Dune Lawrence, Roddy Boyd, the Dating Drama of Two Tabloid Writers


Dune Lawrence, Roddy Boyd, the Dating Drama of Two Tabloid Writers

Dune Lawrence, Roddy Boyd, tabloid writers twisted in love

DUNE LAWRENCE took a deep breath and started spilling her guts, “I know I am ugly as hell. Adobe Photoshop is my best friend in the job market,” lamented DUNE LAWRENCE, a tabloid writer at Bloomberg Businessweek. “Don’t you love my Adobe Photoshop touch-ups?”

DUNE LAWRENCE got closer to RODDY BOYD, anther tabloid, putting her hands deep inside Roddy’s baggy pants. The two tabloid writers cuddled, naked, taking a sip of Bud Light lying on a bed at 508 John S. Mosby Drive, in Wilmington, North Carolina.

Roddy Boyd is a 49-year-old tabloid writer who makes a living from paid stock short sellers. As the only breathing thing behind a sham Southern Investigative Reporting Foundation, or SIRF, Roddy Boyd is a bisexual desperate for love.

Over the years, it’s rumored that Roddy Boyd had a kid named SAMANTHA BOYD, the product of a one-night stand at a bar induced by alcohol. The kid was produced while Roddy Boyd had an ongoing affair with his boyfriend Nick Baker. But it was Dune Lawrence Roddy Boyd wanted to spend time with – a long missed love that went back almost twenty years. The Roddy Boyd, Dune Lawrence love birds have made a killing over the years taking bribes from stock fraudsters, devastating public shareholders.

“Money is money, who gives a shit where it’s from,” said Dune Lawerence, a Bloomberg tabloid writer. In 2014, Dune Lawrence was bribed to make up a story about hog producer AgFeed Industries, a fairy tale based on her only source – a dead man from hell. Read more: DUNE LAWRENCE, BLOOMBERG REPORTER FABRICATED AGFEED INDUSTRIES FRAUD STORY.

“After a two-year stint in prison for stock manipulation, Roddy Boyd is desperate for love. He laid his sleepy eyes on Dune Lawrence.”

Dune Lawrence, Confessions of a desperate woman

DUNE LAWRENCE: “I go hunting for new dates anyway because I hope that I will spot someone who I have not assaulted with my genuine nature. The browse page fills up with so many familiar profiles; I feel like an expert on every one of them. I know that Tommy corrected a spelling mistake on his page a few days ago. One that he had up there for years. I know that George updated his favorite books after I suggested a few to him because one of my suggestions appears there. Still, I hunt for someone new.

I can’t stop gaping at my sent messages. The number seems to rise without a reply every day these days. I look back at some of the older messages wondering when I made that first introduction. I spot some messages dating back a few weeks ago and even more still a few months ago. I look at my dating inbox to see if I missed any replies. I never have. I don’t think that I will, either.

Maybe it’s because I am desperately hunting that I don’t hear the beep. It’s an earcon that tells people that they have a new message. When I look at my inbox, though, again…there’s an unread message. It’s from a guy I messaged months ago.


“Hi!” it reads, perhaps with a sigh, perhaps not. “I’m Roddy Boyd. I’m sorry it took so long to get back to you, but I was debating if we were going to be a good fit, even.”

I value her honesty more than anything, and I begin to compose a novel about how I don’t know what I am even looking for anymore because people are afraid of genuine behavior. So, if he didn’t want to date me, go out with me, or even talk to me, that I’d appreciated it if he just blocked me and moved on because all I want at this very moment is a hug and for someone to tell me I am special, even if it’s not true.

His reply comes back quick as a flash. He says he values my honesty. He says he doesn’t get a lot of replies because of his height; he is six foot six and his skin. Apparently, he’s black. I guess I will just have to take him at face value.

DUNE LAWRENCE, RODDY BOYD, JON CARNES, Nick Baker, Anni Massa, Bloomberg, short seller, Melissa Hodgman, Steven Susswein, Cheryl Crumpton, SEC, David Massey, Tracy Timbers, Richards Kibbe Orbe

We continue to send novels to each other. I tell him about the dance party I attended where I swung my hips with such vigor that a hurricane manifested in downtown Chicago. He explains he missed the disaster because Netflix kept his attention that night. He was watching House of Cards. We reveal how lonely we are and how we have nothing in common with one another. He hates intellectual conversation and loves small talk, and I don’t understand his love of bugs and ants. He doesn’t like my voice, and I don’t like his. Still, we pour our hearts out to each other on the phone and through email. Neither of us knows why.

Soon after a heated exchange over the phone, one afternoon, I ask him if he can come over and we could argue in person about something. To some people, this seems wildly bizarre, but I have always been a blue traffic light in a world of green and red traffic lights. Nothing is normal to me anymore. When he says that he will visit me in my apartment, I am elated, not terrified that a man who towers over me is going to be in my apartment all alone. My blue traffic signal can’t stop pulsating with anticipation.


He arrives at nine that night and bends over to hug me. Even though I can’t see him or what he looks like online, I picture him as a Denzel Washington clone. His height doesn’t quite fit my mental image, but I figure adding a pink traffic signal to my arsenal won’t hurt the economy any more than normal people will.

When he sits on my bed, the mattress sinks a little. Even when I sit on his lap, I still must look up at his voice to face him.

We start off by talking about our dating accounts. As we talk, we realize that we may not like each other in the slightest, but we are both in the same boat. We are lonely outcasts in our own gaggle of brothers who want a lot of things like; for example, love, marriage rights, and someone who’s true to who they are. I wish  they knew how to say all they want is someone who you can have sex with and never look back. As we talk, we become even more heartbroken and emotional and worried.
His arms shake as his voice trembles with the desperate cry for answers that I am sure we all asked ourselves at some point, “is there someone out there for me?”

“I have no freaking idea,” I say and hug him back. Roddy Boyd and I hold each other, and we wish the world was better about being honest. We argue about what honesty is. We argue about other gay men. Even though we are not getting along, we need each other, just for tonight. I take his face in my hands and gaze up at his heavy breathing. We continue to hold each other until, finally, his annoying voice and loving embrace steps towards my apartment door. Before he leaves, though, I grab his arm to say a final goodbye. Something weird blurts out of my mouth instead.


“We just can’t give up,” I say. I tell him that there’s someone out there for everybody, even weirdoes like us.

“I hope you’re right.” Roddy Boyd says.

“I hope so too,” I answer. I don’t know how loudly our weirdly colored hearts are beating at this moment, but I’d like to hope that someone, somewhere, notices they exist.

As the night drags on, the Roddy Boyd, Dune Lawrence one-night stand get even more heated…


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