PopperDude: a young-looking 30-something dirty blonde, stands no more than 5'6" tall, has a naturalness about his muscular, rounded, and slightly over-sized for his height, hairless, ass; sports an adjoining over-sized, and low-hanging ballsac below his newly-or recently-shaved pubs and fat, cut cock. His eyes are piercing, either blue or other liquid color; his hair is tousled. While his face has an innocence about it, his eyes can look right through you, knowingly. PD, as he will be called, always looks that now-revived preppy, but in un-ironed khakis, probably wadded up button-downs, and loafers without socks.

ProfGuy: his online screen name, is a 50 year old, Irish redhead, tall (over six feet), lean but obviously beefed from regular workouts. A suited professional with a Geminian *other* sex persona, his outward appearance, like that of PD, belies his sexual cravings. His daytime "uniform" will often be something like light gray wool worsteds, an impeccably ironed white button-down oxford cloth shirt and rep-striped tie, with oxblood loafers and a blazer suiting the season. While ProfGuy does not look his age, he has "worn it," and he knows how to use it, to his advantage.


THE SETTING:

The downtown professional working blocks of a mid-sized American city in the Deep South. Specific locales within that milieu include ProfGuy's windowed office overlooking the city; PD's runabout Dodge Neon, which is always piled with work projects; requisite parking lots adjoining buildings and alleyways; public restrooms in office buildings, the library, ProfGuy's office complex, an adult movie theatre close-by, and the streets of the city.

Each is represented by objects positioned on a blackbox stage.


ACT 1: The online hookup

(ProfGuy is sitting in his downtown office, working at his computer. The desk is glass and steel, and PF faces backstage; the computer screen visible to either side of his head. The public radio station is playing in the background; the usual din from peers just outside his door can be heard. The curtain rises on him going back and forth from the keyboard to the mouse, seemingly oblivious to everything around him. A screen drops from overhead, showing the "work" on his computer, then suddenly an online chat box pops on top of his work. The conversation takes place completely on the screen.)

Sup?

Working.

Cool profile

Thanks. (PG quickly clicks to the link to see the profile of the writer. The screen name beaucok is illustrated by a fuzzy picture of the mid-section of a fair-skinned man, his fat dock hanging between his legs, an over-sized set of balls hang pendulously behind.) Hmmm…nice pic.

you have one?

Yep.

fuck wanna take a hit of poppers and play

Yeah? Where are you, dude?

you do poppers

Fuck yeah.

too horned dude want to play

Sure. Now? Where? Tell me; I'll walk out of this office right now and go there.

No shit you would

Fuck it, asshole. I'm sitting here working, minding my own business ... this chat screen pops up with some dude snorting poppers and wanting to play in the middle of the work day. I say yes, where; then you fucking question me. OUT! (PG clicks the chat box and it disappears from the screen. He continues working for no more than a minute and the chat box pops up again.)

parking lot

(PG sighs) This is fucking downtown, dude. It's nothing BUT parking lots. Which one?

call me 555-6893

(PG grabs his phone and slams