“When a man enjoys many women together, it is called ‘congress of a herd of cows.’”
So says the Kama Sutra.
SFR searched Craigslist to find herds of cows in Santa Fe. The “M4WW” category of the Casual Encounters section bears 55 results on one page, but only one local result: “ANY FACE RIDER?” (There’s more hope for nearby towns, where two females can find a 21-year-old “hung stud”; a 30-year-old “virgin no lie clueless but educated”; and a health-conscious 33-year-old wondering “Who wants a breast exam?”) The “WW4M” page yields exactly nothing. So I went deeper.
My story begins with my search for a new residence. I didn’t really want to pay rent, because the majority of my lowly reporter’s salary goes to student loan sharks. My dream was to hole up in a celebrity’s summer home for a few months, and watch it “in exchange for very low or no-cost rent.” My primary qualifications? I’ve worked for a slum lord, have been a security guard and have a full-time job that precludes me from engaging in degenerate activities, like hosting house parties. I would cook, read, watch movies and work in their home. That is all.
I posted a Craigslist ad in November. A response came from a man with the email address of a law firm.
“Got a cell,” the email read.
Because I’m a reporter, I looked him up, and couldn’t find any such law firm. I didn’t respond, but posted a similar ad in January. This time, the response came from an aol.com email. The address had similar letters as that of the alleged law firm email.
“Hey,” the email read, “Got a cell?”
I’d already begged my landlord to let me stay an extra two months, and I was desperate to kick back in a multimillion-dollar adobe nestled in the foothills. For free. Casting aside better judgment, I gave Russ my number.
“Hi,” he texted one night. I didn’t recognize the number and asked who it was.
“U got my number online today,” he wrote back, “CI house sorry still at work.”
I was drinking a beer with my girlfriend; I showed her the text, noting that I was alarmed by the poor grammar. No rich celebrity would contact me to housesit via text—in run-on sentences.
Unless it was Gene Hackman. I told him I was busy and would contact him the next day.
I never did, and throughout the week, Russ would text me once a day: “Hi,” or “Hey.” Eventually, he called my cell.
“You in a relationship?” he asked. I told him never to use my number again.
“Hey man Fuck U,” he texted me. (Maybe it is Gene Hackman?) For a few weeks, Russ went silent. But after searching fruitlessly for herds of cows, I decided to seek his help.
“[T]onight congress herd of cows,” I texted him.
“What,” came the reply.
“It’s one of the various types of congress,” I explained. “Know of any herds of cows tonight?”
“Yes lol,” he texted back. I inquired where.
“My place,” he replied.
“No,” I wrote defiantly. “Let’s meet inside the roundhouse at 7 pm. Not sure if there are any herds of cows, but that’s the closest we can get to congress.”
“I’ll be on the fourth floor,” I told him (where the governor’s office is located), “and hopefully we can make our way to the senate gallery.”
But Russ wasn’t cooperating.
“Come over after watch a movie give a massage,” he texted, “& Relieve yourself.”
“Hmmm,” I wrote, “Well I’ll be at the roundhouse, searching for a herd of cows at 7. Let me know if you’d like to join.”
I never found a herd of cows—and I don’t think Russ did either.
“Wanna massage?” was his last message to me.
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