On the D-L(ist)…
Hawaiian would like to make it known that if anyone is looking, he is currently accepting offers to become a live-in gay visionary.
So one of my summer obsessions has been watching Kathy Griffin: My Life On The D-List, and if I’m honest, even though I find her a bit hard to look at (or maybe because of that) I think I’d be willing to live in Kathy’s house and help her plan parties and buy furniture. I mean, with Matt now officially being her ex-husband, she could probably use a large, non-threatening man around the house. I’m unlikely to steal large sums of money, I’m likely much better than a curling iron, I wouldn’t be threatened by her relationships with the other gays, and frankly, I have a lot more hair than he did. Actually, this could be a very good arrangement for me if I think about it; I’d have access to a personal assistant, plenty of barely-famous people to talk to, and a much, much better dating life than the one I currently have.
Speaking of which, I had a date this weekend that I truly wish I could forget. Normally when I say something like that it’s because the date itself went horrifically wrong in some way that has left me scarred and damaged and will haunt me in dreams and daymares for years to come. Case in point: Just last summer, in a move that was a bit out of character, I agreed to have lunch with a man who was, at least according to his profile, somewhat old than I might normally date. I was just inside the range of his Half Plus Seven, but it was still a close call. Anyway, I drove up to meet him for lunch, fully expecting to find a respectable, attractive ex-marine in his mid-forties with all of his teeth and a stocky but decent body. This, however, is not what greeted me at the door.
It should be noted that for some reason I really needed to use the bathroom by the time I got to his place, and the house itself was hidden in some maze of cul-de-sacs with not a hint of commerce or public facility in site. I don’t normally share such details, but desperate times call for desperate measures, and you might otherwise wonder why I didn’t just get back in my car and leave after what I saw at the door.
So again, even though I should have been tipped off by the Cadillac El Dorado in the driveway that something wasn’t right, I simply wasn’t prepared when the guy who opened the door was at least ten years older and probably seventy pounds heavier than what I expected. And what I really, really couldn’t have been prepared for was that he was wearing combat boots, camouflage pants, and a black mesh tank top stretched tautly over the bulging belly that was begging for air. If this is what he was planning to wear to lunch, I was pretty sure I didn’t even want to know where he thought we’d be eating.
Clearly at this point I knew this was a bad idea. Not only was he fat and old and dressed for boot camp, but there was also a heavy beard and thick moustache that had not been included in any of the pictures I’d already seen. It was like staring at Santa… if he and his reindeer were headed to Iraq.
Unfortunately, I really, really needed to use the bathroom, and despite knowing I’d have to make 10 or 15 minutes of small talk before remembering that I had somewhere else to be, at that moment I needed to get past the former drill sargeant and make my way into his latrine. He just stood there and looked at me with his hand propped up on the doorframe, almost daring me to walk into his exposed and hairy armpit. And then he grinned wickedly, scratched his belly with the other hand,a nd invited me in.
I don’t know.. maybe I hesitated too long or had the wrong look on my face when I looked at his armpit. Maybe my need to use the loo translated in some strange way that I didn’t intend. Or maybe he was really just that perverse and twisted. Regardless, I was completely stunned and paralyzed when he suddenly reached forward with one meaty paw, grabbed the back of my head, and smoothly and swiftly shoved it into what would forever after be known to me as the Pit of Despair. Not one was his armpit furry, I quickly discovered, but it was also both ripe and wet.
“You like that? You like that, boy?” he asked as I choked and jerked away as quickly as possible. Needless to say, I did not.
I left his place as fast as I possibly could, wiping part of the pit stain off of my face with a garage rag from my trunk and praying desperately that somewhere in his suburban maze I’d find an oasis where I might empty my bladder and wash my face at the same time, but it was not to be. Instead, I raced the entire way home, legs practically crossed, and screaming into my cell phone to anyone who would listen that I had never needed a shower so badly in my life.
And this, of course, is the sort of date that I’d very much like to forget.
Alas, Sunday was not this sort of date… it was a kinder, gentler sort of date where so many things added up nicely save the most important piece. And while it was nice to be reminded that the world is not without nice guys, it was also frustrating to meet one and know with certainty that he was not the one for me. I wish him luck without sarcasm, because I think he deserves it.
In other news, Project Runway officially starts tonight. I think I could have a mild crush on one of this season’s designers, but I need a few episodes to see whether or not this could be true.
And speaking of crushes, ex-neighbor and former crush told me tonight that he is definitely staying in New York for the next year. I watched the last cycle of Project Runway with him, so it looks like this season is going to feel a little bit empty. I should probably work on finding someone to fill his seat.