Or maybe it’s the “A.A.” bomb.
The man I had the Brooks Brothers date with–I guess I’ll call him Spencer–SOMEHOW figured out that I’m in A.A. He mentioned it via text message, which made it difficult to gauge his emotional tone, but he didn’t run screaming in the opposite direction, so I guess he’s still hanging in there.
I calmly told him that we should talk about it when I saw him again and I would be happy to answer any questions he had. I mean, what else can one say? Though the sum total of my opinion about A.A. is: “Yes, it’s vaguely cult-y, but I go to a lot of Agnostic meetings and I can’t quote the Big Book without feeling like an idiot, and in any event, IT BEATS BEING DEAD.”
I would probably be better off if I was a little more indoctrinated–I was doing better when I had a sponsor and doing more service instead of just cookies. I’m counting days AGAIN.
I also get the feeling that he’s a little concerned that I’m out screwing around. Normally he’d be right, but as circumstance would have it, I’m not seeing anyone. The guys at the Studio don’t count, at least not to me, but perhaps, as a man, he has a different perspective. Though I hardly think that anyone could construe giving Milton a swirly as legitimate romantic activity. I assure you, Spencer, Milton is no threat to you!
That is actually pretty funny. I keep thinking about flushing the toilet with Milton’s head in it. It makes me crack up at totally inopportune times. The deli. The laundry mat. People look at me like I am crazy.
Anyway, it’s just a feeling I have because he makes jokes about me confusing him with other guys. He’s not pulling any jealous controlling bullshit. After the Surgeon, my tolerance for jealous controlling bullshit is pretty low.
* * *
Actually, here is a funny story that is typical of what happens when I meet a really, really attractive man at the Studio:
I have aregular, and the first time I met him, I was thrilled. WHAT A BABE! He’s a tall, very well-built Japanese guy. You can see that he lifts weights–he looks very athletic. He also has a great face and a nice haircut and he always wears stylish, elegant clothes. And he was born in Paris, so he had a French accent. Accents usually don’t do much for me, but on this guy, it was sexy. He smells like nice clean clothes.
I was getting dressed in back after I met him, and I was practically doing a happy dance! I wonder what I get to do to him! I get to see him naked—yaaaay!
Well, let me tell you what I get to do to him: jump up and down on his stomach for an hour.
Yeah, you read that correctly.
He doesn’t even take his clothes off. I get nothing, except a little exercise. And the threat of a broken ankle. Power-walking on someone’s abdomen in high heels is pretty difficult. I have tripped on more than one occasion.
At first I was afraid that my shoes would puncture him, like a scene in a bad horror movie. That would be fun to explain to the cops! But that has never happened, obviously.
I don’t even get the satisfaction of thinking that he hires me because he thinks I’m hot. Frankly, I think he sees me because he finds me to be the optimal weight for stomach-stomping, and I’m fit enough to do it for a whole hour.
He does tip very well. He is, after all, a gentleman.
Or maybe it’s the “A.A.” bomb.