Sorry to have been offline for a while, but I’ve been struggling with a cold. It’s my annual first cold of the season. Starts with a sneeze, a little sore throat, then my nose is off and running. (Sorry, couldn’t resist.)
(Readers: To give you some sense of proportion, today I was hanging out with Straight Guy and constantly blowing my nose. I kept apologizing; he graciously replied with an upscale adult version of “No worries, dude.” By the time I had finished my rhino business, he’d fled the room claiming “too much information.” Probably in too close of proximity, too.)
Enough gross adolescent boy talk.
Colds are not cool. Not sexy. James Bond never had a cold. He’s never taken a handkerchief out of his suit breast pocket, has he? James Dean wasn't holding a hanky on that left thigh, was he?
This cold could not have come at a worse time. I went to a slick party over the weekend. My friend Bee invited me. She’s very cool and so are her friends. Gorgeous house, funky color scheme, and art –photos taken by the host—in every room. A lot of beautiful people. Each of them as sleek as a cat. There were a lot of gay men there, most of them really nice looking and sexy. Bee said some of them were checking me out, but I don’t know.
I was trying to look as sexy as I could. Dark jeans, black jacket. I wish I had been feeling nice looking and sexy, but it’s hard when you are packing a travel pack of Kleenex. Who knows: Maybe the best part of my look was the bulge of Kleenex down my front pocket.
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