"Buy me a Disaronno first."

Listenin' me to some Mahler--Symphony no. 8 in Eb major--also known as the Symphony of a Thousand (a name of which Mahler did not approve). This is like, sit in the audience and your ears will be bleeding as much as your eyes are crying. Bernstein looked like he was passing a kidney stone and experiencing fellatio at the same time when he conducted this one. My, that'd lead to a surprise ending for the fellatiator. ptooey.

Well, it seems I don't smell as badly as I thought I did. I went on a date. Yes, a real live date with a living, breathing Mann. No, I did not pay him and no, he was not a confused illegal alien with limited English capabilities who thought I was his ticket into the country. This one actually wanted to go on a date, to DINNER, with me. I was ecstatic.

Now, normally my sexual life is as follows:
1. Meet low-voiced human, establish masculinity. (Those who are high-voiced are not excluded, but they tend to be menstruators. No cervix for me, thank you.)

2. Man buys me a drink at Bull's. I sip my Midori sour, thinking that he doesn't look quite as much like Matt Damon as his Yenta girlfriend told me. In fact, he usually has one eye and just enough teeth so that he can eat without the aid of a food processor. Sometimes a puncture wound on his upper lip, sometimes a kind of herpes-excema around the mouth and inner elbow. It's a neat kind of lottery, really.

3. If Man can walk down the street without having children scream in terror (or poorly-dubbed Japanese musicians pointing and ruing the day when the atom was harnessed), then I usually end up going home with him or taking him home.

4. After a lengthy courtship of 2 hours (the time it takes to make me some coffee and get through the only-slightly-more-interesting-than-a-funeral discussion about his major) Man and I will ___________CENSORED___________. Depending on the Man, this can take up to 11.94 minutes. Usually, though, this step is quicker than Easy-Mac.

5. I put on my pants, and start walking home. When he insists on driving, I simply say, "Oh, that's ok, it's really nice outside and I didn't make it to the gym today." This means, "Oh, that's ok. I'd rather walk home so that I don't walk into my apartment smelling like one-eyed comp. lit. major with a thing for licking my knees."

6. After some tentative AIM back-and-forths, I'm back to concentrating on C.P.E. Bach. So long, Reginald (sometimes the names you make up are better than the names you didn't get.)


Alright, so this is a re-enactment, somewhat sensationalized for dramatic effect. But the subtext is still there: it's the rare boy who exhibits true character--intelligence, wit, humor, attractiveness, maturity, opinion, and a moral fiber no more dense than my own. I think I've found one of the rarest. I feel like calling the Discovery Channel.

Zach is a fantastic guy, one about whom I'm quickly becoming more and more excited. After dinner and then Chocolat, I'm ready to pursue this one with all my energy. With any luck, by this time next month, I won't be back at Bull's, warding off the pockèd penis pirates. I'll be on a couch on Fess Avenue, content to spend a Saturday evening lying with him, comfortable in the commitment.

I can't wait.


Currently listening to: Mahler 2--Resurrection. This one is aptly named. At the end, a big Jesus appears and smites the wicked and poorly-dressed. Just kidding. It's a small Jesus.