The Erotic Adventures of Batman

The Crapmaster Cycle: Part 2

Previously on The Erotic Adventures of Batman, Batman had begun to tell us about the series of events which would come to be known as “The Crapmaster Cycle.” Unable to locate his best friend Randy Shuvelback, or his ex Rob (with whom he is still on pretty good terms) and wanting to celebrate on the eve of his new company “Frontier Solutions” going public, Batman turns to the high-end Gotham singles site “Craiglist” in search of a date. Intrigued by the familiar sounding name of Tom Shneider and perked by Shneider’s “DILFy good looks” Batman invites the strange man over to his palatial home for “Tub and drinks.” We rejoin him now in medias res.

Dear Doom,

It was love at first sight. As I monitored the lanky, Midwestern frame of Tom Shneider striding up to my door on the feed from my network of HD home security cams, I knew I had hit a homerun in choosing him out of all the rest to share in the hot fruits of my invaluable hang-time. Previously, I had described Tom as a “DILF,” but I’m pleased to say that the word “DILF” doesn’t do him justice. Not by a long ball.

By this point, it’s probably obvious enough that I have a thing for rugged, middle Americans; D.A., Shuvelback, the list goes on. But whereas D.A.’s Kansas/Nebraskan golden boy shtick and Randy’s savage Minnesotan/Dakotan born-in-a-barnisms can often be titillating, they can also wear pretty fuckin’ thin after a while. Oddly enough, for somebody as “out there” as myself, what really primes my pump is just regular old average joe six-pack bullshit: sensible haircuts, New Balance sneakers, jeans and crop-sleeve checkered collared shirt combos in like blue and grey; in short, stability—the straight middle-est of the middle of the road. When I gazed at Tom, loping along the path to my door, six-pack of Michelob Light in hand, I nearly creamed my corn. He looked like he lived in Terra-Haute, Indiana, drove a Ford F-150, listened to Bruce Hornsby cassette tapes, managed a hardware store, had a slightly overweight wife and two middle-school-aged kids, coached rec league baseball, and lived on a steady diet of Kroger’s flank steak and steamed frozen broccoli. To sum it up: the perfect man. A mild mannered, local hero type with all the kinks and rough edges smoothed out by the inexorable pounding of the great American tide. It was rare on the coasts, or in the extreme northern and southern parts of the country. You could see flashes of it on the great plains and in prairie and piedmont country, but it took a life in the true breadbasket to yield the sort of increasingly rare inland pearl that I constantly sought and yet so seldomly attained. I would have moved in order to meet more men like that, but let’s face it—the place is dogshit. I mean, yeah, the people are jewels, but something about living amongst them, staring into the flat green nothing that passes for the scenery day in and day out just seems like it would kind of blow, am I right? Better to meet them outside their natural habitat and thereby preserve the exotic thrill of the rare out-of-context encounter such as that which was about to occur.

Alfred moved to answer the door when we heard the ring of the bat-bell, but I stayed him with a wave of my gloved hand. I wanted to greet Tom myself—it would put him at ease and show him that, despite my wealth, power, and high-toned lifestyle, we could still meet eye-to-eye as men in a good old-fashioned American front door setting, equals in, if nothing else, our respect for the traditional neighborhood value of shaking the man of the house’s hand on his stoop before coming inside.

When I opened the door, my assumptions were confirmed. Tom was the genuine article alright; from the wiry bristles of his none-too recent salt and pepper crew-cut to the tips of his white, size eleven New Balance 990s, he was authenticity personified; lightning in a bottle; elemental sexuality in the guise of a man. He extended a hand, and I noted with approval the silver wedding band on his workmanlike ring finger.

“Tom,” he smiled, with a friendly, mild twang.

“Batman,” I growled appreciatively, accepting the proffered appendage and squeezing it firmly in my own. “Welcome to my home. I’m glad you could make it.”

“Well, thank you kindly for having me,” Tom drawled. “Strange as it seems with all the folks around, it can sure get lonely in the big city and I do appreciate the company of another man in the evenings—reminds me of just shooting the crap with my buddies back in the den at the old homestead.”

“And where did you say you were…?” I began.

“Peoria,” he smiled. “Born and raised.”

My heart did a little somersault of excitement. “Jackpot,” I whispered.

I stepped aside and beckoned my guest inside.

“You’re a long way from home, Tom. Come on in and make yourself comfortable. It’s no Peoria, but I think you’ll find my little slice of Gotham is not without its charms.”

Tom flashed me a big heartland grin and for a hot moment I got to admire his straight, white, brushed-twice-daily teeth before they disappeared again behind his thin, practical lips and standard issue dad-style mustache.

He raised up the sixer of Michelob and shook it from side to side as though to draw attention to its enticing presence. “Got a place we can cool these puppies off?”

I threw my head back and laughed boomingly.

“Oh, I’ve got just the thing, Tom. Just the thing.”

Flash forward ten minutes and I am exactly where I want to be: chilling with Tom in the jacuzzi, thermal-cozied cold ones in hand; me in my mask and a hot, European style g-string bathing suit, and my guest in a fun, flirty, fish-print pair of neon-green basketball short length swim trunks that barely conceal his hairy, sunburnt knees.

Tom takes a long pull from his longneck, smacks his lips and lets out a satisfied sigh.

“Well, Batman, I am impressed—ya sure know how to treat a fella so he feels at home. I could get used to this, I must admit.”

Hearing this, I immediately spring some serious swell, but luckily it’s concealed by the tub’s foaming jets. You can’t come on too strong with these types or they bolt like the very deer that frequent their suburban backyards. Better to take it slow, share a few brews, a few laughs and just let the night and whatever latent feelings that might lie dormant in their hearts take you where they will.

“So, Tom” I ask, leaning back and allowing my delts, lats, and pecs to do their inimitable ‘thing,’ “what brings you to my neck of the woods. Business, or just flat out pleasure?”

Tom chuckles and the old flag pole goes full-mast.

“Wish I could say it was the latter,” he grins ruefully, “but unfortunately, it’s a pretty darn serious case of the former.”

Intrigued, I press him for more detail.

“Well, it’s a long story, Batman, but let’s just say that I’m looking for my partner. Leastways, the man that I used to call by that name.”

“Trouble in paradise?” I volunteered.

Again, that stoic smile and a long, appreciative, apple-bobbing sip. Damn, I thought—look at the size of that goiter. Now that sir, is a man.

“Mister,” he said deliberately, looking me straight in the eye “you don’t know the half of it.”

I gave an all-purpose grunt in reply, which he seemed to understand intuitively as a sign of respect for the hardship he had evidently endured.

“Try me,” I went on. “You may not be able to tell, judging by all this,” I said, gesturing at the opulence around us “but I’ve waded through my fair share of shit and then some to get here.”

Tom’s intelligent brown eyes twinkled.

“Alright, Batman—you seem like a straight shooter. I guess it wouldn’t hurt to tell you about my little problem.”

“I’m all ears,” I said, pointing to the pointed bat-ear hearing enhancers mounted to the side of my batface-mask.

He smiled, sighed, and then he said the words that practically made me crap myself.

“Well, it all started with a guy named Randy Shuvelback.”

Seth Blake is a writer from New Hampshire.