I am Raoul. You are beautiful, and available. And discreet—my owner doesn’t know I’m doing this.
We meet at my place. I can’t work the latch, and frankly I don’t want to leave. Why would I? I’ve got constant food, constant water, occasional entertainment via the television and my owner’s messed-up life. I have a guest perch you can use when you stay over, and I’ll let you have your own corner of the newspaper to use for your droppings.
I’m a bird of few words. Actually, no words—though my breed is capable. What else am I capable of? Let’s find out, together. I’ll be upfront with you: I’m a virgin. They clipped my wings, but they left me otherwise intact. Very intact, if you get what song I’m singing here.
We’ll start out pretty vanilla and go from there. All night, Tweetie: we’ll make Pat the bunny jealous. On the second visit we can get a little more adventurous—you can use your beak, and I’ll dig in with my claws. We’ll flip into a 69 and go at it like a pair of feathered doorstops.
Got a friend? Bring her—or him. I mean, we’re birds…honestly, I only know I’m male because of my name. But it’s a very virile one: Raoul. You’ll be squawking it until the sun comes up.
Serious inquiries only, please.
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Photo courtesy Lisa Olson