JonathanKincaid

There I am. Nine years old, watching Gilligan's Island. Along comes Rory Calhoun, The Hunter, looking for new game. He finds seven people, and they're already listed as missing and presumed dead.

Jackpot!

No wood yet, but something awakened inside me.

It wasn't the first or last time I found myself cheering for what was supposed to be the bad guy. And really, who didn't want to see Thurston Howell suffer a long, painful, and messy death as Gilligan blindly babbles resultant to his massive head injury, the kneecapped professor tries to use his psych courses to halt the carnage, and the skipper's bark fades to a whimper as he bleeds out from a fatal gut wound. The women? All head shots, to shut them up quickly and to light that beautiful flame of fear in the eyes of the men.

turn-ons: long walks on the beach holding hands and quiet nights by the fireplace. Yeah, right. If the world thinks you're an old fart and you're on this site, we should chat.

turn-offs: twinks, speaking in texting code, not knowing the difference between plural and possessive. "Rawks"? Really? I'm so unhip it's a wonder my bum don't fall off.

wet work