Hi. My name is RomanHans.

I'm happy to say I'm a bachelor, reluctant to admit I'm a Virgo, and horrified to call Hollywood, California my home.

Poet, aesthete, fop . . . RomanHans is a man of many moods.

I'm incredibly straight-acting, so I like guys that are incredibly straight-acting too. Then, when we get together, we'll take off our clothes and just stare at each other, because anything else would look really faggy. Then we'll just put our clothes back on and leave. THAT's how straight-acting I am.

I'm very inventive in bed. In fact just this morning I made a cotton gin.

I think a man's eyes speak volumes. Unfortunately Volume 1 is usually "GET OFF ME!"

You can tell how men are sexually from their cameras. Some men have intricate models, with lots of attachments and toys. Me, I'm strictly point-and-shoot.

In bed I want people in tights, celebrities, wild animals. I want "Circus of the Stars" sex.

I'm plagued by self-doubt. Life is a journey from one place to another, but I don't know what direction to go. We ought to be more like dogs -- like "Old Yeller." Dogs, if you accidentally lose them in New Jersey while you're driving across the U. S., they'll find you. They'll follow your scent through swamps and wheat fields and then six months later scratch at your new front door starving and shivering. Me, I'd have second thoughts. I'd be sitting in some field in Kansas thinking, you know, maybe that's just fried chicken I smell.

I accidentally drank some women's tea. Now I feel all nurturing, but I think my uterine tissue is engorged.

You know, whenever I get sick everybody wants to give me advice. And maybe because I'm sick and I'm cranky I think this advice is so stupid. Like they say, drink hot beverages. Drink hot tea, or chicken soup. And I think, right. Let's see -- you've got some virus or bacteria inside you that can live in your stomach where it's like two hundred degrees and regularly flushed with ACID strong enough to clean your pool, but you suck down half a cup of Progresso Minestrone and all of a sudden all these viruses are screaming, NO! NOT MINESTRONE! AIEEE!

I'm confused about this whole Frank Gifford affair. He's married, old and wrinkled and he's doing a stewardess. I'm single, young and attractive and I have to beg them for peanuts.

Call me crazy, but I don't think it's really sex unless somebody says, "Hey -- ya wanna touch it?"

E-mail me if you're into scenes, wax, fisting, or pain, but no weirdos, please.

By the way, if you e-mailed me recently because you want to meet, please write again. I'm on a Radio Shack computer and last week I forgot to load it with coal.

I think you've probably guessed by now: If music be the food of love, I be the drink.

RomanHans

Let a smile be your umbrella. Let insurance pay your hospital bill.