I got a sweet little brush off today from CHC#1. I'm not surprised. We both were curious enough about the other to get together a couple of times. He's still very cute, so maybe we'll run into each other in a romance-inducing situation or place down the road. I keep fantacizing about a full moon on a tropical beach. I've just about given up on going there with someone, and I'm just about ready to go there and do it with myself. Maybe I'll meet someone on the beach. I did when I was 30, and 36, and 42, and 53, and, aw hell, I'm just an easy lay on a tropical beach. Especially if the moon is full. To put myself in the mood of running up and down beaches in a speedo, my social husband, Bob the Architect, and I are upgrading our relationship to Workout Buddies. That's a very serious relationship in the Gay Metrosexual's life. It calls for serious commitment.
I call Bob the Architect my social husband because we have a relationship that doesn't involve romance, sex or living together. Together, we have season tickets at the S.F. Symphony and to the Berkeley Rep, and he's the first person I call when something interesting comes up. He is in a committed-to-thinking-about-being-committed relationship. He and Juan (who lives in L.A.) have even exchanged rings, although I have no idea what that was about. Bob says that in L.A. you get hit on more often if you wear a wedding band because it means you'll safely leave when the tryst is over. Juan gave Bob a ring first, so it wasn't to enhance his (Juan's) sociability. Bob then gave Juan a ring. Tiffany's. I asked if that's all it took to get a ring from him, y'know, to give him one first? I was disappointed to think I hadn't tried it at least once.
Bob the Archhitect lives in a very lovely apartment on Russian Hill, one of San Francisco's tonier neighborhoods. He deserves a nice place. As I have implied by calling him Bob the Architect, he is an architect. They need a little icing with the cake. They work very hard and seldom can afford apartments worthy of their intellect and persuasion. His previous S.F. apartment was in Noe Valley and it consisted of two rooms each about the size of my walk-in closet, and one of them was also the kitchen. He literally slept with his head in the oven. Of course, him being an artistic (wink, wink) architect, it was done up real nice. This place over on Russian Hill is a nice step up. It probably goes without saying that he is very good looking, as well as charming and funny. Going out with Bob is the equivalent of wearing expensive diamonds. You're going to be noticed and admired.
I'm ready to interview the next Canadian Husband Candidate. Should I run the ad again? I'm in no hurry, despite the fact that my younger Gay "sister" who looks much older than I (too much sun and vodka over too many years), told a mutual friend that she and her domesticated partner (read: husband), who happens to be (1) Canadian, (2) hairy-chested, (3) multi-lingual, (4) professional, (5) oeniphile -- or, in other words, almost everything I was looking for in a man, are going to Vancouver this Spring to get married. What a fucking bitch. Those two have the most DYSfunctional relationship as I have seen between adults not otherwise related. As you can tell, we're very close friends. He's also a better cook than I, and he knows it, so he's bringing an hors d'hoeuvre to my Mardi Gras Brunch (notice I capitalized the B in brunch to indicate that it is taking on a life of its on now) which will make my cooking look dull and ordinary in comparison. In his mind, maybe. One satisfactory thing about his cooking. That hunk of a man he married put on about 50 pounds and doesn't look nearly as hunky as he did before.
Sigh. Life is a carnival. Send in the clowns.