empty essay… fill me out!
I have no tattoo. I should stretch more often. Never had a pet. Never read a Harry Potter book.
And I still get spankings.
I look forward to meeting you.
You should message me if
Offer a few tips to help matches win you over.
your pictures deviate from surfing or hiking or standing atop a mountain or smooching a killer whale. Otherwise, I will press SKIP. I'm not fooled. Reality is not Sea World. Never was. Nor is it Mount Baldy; Moscow; an everlasting week at Burning Man or a free lunch with a European ambassador. Save me the facade. Just give me boredom at a television, looking sexy as hell, and I'll be interested.

And, please, this is very important, I prefer your face missing. A shot of your legs and feet in front of an ocean will have me begging for your attention. The back of your head is fine, too.
Also, message me if you only have one pic of yourself. And make sure it is an establishing shot of you far far away.
(I'm especially turned on by a woman who never bothered to write a bio).