The queer dating scene in Atlanta can be a strange and intimidating beast. It seems the only way to meet people these days is on hookup apps like Grindr or Tinder. But what happens when that love-at-first-swipe strange encounter you met at Flex disappears and you don't even know their name? Craigslist.
We culled the internet for the weirdest Missed Connection ads coming out of Atlanta.
This is what we found.
Wine Tasting Slut – m4m
Height: 5’8 (152 cm)
We attended the same wine tasting. It was at Kroger, so you know it was fancy.
I was the guy wearing an all Jelly/PVC plastic tux and no underwear guzzling the wine tasters’ spit bucket. When you’ve tasted the spit of 53 strangers, you’ve tasted luxury.
You were standing in front of the free samples table, or as I call it, a five-star restaurant. You wore an all-white tux to a wine tasting. It’s clear you love danger and taking risks. You were eating from a trey of Thicc Pockets, the Kroger brand of Hot Pockets. I like how you eat by only using your tongue. I went up to talk to you, but the moment I spoke you spat in my face. It was hot.
Your spit was my favorite. The mixture of cabernet and, I want to say (swigs mouth), beef jerky cleansed my palette. At most wine tastings, the spit is mostly backwash and the occasional chewing tobacco. Your spit had character and depth, like the cast of “Pretty Little Liars.” I would have asked for more, but I passed out from arousal overload.
If you’d like to pop our anuses like a bottle of 1945 Chateau Mouton-Rothschild, meet me in aisle 5 where they sell their Thicc Pockets. I’ll be waiting with my bucket.
My Dog Boner – m4dog
Age: 7 (in dog years)
Height: 2’ (61 cm)
Body: Air Bud
Status: Who’s ah good boy?!
I stopped by the dog park in Reynoldstown on my way to work. I don’t own a dog, but I’ve always wanted to shoot one behind a shed.
I was sitting on the bench wearing a crop top that only covered my neck and unfinished shorts I bought from my cousin’s Etsy. I was also eating a cheeseburger with no cheese. I was about to leave till I saw you with your owner.
Your owner was a woman in her early 20’s with blonde hair, Chanel sunglasses, and a Dennis Rodman clutch. You were a Golden Retriever wearing a doggie cone, which is uncanny because I wear one when I masturbate.
As soon as you arrived, you marked your territory by peeing on the other pups. Like in When Harry Met Sally, I had a fake orgasm looking at you. It stirred something inside I haven’t felt since I hit that lizard-person with my car and kept driving. You had the personality of a top dog, but I was too much of a pussy to talk to you.
I want take you home and read “Where the Red Fern Grows” while you nibble on an enema chew toy. I want to drop you off on the other side of the country, and touch myself till you find your way back home. I want you to lay next to me on my deathbed and become the host for my new body. Together, you and I will be unstoppable. Like Oprah and Gayle, or Oprah and Oprah.
If you want to be the golden receiver of my affection, follow the scent of my taint. Careful, mine smells at lot like a Pug’s anus.